Name: Willard Cavanaugh
Alias(es): Wil, Wil C., Mister C., Mad Willie, Mad Willie C.
Age: Twenty-something years
Gender: Male
Appearance: An average man, of average height, and of average appearance. Nothing noteworthy to look at. He has shaggy, dirty blonde hair, and dull, glassy green eyes. Typically he is seen wearing a grungy gray shirt, which was probably white at one point, black leather breeches with matching coat, and raw hide boots, which he fashioned himself. In combat, he wears a simple chain shirt. His face is grimy with dirt, and he looks as though he hasn't bathed in months. He has patchy, uneven stubble. Leftovers from not properly shaving. His teeth are yellowed, and are likely very close to rotting. A small scar rests just above his left eye. He has a noticeable twitch at the left corner of his mouth.
Personality: Quite, pleasant, laid back, and amicable are all fine words to use to describe the personality of young Willie C. At least as long as he's calm. Piss him off or get him drunk, and a demon comes out in him. One spitting fire, shouting obscenities, and swinging fists. They say he once beat a man to death barehanded for nothing more than laughing at his name. Other than that, just watch yourself around him. He's the sort that'll shake your hand and call you friend to your face, and then stick a knife in you as soon as you turn to walk away. Why? Who knows? Maybe he didn't like you. Maybe he didn't like the way you look. Maybe you unintentionally insulted him or caused some other perceived slight. Maybe he was paid. All that matters is there was a reason. He always has a reason. Even if it was just because he felt like it.
Weapon(s): Willie is skilled in the use of fists, knives, and swords. Other than that, he's damned scary with that bow of his. A skill he picked up traveling with a company of mercenaries. He carries the standard issue hand-cannon, but he seldom ever uses it.
Magic User: Yes
History: Willard Cavanaugh was never a man prone to violence. He was just a farmhand living in a quite village, a few miles outside the Disk. But when mercenaries looking for easy sport gang-raped his fiance, and caused her to commit suicide three days after, something in him just broke. He took to drinking, and he took to brawling. The local constable was forced to lock him up, and threatened to throw him out of town on multiple occasions. He was a man without peace, and he was a man for whom there was no rest. 'Till the day that those same mercenaries came back through town.
He was sitting at his table in the local tavern, nursing his ale, when they came in shouting, and boasting, and guffawing. Right then and there, he decided what he was going to do. Right then and there, he began to plot his revenge. He enlisted with the same company as those men. He trained with them, fought with them, and, on several occasions, he very nearly died with them. He was part of their team, and they regarded him as a brother. Little did they know, he was to be the death of all of them.
It was to be a job like any other, they were just supposed to be escorting a group of merchants from one town to another several leagues away. In a clearing, only a few days walk from their destination, they were set upon by brigands, looking to rob and kill anyone traveling the road. At once, the men jumped into action, and prepared to earn their fee. Willard did as he always did, and fell back into the brush, readying his bow. Only this time it wasn't the bandits he was aiming at, it was his own men. What nobody would find out until later, was that Willard had been saving up his pay for months, biding his time just for this very moment. After they'd accepted the escort job, he hired a rival team of mercenaries to act to as bandits and help him murder his whole crew. Revenge for what they'd done to his beloved so long ago.
He loosed the first arrow, and hit his mark dead between the eyes. His second mark he scored twice, once in the kidney, and again through the heart. The third he shot through the throat. The other four fell to the “brigands”. After it was over, he and his hired cronies shook hands and parted company. But the story didn't end there.
He'd thought that they'd killed everyone. He'd though that there were no witnesses. Imagine then his surprise, when travelers brought in, naked and half dead, one of the mercenaries he'd so long plotted to kill. They cleaned the man up, and tended his wounds, and in return, he told them what had happened. He told them of Willard's betrayal. Of course by the time that happened, Willard was long gone. However, he knew his face would be plastered to every notice board and on the wall of every tavern from there to the Disk.
So, he took to the roads, robbing, and killing, and doing whatever he had to do to survive. He kept to himself, never stayed in one place for too long, and he spent many a night camping out under the stars, a vagabond with no home to call his own. He learned some small magic during this time, taken from a pair of sages he met on the road, whom he forced at knife point to teach him whatever they could. Two spells in particular he became very good at. One which set the tip of his arrows ablaze, and the other which caused his arrows to seek their target wherever they tried to hide, so long as they stayed within a certain range.
This life of struggle, and murder, and wanton slaughter lasted for years. Willard began to think it would never come to an end. Then he received the letter, mysteriously slipped under the door of his room in the inn he was staying at. It spoke of him, and of his reputation as a killer. It spoke of evil fighting evil, and of money to made doing so. And most of all, it spoke of a place he might at last call home. The next morning he packed his bags and signed onto a caravan heading to the Disk. He's never looked back...
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