[u][b]Withdrawn[/b][/u] [hider=Benedict Keys] [s] [b]________________________________________ ________________________________________ Character Summary [/b] [i]Name:[/i] Benedict Keys [i]Aliases:[/i] James Wright [i]Age:[/i] 31 [i]Nationality:[/i] British [i]Ethnicity:[/i] English [i]Current Residence:[/i] Vancouver, Canada [i] Gender:[/i] Male [i]Education:[/i] Pilots Training in the Royal Flying Corps [i] Job:[/i] Pilot [i]Role:[/i] Pilot / Muscle [b]________________________________________ ________________________________________ Appearance[/b] [i]Height:[/i] 5'9" [i]Weight:[/i] 195 lbs [i]Build:[/i] Muscular [i]Eyes:[/i] Green [i]Hair: [/i]Light Brown [i]Skin Tone:[/i] Tan [i]Tattoos/Scars/Piercings:[/i] A large and jagged scar on the right leg, and a smattering of small scars across the face. [i]Personal Style:[/i] Benedict has always gone the distance, perhaps in vain, to compensate for the injuries he sustained in the Great War. He sports a pair of custom made sunglasses and a leather brimmed hat to conceal his face somewhat, and rarely is he seen wearing anything less than heavy canvas trousers. Though hardly conventional, Benedict does not flout fashion completely and wears a grey single breasted jacket. Of course whenever the opportunity presents itself, usually far from civilized society, he often makes a show of wearing his rather large wartime gun belt and Webley revolver. [b]________________________________________ ________________________________________ Psychology[/b] Trait * Trait * Trait * Trait [i]Sexuality:[/i] Heterosexual [i]Relationship Status:[/i] Single [i]Personality:[/i] While not solitary per say Benedict hardly covets the company of others. Deep seated insecurities stemming from his injuries have made him a man most would label a shut in, though he’s far from unwilling to go out when such is prudent or necessary. Hardly a warm person, Benedict has struggled with relationships throughout his life. That said, he is not cruel, brash, or even impertinent. Merely, he often acts with an excess of caution in his interactions with the world at large, a habit that has made many of his acquaintances question his ability to feel for anyone. All this has led to Benedict seeking a life away from the bustling world at large. From pilot, to hired gun, and back, he has never worked closely with more than a handful of individuals. In truth the Benedict of today is a far cry from the young man he was. In his teens Benedict was boisterous and outgoing, perhaps in excess. Some of that boy remains in Benedict, for it’s unlikely he’d have started on a life of adventure if he’d truly wished to be forgotten by the world. In many ways Benedict looks to recapture what he feels he’s lost by doing the one thing he was good at. Adventure, conflict, the confident boy lost for almost two decades has eluded him through it all, but thirty isn’t so old he’s ready to stop trying. [i]Habits: [/i] -Meticulous grooming, rarely will one stop an errant whisker on Benedict. -Reading pulp magazines before bed. [i]Hobbies: [/i] -In the years since his last try at adventure Benedict has spent a great deal of time in his greenhouse. Exotic plants from his travels, more common fair, his collection is one of the few things he’s come to truly prize. -Benedict has a talent for the Piano and often finds himself playing it in his study whenever time permits. -One of the few things that draws Benedict from his Garden and home other than work is a weekly shooting club he attends. Not the best shot, nor the most sociable, Benedict frequents the range to keep himself proficient in a skill he feels will always be needed. [i]Fears:[/i] • Being seen as disabled. • Dying alone. • Losing his ability to fly. [i]Likes:[/i] • Flying. • Thrills. • The Ocean. • Cigars. • Spring. [i]Dislikes:[/i] • Crowds. • Storms. • Deceivers, liars, all manner of dishonest folk. • Confined spaces. [b]________________________________________ ________________________________________ History[/b] [i]A Memory:[/i] Minimum of 1 well developed paragraph of a memory [i]History:[/i] Benedict was born in 1898 to a fairly middle class family. His father was an accountant for a local bank and the expectation was that Benedict was study his figures one day and join him. A particularly active boy it was often hard for Benedict to keep up with his lessons, but sure enough what he wouldn’t learn was beaten into him, often literally. Even so, compared to most Benedict led a privileged life. His schooling proceeded despite his best efforts and by the time the Great War broke out it looked like he’d be employed with his father long in a couple short years. Of course by 1916 it had become clear that even accountants sons wouldn’t be spared. With conscription a month away in parliament and his 18th birthday weeks past him Benedict decided he’d rather join of his own accord than be forced into the army. In some ways Benedict did it to avoid what he saw as dying in the mud. Sure, pilots didn’t exactly have better luck, but when he volunteered to fly for the army he figured dying in the air would be the more exotic option. Training came and went and soon enough he was flying on the front lines of the war that would never really leave his mind. Combat came and went, men died, often ones he was close with, but the war raged on for another two years before Benedict first got a real taste of what had been the fate of so many. During the Spring Offensive of 1918 Benedict was flying an observation plane, watching the carnage above and below as he had a dozen times before. Only this time he hadn’t kept his eyes on the horizon and let the observer do their job. Out of the sun came a single German fighter, and before he knew it the observer was dead with the engine. Benedict would manage to set the plane on a course away from the front by the time the damaged rudder sent him into a spin, but he’d never recall the impact. When he awoke it was to red, his face peppered with shards of glass and his leg impaled on a strut that had been ejected from the aircraft alongside him. All alone in a muddy farmers field, unable to even properly see, Benedict faced his death with a sense of cruel irony, in the end he’d never even get to die the right way. How many times he slipped in and out of consciousness before the soldiers found him he couldn’t say, but against all the odds he’d survive. Though he’d often wish he hadn’t. With the end of the Spring Offensive the end of the war was in sight, and Benedict heard of the armistice from a hospital bed. Somehow he’d avoided amputation, but he’d never stop fearing it. Somehow he still had his sight, but his face would always be a patchwork of little scars. He’d return home with to his father, but he’d never consider taking up the old man’s craft. Benedict would slowly retreat into himself, finding work here and there, but always looking to get away. The Great War had killed him in a sense, and he began to wonder if another war couldn’t making him anew as well, at least into something better than the worthless child who’d come back broken. That urge would eventually lead him to America, and from there to China. American mercenaries had made names for themselves fighting for the various warlords in the region, but Benedict would find his war to be something else entirely. The chaos in China came as opportunity to some, and like the good imperialists their parents were the industrialists of America sought to get what they could out of the middle kingdom. Whether it be selling arms, disposing of political rivals, or outright robbing the Chinese of their ancient treasures, Benedict and a number like him, all with assumed names, kept busy on orders from an ocean away. It all came to a head in 1926, when the Kuomintang launched their great campaign to unify the country. In the midst of a real war Benedict and others looted burning cities across the country for the sake of trinkets to please wealthy men across the world, and they made themselves rich in doing so. However, the jig was up by mid-1928. The Kuomintang and god knows who else all knew what had been happening, and now they sought to end it. James Wright would die in China with a dozen like him, and they’d all turn up back home with their old names in the spa of a few months. Benedict though, was done with home. He settled where the ship made port in the old colonies, the port of Vancouver. For a year he knew some peace, flying the occasional survey, playing his piano, tending to his garden, and yet he was yet to rest easy. Benedict hadn’t found what he wanted in China, and he silently resolved to find it elsewhere. [/s] [/hider]