Name: Martin Stone
Age: 21
Gender: Male

Appearance: Martin was always seen as a short man, standing at 5'9" with his stature accentuated by a slight, sometimes derided as feminine, build. He has an ovalesque face that always looks very thin, with high, defined cheekbones that lend a certain hollowness to his cheeks. His lips are thin and usually curved into a sneer or snarl at the world. His jawline is slight, sharply defined but thin and unimpressive. His nose has been broken one too many times, and while it's still straight enough the ridge dips in and out at odd intervals. His eyes have somehow remained undamaged, and inside angular, angry looking eyes are two cold green orbs with a clarity of color that defies his otherwise dingy and beaten appearance. He is unmuscular, and never had time for doing much of anything through most of his youth before spending most of his adulthood thus far in a cell. Also as a result of that, he is paler than he should be, spared total whiteness only because there was often no roof over his head while he sat idle.

Clothing: He previously owned a set of prisoners rags but has, since enlisting, aspired to greater things. He's never had money and never wanted any, frankly, and dresses plainly in whatever cheap linens and cottons he can find or legally acquire within the Night's Watch. He is grateful, most of the time, simply to have clothing on his back and sometimes finds himself uncomfortable in the heavy layers of the Night's Watch gear.

Weapons: Hardly a weapon at all but the only thing he could take from his once-home is a short steel knife. It has a wide, single edged blade that Martin thinks might have been for skinning things but he isn't quite sure. The flat bone handle was ornately carved several generations of the Brusilde family ago and as the only son, albeit a bastard, he felt the knife belonged enough to him to claim from an empty house.

Personality: Martin is deeply bitter about his time in the Vale and holds his homeland in his heart with a special sort of contempt. The rest of the world seems just fine so far. He lacks social skills of any sort having spent his life at his dying father's side or in a jail cell, although his attitude towards life makes him tend towards sarcasm. The one thing he does have of any import in the social arena is a stoic face and attitude, something that would have taken him far if not for bad luck. He's a cynical person and has come to a habit of questioning the motives of anyone and anything around him. He considers failure to be a typical state and is genuinely surprised to see anything going right. Strangely enough with that attitude, he absolutely cannot resist a test of chance, maybe as some desperate grasp at being right for once. In addition, his view on society was heavily limited and he finds himself amazed when in the presence of anything resembling a functioning civilization.

History: Martin comes from the Vale. His mother was a prostitute and likely the one that gave his father the venereal disease which would one day claim his father's life. A flesh eating, festering rot that spread from the man's groin into his body at a maliciously slow pace. His other bastard brothers either ran way or died in stupid street brawls over the years and as Martin grew he was the only caretaker of his ailing father. Day after day he would listen to the man's raving about the past and the world at large as the rot overtook his body and his mind. Martin never had time to leave his father's side, venturing away only to tend the property and ensure that some kind of food was growing or provided. One day, Martin's father passed. He had no idea what to do or where to go in life, so he packed up what little he could sell, sold it, and went with the family fortune to gamble. He lost and sold, until what remained was a single knife that his father had raved about particularly much. His father's father's father, on to you now Marty, and so on. He could not sell that knife, and determined on the spot to put his life to better use. It didn't mean much because a few days later he was thrown into a debtor's prison and held at the Eyrie for a time. A significant amount of time. One day a peddler who specialized in 'ladies of the night' who weren't exactly ladies had his go at the dungeons, offering whatever price the lord asked for the finest prisoners of the Vale. Martin, thin of form, was to be sold into prostitution. It was either that, or let some kid watch him thrown from the moon door. He chose the Wall. Martin begged for and was somehow granted leave to take the black and serve the realm as its unlikely protector, and/or steward, in the night.