The Captain
| Age ??? |
| Gender Male |
| Origin North Ilica |
| Occupation Warband Captain, Cazadore |
Goals:
- Enjoy life, sprinkle death;
- Make sure Dogs don't die too much;
- Steal a fucking airship;
- Get paid for tricks;
- Tricks being pulling insane stints and killing big motherfuckers, a load of motherfuckers, or all three;
- Probably visit the runaway one of these days.
Vincent Brezat (what, did you think that was his real name?)
TheCaptain
Mad Dog
Red Dragon
Ruddy Bastard
Son Of A Bitch
Appearance
| Height 6" |
| Build Quick and Muscley |
| Hair rusty red-brown |
| Eyes dirty sleet-blue |
- Brash, raspy voice that's used to barking out commands;
- Thick accent that is persistent, but extremely hard to place - Altalusian?..;
- Stinks of alchemical components, metal lubricants and oil, and
- STINKS of some smoking herb, or burning tar, eyes may water;
- No, seriously, someone take away the pipe with those Suldazan dusts;
- Tan with a slight olive undertone, wind and sun-weathered face;
- Hard to tell his age, spry like his thirties, wrinkles like his fifties;
- Smiles look sharp, and his canines aren't even that large;
- Slightly slouched, unexpectedly strong even for his build - wielding a large fuck-off sword with one hand with strange ease on occasion;
- Almost never stops smiling, smirking, or grinning; his Dogs learned to tell time until imminent bloodshed by the way Captain is smiling;
- Default aura of volatile and unrestrained want to rend and tear barely kept from getting loose;
- Generally has that hunger in his eyes even when he's being friendly;
- Wears simple, sturdy clothes, studded or leather armor that doesn't take too much mobility;
- Rarely seen in 'softmen' clothes, when forced to remove armor, will likely have a greyish-blue, sun-bleached linen shirt, simple trousers, and probably some new well-made boots;
- Casually wears gruesome trophies on occasion - goblin ears, teeth from large beasts, some poor fuckers' heads at the saddle;
- At work, casually wears a broad assortment of trinkets and contraptions (caltrops, traps, nets, grappling hooks, throwing daggers), an occasional bow or crossbow - but clearly prefers his big fuck-off sword to all else; sometimes, lovingly decorates it with a red cord, for good luck, he says.
Personality
- Presents as a mad dog and isn't too far if he lets himself loose;
- Actually so sharp he could cut himself, and disciplined more than he lets on;
- Same goes for all of the men in the warband he'd beaten into shape;
- Vigor for life through chasing death around battlefields;
- Dogma of Violence - teaches that people are only true to themselves at the edge of death, and then most of them turn into useless sniveling flesh; Only seems to get interested in people that get into his face when he gets into theirs, and don't flinch at what comes after;
- Erroneously, that stops him from chasing 'boring kills', so he's unlikely to go after anything that may categorize as 'weak' - but will prod at anyone he'd measured might stand up to him;
- Instead, he picks up people who teeter but linger at the precipice of the same violent madness; has a gut feeling for loyalty, has not been wrong so far in... how old is he, exactly?
- Fights in fisticuffs against weavers sometimes; enjoys being pretty fucking fast;
- Full of lies.
Skills
- Alchemist; In the past fifteen years or so has supplemented his arsenal with varied monster fluids;
- Don't listen to bloodsucking rumours, that's slander; Simply tenacious as all fuck;
- Shoots everything that shoots, swings everything that can be swung; rides, drives and sails everything that moves;
- Gets his kicks off violence like you wish you could off anything else;
- Despite that and the madlad walk, has a solid, loyal motley squad of weird weavers and not-quite-right fuckers that can work in smaller teams interchangeably, drilled in variety of tactics, and don't suffer casualties often;
- Sometimes, reads books; is never seen reading books; because fuck paperwork, his right-hand witch can do that shit.
Art Credit: (I did it)
