Appearance:
Carlo's skin and hair color is typical for someone of Revossian decent. His build is that of a soldier – solid and well-defined, with rough, calloused hands. His flesh is tanned and weather-worn, and he wears a neatly-maintained beard that tapers to a point. The hairs on his head are dark, with flecks of grey that herald older age – thirty six, to be exact. Despite Carlo's years, traces of youth can still be found in the gleam of his eyes.
Biography:
Carlo was knocked down to his knees by the press of men, who's cries rang shrill in his ears. He fumbled for his weapon, trying to right himself as friend and foe died around him. He'd lost his helmet in the press of bodies. No time to worry about it now; there was a flash of steel, and he barley had time to bring his sword up. It was a sloppy parry against the full weight of a halberd's edge, and the momentum pushed his sword aside. Carlo's vision stabilized, and he caught a proper glimpse of his attacker – a ravaged mess of a man, or what might have once been a man. The flesh was mottled and discolored in dark blotches. Its empty eyes pierced though the Revossian, as if staring into nothingness. And the stench; Carlo fought the urge to wretch and stared down his attacker with a wince. Another swing of the polearm and this time, Carlo was prepared. He grabbed the shaft, twisting it away and planting a foot on the weapon's head. A cut from his sword severed the attacker's head from the body, and it crumpled to the dirt.
Carlo risked a look around himself and realized that he was alone. The battle line was faltering, the offensive come to a sudden, crashing halt. The fight was degenerating into isolated duels, his men either dead or fleeing backwards. Where was the capitani, Astorre? His attention snapped back to the throng of shapes in front of him, more deathly-looking creatures with soulless stares. With little choice left, he spun and took off into a run, knowing the enemy was hot on his heels behind. A flurry of curses and unanswered questions ran through his mind, until he felt the weight of something catch his foot, and he fell. Carlo felt the shadow of dark shapes looming over him and he gritted his teeth, awaiting the searing pain of steel he was sure would come.
----
The warmth of sunlight kissed his face, and Carlo awoke, surprised to find that he was not, in fact, dead. He was in an unfamiliar chamber, under the covers of an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by unfamiliar faces that pleaded him not to move so suddenly. He waved them away, flung the sheet off his chest and made ready to pull himself up when a dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder yanked him back to the sheets. The strangers gave him looks of “I told you so,” and put a wet towel to his forehead and inspected his injuries.
“You're awake,” a gruff voice said, and another face looked down over Carlo's bedridden state.
“Where am I?”
“Safe,” the stranger answered, “which, unfortunately, cannot be said of the rest of your company.”
Carlo retraced the last of his memory, remembering the rest of the company's fall, and the awful things that had slaughtered them. Again, he grasped at the sheets, willing himself to rise and go looking for his men.
“You need to rest.”
“I need to find my men, to see them for myself.”
“You're all we found, save a few with wounds too grievous to heal or minds too broken to think. I'm sorry, you're it.”
Carlo's head hung low. What had happened on the field that day? How was the company destroyed? One moment, they were in high spirits, shouting their famous war-cry, the next, they were in disarray and falling by the score.
“What were they?” Carlo whispered.
“Vamphiirs. A very potent strain of vamphiirs. Undead with the acumen of the living, made so by the corruption of necromancy. It seems that there was more to your enemy than your contract let on.”
The contract. How could Carlo make his living now? The rest of the free company was gone, and its commander with it. Astorre Sforza was dead. Carlo was now corporal of nothing, and the thought drained him. They'd all been good men, Feredico, Niccolò, even old Johann.
“What's your name, soldier?”
“Carlo Battiato. Corporal Carlo Battiato.”
“Hunter-Captain Richard d'Augny. You're in the hands of the Order of Cinders, Corporal.”
----
“I'm being reassigned?” Carlo studied the parchment again, eyebrow cocked.
“Correct. The Order needs you at Isamanca. The details are in the dispatch in your hand.”
“And the Drent Coven?”
“Is now the responsibility of a junior Hunter. Your skills are needed elsewhere, Carlo, better here than wasted on tasks a novice can fulfill.” The Revossian felt a flicker of validation within, and his posture subconsciously straightened.
“Understood, Hunter-Captain. I'll prepare to take leave tomorrow.”
Richard allowed himself a hint of a smile. “Do us well, and you might just find yourself a Hunter-Captain one of these days.” He stood from his desk and saluted neatly, Carlo mirroring the gesture.
“By will of fire-”
“-Darkness becomes cinder.”
“Godspeed, Hunter Battiato.”
Personality:
Carlo has spent many years of his life soldiering, and it shows. He possesses a dark humor and a quick wit, tempered by many, many rounds of cards. He finds satisfaction in small things, knowing that even in bad moments, things could be infinitely worse. He is eager to revel and make friendly jeers at his companions, though knows when to drop the pastimes and stand-to. As in his mercenary company, Carlo understands and obeys the chain of command within the Order. When the time to draw blades is nigh, he commands professionalism and grim efficiency, holding himself and others to the standards of their station. Though it may be impossible to have sterling relationships with everyone he meets, he has no second thoughts about putting himself in-between his allies and danger, and trusts they would do the same for him.
Member
AP Ottovan
