Post by Duro on May 13, 2009 19:44:38 GMT -5
Name: Duro
Alias: None
Gender: Male
Race: Caucasian
Age: 22
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 173 lbs.
Appearance: A runner's body. He is rather slender, built to move quickly and gracefully. His hair is of medium length, tapering down to his neck.
Skin Color: Very slight tan, the dude doesn't get much sun.
Eye Color: Blue/Hazel
Hair Color: Dirty Blonde
Markings (tattoos etc): A crude, exaggerated rendition of the human spine runs up the center of his back.
Jewelry: None
Clothing: He regularly totes khaki-like cloth pants with a tattered gray wrap encircling the right knee over the pants themselves. A loosened end of the wrap dangles around the back of the knee. His shirt, having seen better days, wears it's age visually. Black and tight fitting, his shirt only has one sleeve that ends at the midst of his bicep on his right arm. The left sleeve has been torn away. He rarely wears a shawl-type piece of cloth; A dark gray, stiff blanket of wool that drapes over his left side. As rarely as the shawl, he has a mask that covers the right side of his face, as well as a piece that juts out from the mask and covers his left eye. The mask bodes a cruel and 'creepy' smile, curling menacingly upwards. It also caps his hair in order to stay in place without worry of it falling off with no straps. Two cloth belts are strung across his waist, dangling in the shape of an 'X' over his groin and buttock region. Upon these belts, his pallasch-like blade, "Intolerance" and his dagger, "Grievance" are secured.
History:
It's the sound that freshly splintered logs make when they hit a fire. That popping and snapping sound. Something about it makes everything so comfortable, even if I was perched up against a cold rock jutting out of the ground.
It was then, out of the blackness that the figure of a hand entered the campfire's orange aura. A piece of rabbit flesh hanging drearily from the end of the crude stick that the hand held. "It's gonna be a cold'n out tonight. Sure ye dun want a wrap 'er sometin'?" An old, heavily accented voice said from beyond the darkness. "I'm sure, old timer. I've been through worse." My reply wasn't too convincing behind chattering teeth. Truth was that I had been through worse, but I never said I enjoyed it.
"Whate'er ye say, sonny." His voice hinted a slight disappointment. "Then I'll be tankin' yer blanket. I'ma too old fer this shit anymore." The old man said followed by a slew of Yosemite Sam-like mumbles. I couldn't help but laugh at his persistent struggle to cover his portly figure with that undersized wool blanket. He held close to his head's resting place his hat and canteen; A stench rose from the canteen as he lifted it to his mouth, no doubt filled with anything but water. The man stunk heavily of alcohol and tobacco, two habits I found repulsing, though I kept all opinions to myself. "So, 'eh, boy. What brings ye out in the middle 'o nowhere?" He said through a slab of chewed rabbit meat. "Just traveling. Gotta get across this desert by at least tomorrow. I'm meeting a friend due south of here." I brought my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. If I wasn't convincing of my climate endurance a few moments back, I certainly wasn't fooling anyone now. "You'll freeze I tell ye." As if completely dismissing his last question. "Take the blanket youngin'." I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. "I said take the damn blanket." He grumbled as he threw it in my direction. It hit me over the head with a thwap, hanging limp over me. I struggled to get into a more comfortable position with it. I won't lie either, it was probably the most uncomfortable piece of cloth I had ever touched, though on cold desert nights like this, I'd take anything.
"Thanks gramps."
"Gramps, 'eh? Ye know there's a name behin' this old face." It'd probably been a good two or three hours since the old man dragged my sorry ass off of the scorched sands and invited me into his care. Even presented a warm fire when the sky turned black and the stars rained in the night sky. All that time, and I had yet to put a name to this old man's face. "Name's Chester. Chester Redton." I listened intently so I would never forget his hospitality. "Good to meet you, Chester." I greeted him with an out-held hand, which he in turn met with his well-traveled and callous palm. An' you, sonny?" He croaked behind a wiry and rough beard. "I'm Duro." He looked at me like my face was sloughing off or something equally horrifying. "Jus' Duro? I nodded. No last name an' a first name like that... Well 'eh, Duro. It's a good to meet ye, too." Chester laid back onto a rock adjacent to mine, scratching his potbelly audibly.
"If you don't mind me asking, Chester, what are you doing out here in the desert all by yourself?" He responded first with a gruff laugh.
"Sonny, I'ma just livin'. Ol' shits like me ain't got nowhere to go." I shrugged my question off as if I never asked it in the first place. Chester seemed to be in his 60's, maybe 70's. His old-man waddle and unkempt graying hair made it all too obvious. I could hear his arthritic bones crack as he rose to a regular stance now. A quick swig from his canteen, and he lay back down on his side, facing away from me. "Ye got yerself a girl? I'd expect a young, blonde hair city-boy like yerself to have a lass." A cough made body lurch as he worked up a grotesque fluid and spat it out to the ground in front of him. "Nah," I stated, "No time for girls in what I do. It'd be nice, sure, but I just don't have the time." Another hardy laugh rumbled from within him. How about you old' timer?" He didn't turn over to speak, rather, he held up his left hand revealing an aged and tarnished gold ring on his ring-finger.
"Emma Redton. Mos' pretty thing on two legs." A little smile crept it's way across my cheeks. Where is she now? I asked.
"Ol' Emma passed away a couple years back." You could almost hear the remorse weigh down his voice. I quickly ducked my head and rid my smile. She came down wit' sometin' and never got any better. Haven't taken this here ring off ever since." A somber memory of love. A simple gold band, nothing more. Though, in it's simplicity, it holds two spirits together even in the afterlife. Almost brought me to tears.
"Don't ye think it be time to be gettin' to bed?" I could hear the hurt in his voice, and I silently nodded. "Yeah. I'll uh, I'll see ya in the morning Chester." I placed the uncomfortable blanket over me and closed my eyes. The dying embers from the campfire danced warmly across my face, and drifted me into a sleep.
BANG!
I shot up from my sleep to the piercing light of the sun, and a portly figure standing with a revolver in his hand.
"Mornin' Duro!" Chester yelled out happily from a good distance away. "Oh and 'eh, breakfast is served." He said as he picked up the rabbit carcass and unsheathed his skinning knife. My eyes were still adjusting to the morning desert sun as I searched the landscape. A quick knuckling to my eyes was all it took to return my vision. I stumbled to my feet and stretched my arms out, groaning the last bit of laze from me. Damn, felt like I had slept for days on end. I turned around to see a familiar scene. An old hand holding a stick with a piece of rabbit flesh wrapped tightly around the end of it, held over a new fire. He gestured the stick in a poking motion toward me. "No thanks Chester, I'll save my stomach for later. I'm not too hungry." I said, holding my hand out dismissively. "Oh, awrighty then. You ain't know what yer missin' boy. This is the food of warriors right 'ere." I laughed as he bit off a chunk of barely rare flesh. I guess the older you get, the more you grow a think skin to that kind of thing. Better yet, an iron stomach. As Chester swallowed his last bit of rabbit, he turned to me. "Ain't ye got a friend to meet south o' here soon?" I resentfully nodded, not looking forward to the long desert trek in these decrepit rags I call my clothing. Chester, I can't thank you enough for your hospitality. You're right though, I gotta catch that randezvous with my partner." Chester nodded, and held out his hand once more. I shook it and watch his expression, saddened to see me go. I could tell, this was the only company he's had in a while. As I stood up I watched him hammer back his last bit of alcohol from his canteen, and toss the rabbit skin into the fire.
I had walked for a good minute or so when I realized that I still had his blanket over my shoulder. Shit... He'll be needing this tonight I bet. I thought to myself. With that reassurance, I headed back to the campsite in a pace that would make others think night was about to fall over the sky in the next few moments.
That's when I heard a gunshot.
I ran up to the campsite to see Chester in the distance, supine and with his revolver in hand. A couple steps more and it dawned on me what had happened. The man who was generous enough to care for a lone wanderer for the cold night had just taken his life. I walked up to his side, and kneeled down. The outcome of his decision readily apparent now. I scanned the desert horizon aimlessly for a few moments, contemplating this man's ultimatum. Thinking. Was this really how it had to turn out? I had just known this man for a single night, and it had such an unusual impact on me. Waving my hand over his face, I closed his eyes and murmured a small prayer. Glancing at the ring on his finger, I smiled for one moment in this gruesome time.
The tears and loose threads in my clothes waved furiously in the wind. A makeshift cross now adorning the area just above Chester's head, made from the sticks he used to cook with. I stood up, and squinted my eyes to the south, and back down to Chester.
"Say hey to Emma for me. Old timer."
A mercenary's life is never easy. I had to keep reminding myself as I headed my way south.
Duro is a mercenary with an inner remorse. Unable to actually choose his ultimatum of his occupation, he will hide his job publically lest he is scrutinized and chastised for carrying the work of a killer.
Personality: In small crowds, he is open to anyone as a friend and an open ear. When larger crowds build, he reserves himself and keeps rather quiet. He is plagued with a slight agoraphobia. However, the way he was trained was to never turn down a job that pays. Now, he helps that who he can without a mutual return of food, money, jewelry, whathaveyou. Don't expect to walk away from Duro with a simple hello though. He likes to remember faces, and get a little insight on every face he sees. A natural one-on-one conversationalist.
Pictures:
Drawn by me while I was bored. Depicting the wearing of the mask.
Alias: None
Gender: Male
Race: Caucasian
Age: 22
Height: 6'2"
Weight: 173 lbs.
Appearance: A runner's body. He is rather slender, built to move quickly and gracefully. His hair is of medium length, tapering down to his neck.
Skin Color: Very slight tan, the dude doesn't get much sun.
Eye Color: Blue/Hazel
Hair Color: Dirty Blonde
Markings (tattoos etc): A crude, exaggerated rendition of the human spine runs up the center of his back.
Jewelry: None
Clothing: He regularly totes khaki-like cloth pants with a tattered gray wrap encircling the right knee over the pants themselves. A loosened end of the wrap dangles around the back of the knee. His shirt, having seen better days, wears it's age visually. Black and tight fitting, his shirt only has one sleeve that ends at the midst of his bicep on his right arm. The left sleeve has been torn away. He rarely wears a shawl-type piece of cloth; A dark gray, stiff blanket of wool that drapes over his left side. As rarely as the shawl, he has a mask that covers the right side of his face, as well as a piece that juts out from the mask and covers his left eye. The mask bodes a cruel and 'creepy' smile, curling menacingly upwards. It also caps his hair in order to stay in place without worry of it falling off with no straps. Two cloth belts are strung across his waist, dangling in the shape of an 'X' over his groin and buttock region. Upon these belts, his pallasch-like blade, "Intolerance" and his dagger, "Grievance" are secured.
History:
It's the sound that freshly splintered logs make when they hit a fire. That popping and snapping sound. Something about it makes everything so comfortable, even if I was perched up against a cold rock jutting out of the ground.
It was then, out of the blackness that the figure of a hand entered the campfire's orange aura. A piece of rabbit flesh hanging drearily from the end of the crude stick that the hand held. "It's gonna be a cold'n out tonight. Sure ye dun want a wrap 'er sometin'?" An old, heavily accented voice said from beyond the darkness. "I'm sure, old timer. I've been through worse." My reply wasn't too convincing behind chattering teeth. Truth was that I had been through worse, but I never said I enjoyed it.
"Whate'er ye say, sonny." His voice hinted a slight disappointment. "Then I'll be tankin' yer blanket. I'ma too old fer this shit anymore." The old man said followed by a slew of Yosemite Sam-like mumbles. I couldn't help but laugh at his persistent struggle to cover his portly figure with that undersized wool blanket. He held close to his head's resting place his hat and canteen; A stench rose from the canteen as he lifted it to his mouth, no doubt filled with anything but water. The man stunk heavily of alcohol and tobacco, two habits I found repulsing, though I kept all opinions to myself. "So, 'eh, boy. What brings ye out in the middle 'o nowhere?" He said through a slab of chewed rabbit meat. "Just traveling. Gotta get across this desert by at least tomorrow. I'm meeting a friend due south of here." I brought my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. If I wasn't convincing of my climate endurance a few moments back, I certainly wasn't fooling anyone now. "You'll freeze I tell ye." As if completely dismissing his last question. "Take the blanket youngin'." I waved my hand in a dismissive gesture. "I said take the damn blanket." He grumbled as he threw it in my direction. It hit me over the head with a thwap, hanging limp over me. I struggled to get into a more comfortable position with it. I won't lie either, it was probably the most uncomfortable piece of cloth I had ever touched, though on cold desert nights like this, I'd take anything.
"Thanks gramps."
"Gramps, 'eh? Ye know there's a name behin' this old face." It'd probably been a good two or three hours since the old man dragged my sorry ass off of the scorched sands and invited me into his care. Even presented a warm fire when the sky turned black and the stars rained in the night sky. All that time, and I had yet to put a name to this old man's face. "Name's Chester. Chester Redton." I listened intently so I would never forget his hospitality. "Good to meet you, Chester." I greeted him with an out-held hand, which he in turn met with his well-traveled and callous palm. An' you, sonny?" He croaked behind a wiry and rough beard. "I'm Duro." He looked at me like my face was sloughing off or something equally horrifying. "Jus' Duro? I nodded. No last name an' a first name like that... Well 'eh, Duro. It's a good to meet ye, too." Chester laid back onto a rock adjacent to mine, scratching his potbelly audibly.
"If you don't mind me asking, Chester, what are you doing out here in the desert all by yourself?" He responded first with a gruff laugh.
"Sonny, I'ma just livin'. Ol' shits like me ain't got nowhere to go." I shrugged my question off as if I never asked it in the first place. Chester seemed to be in his 60's, maybe 70's. His old-man waddle and unkempt graying hair made it all too obvious. I could hear his arthritic bones crack as he rose to a regular stance now. A quick swig from his canteen, and he lay back down on his side, facing away from me. "Ye got yerself a girl? I'd expect a young, blonde hair city-boy like yerself to have a lass." A cough made body lurch as he worked up a grotesque fluid and spat it out to the ground in front of him. "Nah," I stated, "No time for girls in what I do. It'd be nice, sure, but I just don't have the time." Another hardy laugh rumbled from within him. How about you old' timer?" He didn't turn over to speak, rather, he held up his left hand revealing an aged and tarnished gold ring on his ring-finger.
"Emma Redton. Mos' pretty thing on two legs." A little smile crept it's way across my cheeks. Where is she now? I asked.
"Ol' Emma passed away a couple years back." You could almost hear the remorse weigh down his voice. I quickly ducked my head and rid my smile. She came down wit' sometin' and never got any better. Haven't taken this here ring off ever since." A somber memory of love. A simple gold band, nothing more. Though, in it's simplicity, it holds two spirits together even in the afterlife. Almost brought me to tears.
"Don't ye think it be time to be gettin' to bed?" I could hear the hurt in his voice, and I silently nodded. "Yeah. I'll uh, I'll see ya in the morning Chester." I placed the uncomfortable blanket over me and closed my eyes. The dying embers from the campfire danced warmly across my face, and drifted me into a sleep.
. . .
BANG!
I shot up from my sleep to the piercing light of the sun, and a portly figure standing with a revolver in his hand.
"Mornin' Duro!" Chester yelled out happily from a good distance away. "Oh and 'eh, breakfast is served." He said as he picked up the rabbit carcass and unsheathed his skinning knife. My eyes were still adjusting to the morning desert sun as I searched the landscape. A quick knuckling to my eyes was all it took to return my vision. I stumbled to my feet and stretched my arms out, groaning the last bit of laze from me. Damn, felt like I had slept for days on end. I turned around to see a familiar scene. An old hand holding a stick with a piece of rabbit flesh wrapped tightly around the end of it, held over a new fire. He gestured the stick in a poking motion toward me. "No thanks Chester, I'll save my stomach for later. I'm not too hungry." I said, holding my hand out dismissively. "Oh, awrighty then. You ain't know what yer missin' boy. This is the food of warriors right 'ere." I laughed as he bit off a chunk of barely rare flesh. I guess the older you get, the more you grow a think skin to that kind of thing. Better yet, an iron stomach. As Chester swallowed his last bit of rabbit, he turned to me. "Ain't ye got a friend to meet south o' here soon?" I resentfully nodded, not looking forward to the long desert trek in these decrepit rags I call my clothing. Chester, I can't thank you enough for your hospitality. You're right though, I gotta catch that randezvous with my partner." Chester nodded, and held out his hand once more. I shook it and watch his expression, saddened to see me go. I could tell, this was the only company he's had in a while. As I stood up I watched him hammer back his last bit of alcohol from his canteen, and toss the rabbit skin into the fire.
I had walked for a good minute or so when I realized that I still had his blanket over my shoulder. Shit... He'll be needing this tonight I bet. I thought to myself. With that reassurance, I headed back to the campsite in a pace that would make others think night was about to fall over the sky in the next few moments.
That's when I heard a gunshot.
I ran up to the campsite to see Chester in the distance, supine and with his revolver in hand. A couple steps more and it dawned on me what had happened. The man who was generous enough to care for a lone wanderer for the cold night had just taken his life. I walked up to his side, and kneeled down. The outcome of his decision readily apparent now. I scanned the desert horizon aimlessly for a few moments, contemplating this man's ultimatum. Thinking. Was this really how it had to turn out? I had just known this man for a single night, and it had such an unusual impact on me. Waving my hand over his face, I closed his eyes and murmured a small prayer. Glancing at the ring on his finger, I smiled for one moment in this gruesome time.
The tears and loose threads in my clothes waved furiously in the wind. A makeshift cross now adorning the area just above Chester's head, made from the sticks he used to cook with. I stood up, and squinted my eyes to the south, and back down to Chester.
"Say hey to Emma for me. Old timer."
A mercenary's life is never easy. I had to keep reminding myself as I headed my way south.
Duro is a mercenary with an inner remorse. Unable to actually choose his ultimatum of his occupation, he will hide his job publically lest he is scrutinized and chastised for carrying the work of a killer.
Personality: In small crowds, he is open to anyone as a friend and an open ear. When larger crowds build, he reserves himself and keeps rather quiet. He is plagued with a slight agoraphobia. However, the way he was trained was to never turn down a job that pays. Now, he helps that who he can without a mutual return of food, money, jewelry, whathaveyou. Don't expect to walk away from Duro with a simple hello though. He likes to remember faces, and get a little insight on every face he sees. A natural one-on-one conversationalist.
Pictures:
Drawn by me while I was bored. Depicting the wearing of the mask.