[hider=Jericho Cross]
[u][b]Name:[/b][/u] Jericho Cross, introduces himself as "Walker".

[u][b]Apparent Age:[/b][/u] Mid Thirties.

[u][b]"IS":[/b][/u] Human

[u][b]Description:[/b][/u] 
[hider=Appearance][img]https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/002/629/768/large/siwoo-kim-strider3-web.jpg[/img][/hider]

[u][b]Armaments:[/b][/u]
[hider=Armaments Hider]
Paired Arming Sword & Dagger: Well worn, well maintained sword and dagger that have been paired together. The dagger is used for both defensive purposes, parrying and deflecting enemy weapons, as well as offensive weapons and is balanced well enough for throwing in a suitably desperate situation. The arming sword is balanced for one handed use, and can parry and deflect as well as cut and thrust. Besides being well made, they lack ornamentation or any real sort of indication of needless wealth. A working man's weapons.

Compact Crossbow: A full sized crossbow cut down and lightened to make it more usable and agile in close quarters situations. More suitable of fighting in streets, not fields, it still has the same impact and potency as the full sized model, but is harder to ready and reload without practice. Capable of accepting varied sorts of bolts, Jericho has a modestly sized quiver of bodkin tipped bolts, each with a generous application of poison to ensure effectiveness against other humans even on otherwise nonlethal hits. How effective they will prove against other targets remains to be seen.

Thief's Kit: A satchel full of various tools and supplies that a scoundrel might need on his daily going's about. From lockpicks, skeleton keys, and even an acidic vial for desperate measures, to tools designed to ease the production of crude poisons and boobytraps, Jericho designed his personal kit to be versatile, lacking the specialization of some kits in favor of being able to handle most situations. The lack of overly specialized tools does limit to a degree, but the flexibility proved far more valuable than the specialty in one singular task.

Lucky Pipe: A pipe that Jericho is never seen without, and an aid to his habit of smoking on a routine basis, the pipe is unusually nice, even if its engravings and decoration are worn away from years of use and aging. Ivory and oak make up its construction, though the ivory is blackened from the routine use as a pipe, and where the man got his hands on such a tool are a very closely guarded secret.
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[u][b]Teraterifficence:[/b][/u] 
[Hider=Teraterifficence Hider]
Abnormal Resilience: The realm of Istvargrad lacked overtly supernatural beings or species, though it did not lack in abnormalities and abhumans (Elves, dwarves, and gnomes existed and were seen as just abhumans, offshoots of humanity). Most people had some lineage or trait linking them back to some sort of strange lineage prior to the fading of such beings, and Jericho is no exception. His resilience, both to the mundane such as fatigue and poison, as well as encounters with unnatural relics that crippled others is noteworthy. He isn't the strongest nor the fastest, but his resilience has kept him alive long enough to end up in his current predicament, handy since his preference to poison his crossbow bolts means he has been routinely exposed to such toxins as well. Even physical trauma could be bounced back from alarmingly quickly, a combination of willpower, natural resilience, a quick bandage and a touch of liquid courage getting him back on his feet far quicker than most.

Dirty Fighter: All's fair in love and war, and Jericho is well versed in the most underhanded of tactics. Anything goes in a fight, doubly so when survival is on the line, and he has no pesky morality hamstringing his combat efforts. Shots below the belt, ambushes, traps, poison, even something as deceptively simple as a handful of sand for the eyes, Jericho is always on the look out for, and often finding, underhanded means of leveraging combat to his advantage. His former gang often questioned how he was always finding such openings or loopholes, and rarely got a straight answer, calling into question whether it's simply luck or something more unnatural, and has even been accused of being capable of swaying fate with magic, though he flatly denies such a thing, a rarely plain response indeed.
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[u][b]Your World:[/b][/u] 
[hider=Istvargrad] 
[img]https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/intermediary/f/8f1fa18c-a123-475d-a36c-12096121c9bb/d6t29ma-4decb912-0352-417c-9c62-2df773b28d22.jpg/v1/fill/w_800,h_1237,q_70,strp/night_over_the_poor_district_by_ortsmor_d6t29ma-fullview.jpg[/img]

	A realm of sprawling cities, often times built on top of those that had come before them, many go their entire lives without ever seeing nature outside of scant few trees, weeds, or roots. Magic exists, of a sort, though those gifted with the ability to utilize said magic liken it to more of being a conduit for powers outside their control, or even understanding, than conventional control over the arcane. As such, magicians were viewed with great distrust, skepticism, and often times ostracized and hunted over problems that routinely plagued the land, either to try and fix them or punish them for causing them. Banditry and organized crime are as common as the official powers that be, a classical Monarchy who's ruling head changes almost as often as the months passed, due to political intrigue, assassination, or just plain bad luck. Guards and soldiers were crooked, and pretty much the entire land ran off crime, organized as it was, and if one wanted to actually get something done, they went to the Robber Barons.

	Of course, the most lucrative trade for the crooks and thieves was in the dealings of Relics. A catch all term, for items that sort of fell from between the cracks and ended up in their world. Magicians and self styled scientists alike paid almost as much to get these Relics, as they did to keep their rivals from getting them. Good scouts and sharp eyes to find proper Relics, or a silver tongue to pass off fakes as the real deal, were prized among such rings as much as a steely gaze, steady sword arm, and complete lack of morals might be.

	Officially, the Church held say over all things related to the arrival of new Relics, though in practice even the Crown overlooked the trade as it often lined his own pockets and coffers with illicit gold. That being said, about the only thing that could unite the disparate groups of Istvargrad would be an outside threat, as the Robber Barons, Church, and Monarchy distrusted each other to the point that all out war would, to an outsider, be all but guaranteed. Of course, Kazzok's arrival was one such threat, and a stiff resistance was put up, but we all know how such fights turned out by now, doubly so when opposed by such distrustful, disparate forces...
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[u][b]Backstory:[/b][/u] 
[hider=Backstory] 
	Istvargrad was one of the largest cities of the realm, not so much a single settlement as a sprawling mass of civilization. Humanity as it was known was, by far, the most dominant species present, though compared to other world's versions, the humans of Istvargrad were hardy and resilient against trauma and disease. Elves circulated as concubines and entertainers among the noble courts, moonlighting as assassins and masters of alchemy for those with coin or information to spare. Dwarves and halflings, lumped together in the poor quarters, ran bars, taverns, and and places of business as readily as a human. They would also turn their deft fingers to locksmithing, lockpicking, and the production of clever trinkets and tools for the trade of crime. Indeed, one would be safe to say that the realm of Istvargrad was, indeed, one that ran on crime, either the engaging in, or fighting of, it.

	Crime, and the Robber Barons that ran the highest levels of it, knew where the profit was. Relics, strange objects and contraptions that fell into their world due to the weakened walls of their world and sold to the highest bidders. The Church and, officially, the Monarchy would oppose them in a three way struggle for power, the Church seeing them as holy objects, trappings of a faith that had once sustained the barriers of their world and protected them from outsiders. The Monarch saw them as leverage against the Church and its enforcers, and the Robber Barons? Money, money to whichever noble, scientist, magician, or eccentric could pay the most coin. Entire bands of rogues, thieves, thugs and assassins would form around individuals with the skill and know how to track down and secure these items. Little did Istvargrad know, in all its constant focus inwards, that the slowly increasing tide of Relics was a sign of its impending doom.

	This is where Jericho Cross comes into the picture, a man that had erased his past from all accounts barring his own, and yet was a highly successful leader of criminals. Knowing how and when to ply guile, charm, and force in due measures, he had a knack for finding Relics and pawning them off to both higher bidders, and his superiors. He made a good amount of coin off his work, lived comfortably in the seedy underbelly of Istvargrad, and was generally respected for his capabilities. Of course, such things do not last forever, and it was getting more and more dangerous for Jericho to work as the Church had begun to focus on his work more and more closely, trying to pin him down for illicit Relic trade. Of course, this never came to a head thanks to the arrival of Kazzok, who likely either followed the trail of relics that slipped between the cracks and into this world, or perhaps to use them as signs of the best options of where to go next.

	Istvargrad was the last city remaining within a few short years, the rest of the realm falling in relatively short order, though it was not from a lack of effort. Jericho, and many men like him, were appointed as military officers in desperation, leading their own bands of criminals and scum alongside broken survivors of initial efforts to repel Kazzok. Instead of facing his forces openly, they instead opted to often strike from the shadows, ambushing and harassing the enemy forces wherever they could, stalling and buying time and victories where they could. The problem was that open warfare was a relatively rare thing in Istvargrad, standing armies acting more as guards and opponents to organized criminals than monsters and even other professional soldiers. Ironically, it was the criminals, convicts, and the like able to put up the fiercest resistance as their infighting better prepared them then the long guard shifts with little going on within their view.

	Jericho made a name for himself leading men of increasingly varied walks of life against Kazzok and his legions, organizing defenses, leading ambushes and counter assaults, and moving around like a man possessed. It didn't take a genius to realize whatever Kazzok had in mind was bad for business, and everything was thrown into the defense against him, and for his own reasons, Jericho was throwing everything he had into it. Even as Kazzok's legions advanced into Istvargrad itself, entire districts were burned in defiance, forcing them to move in patterns more suitable to being ambushed and making costly assaults on defensive positions. Indeed, scorched earth had become a standard practice, anything that couldn't be taken with them was put to the torch or otherwise ruined. The last point of feasible defense was the barrier to the Monarchy district, a towering manor on an isolated rocky outcrop, accessable via a long, narrow pathway on foot, and the clear, moonlit nights readily exposing approaches by other means.

	It was on this long, narrow road snaking up towards the Monarch's home that Jericho would make his last stand, what surviving associates of his old crew alongside soldiers and survivors that would sooner die in a last ditch defense then turn over and die as prisoners, or worse. On top of his career of criminal activity, underground fighting, and scrapes with the guards, he had years of desperate, hard earned experience fighting a losing battle. The Monarch district was designed to be nigh unassailable by any mortal hands, even magicians were anticipated if an all out assault was to be engaged. In the hands of legends and heroes, it might have even sufficed. But legends and heroes were not commonplace in Istvargrad, indeed, the latter was bad for business, and the former too attention grabbing for subtle operations. Jericho had become a hero by necessity, not by choice, and it was no doubt he would fight to the bitter end alongside the remaining few that held the Monarch district. Though, how can one imagine, as the moon itself is blotted out by the oncoming tide, and the ground itself trembled at the approaching legions, that such a motley crew would last long at all?
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[u][b]Other:[/b][/u] Unlike most of his peers, Jericho is well versed in the major languages among the remaining races of his former home, capable of conversing comfortably in his world's version of Common, Elfish, Dwarfish, and Gnomish (A derivative of Dwarfish, though don't let them catch you saying that). He tends to never answer questions directed at him, about him, straight, and often leaves differing stories or understandings of who he was between each person that asks, confusing efforts to corroborate who he really is. Otherwise, is well spoken, though crass when the mood suits, and a casual liar out of amusement as well as need.[/hider]