Theme Song: War Pigs - Black Sabbath
GENERAL INFORMATION
Role: The Hero
Nickname(s)/Alias(es): The Bear (of Gehenna), Gas Mask
Gender: Male
Age: 40
Love Interest: His wife's death still weighs heavily on his mind, so he isn't too eager to find a replacement just yet.
APPEARANCE
Height: 6'7"
Weight:
Build: Tall, broad & muscular.
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Black
Scars/Tattoos/Piercings: Two long, jagged scars on the back of his left shoulder.
Description: The first thing that anyone will notice about Rhys is his sheer size. Standing at an impressive 6'7", he towers almost a foot over most people, sometimes more. Years of strenuous work in Gehenna's mines have made him an even more imposing figure; developing his muscles to an almost frightening size. Rhys' stature often results in him unintentionally intimidating people, which has made far too many social interactions awkward, especially with small people.
Rhys' skin isn't particularly dark; not something you might expect from a hard labourer like Rhys. This is due to the fact that Rhys has never left Gehenna in his life, and Gehenna isn't known for its sunlight. Two jagged scars run diagonally from his shoulder to his spine, which he acquired after being ambushed by a creature that had found its way into the mines. His hands are calloused from his work in the mines.
Rhys has short, black hair that would be considered unkempt if it were any longer. Despite only being 40, he already has some flecks of grey in his hair, and even more in his beard.
Rhys' eyes often express how he is feeling better than his facial expressions do. They are capable of glaring someone into the ground, or letting his guard down completely.
Preferred Clothing: Rhys doesn't usually put a huge deal of thought into the clothing he wears; what concerns him most is whether or not it's comfortable, and to a lesser extent, whether or not it is suitable. He tends to wear simple, button-up shirts, loose trousers, boots, grey socks and a jacket if it's cold. He wears the same clothes during his free time and when he's mining.
However, when carrying out acts of terrorism against the military, Rhys dresses in a much different manner. He dons a gas mask, a kevlar vest, black leather gloves and a charcoal grey duster coat, as well as exchanging his usual button-up shirts and loose trousers for a black cotton shirt and cargo pants.
MENTALITY
Oddities: Rhys often whistles to himself when bored, and will rock back and forth on the balls of his feet when waiting for someone or something.
Skills: Unsurprisingly, Rhys is incredibly strong. His stature allows him to move weights that most people would collapse under, which has proved very useful in both his lines of work. It also means that he is capable of delivering bone-shattering blows, providing that he is equipped with a sturdy weapon.
Aside from his daunting appearance and raw strength, Rhys is also known for being the man you go to when you want something fixed. Rhys is capable of restoring just about any machine to working order, whether it's a jammed gun or a damaged mining drill.
More surprisingly, Rhys is a skilled flautist, and isn't too bad at singing, either. Rhys has been playing the flute since the age of ten, and practices regularly.
Fears/Phobias: Atychiphobia - Fear of failure.
Likes:
+ Fire. Rhys loves the smell it gives off, and how it is capable of providing both comfort and destruction.
+ Tea. It is by far Rhys' favourite drink, partially because of its taste, and partially because it helps him to relax.
+ Fixing things. Rhys always gets a great sense of satisfaction whenever his work produces results.
+ Music. Rhys is a musician himself, and is fond of many genres of music.
+ Animals. Rhys loves animals very much, and is fond of just about everything between salamanders and samoyeds.
Dislikes:
- The monarchy. The current system of government can lead to great rulers like Leonard, or it can lead to those like Lazarus.
- Lazarus. While Rhys isn't particularly fond of violence, he would like nothing better than to beat the shit out of Lazarus and then desecrate his corpse.
- War. Lazarus only leads the revolution because he knows that there is no other way to remove Lazarus from power, other than to wait for him to die.
- Spicy food. Rhys can't stand the burning sensation within his throat, and describes at as "being asphyxiated with fire".
- Bright light. Rhys has sensitive eyes due to all the time he's spent in the relative darkness of the mines.
Hobbies: Rhys devotes much of his spare time to playing the flute and writing compositions for it. He is very fond of chess, a game that he would often play against his wife and son. He also spends a lot of time reading, although he rarely reads any non-fiction texts.
Personality: Despite his intimidating build and line of work, Rhys isn't the muscle-brained oaf that one might expect him to be. Rhys is actually a rather articulate and interesting person to talk to. So long as he doesn't think that you support Lazarus' regime, he'll welcome you with open arms, even if he knows literally nothing about you.
However, the fact that he's usually polite does not mean that he is a doormat. If challenged, he will immediately retaliate, first with words, and then with violence if need be. However, Rhys prefers to end confrontations as quickly and peacefully as possible, so he will often try to scare away whoever has invoked his ire.
Rhys is a very liberal-minded person who is always open to new ideas. He is capable of having a conversation about just about anything, other than love. Once the subject of romance is brought up, he'll suddenly become quiet and distant from the conversation. He'll still react to you, but it's limited to the shaking and nodding of his head and the occasional "mm-hmm". He won't admit it, but inside his head all he can think about is his wife.
COMBAT
Preferred Weapon: After being ambushed in the mines, Rhys has carried a nine-chambered revolver and a Bowie knife with him at all times. Both are kept on holsters on his belt. Rhys also owns an anti-personnel rifle, but usually doesn't carry it around with him for obvious reasons.
Fighting Style: Rhys is a terrifying presence on the battlefield, as not only his size and sheer power daunt his enemies, but also his endurance. To no surprise, Rhys is almost impossible to take down in close combat due to his strength, which is so great that he is capable of killing someone with a single well-placed blow to the head. He's also reasonably fast, although his speed is nothing compared to his strength. His marksmanship isn't too shabby, either.
Rhys isn't afraid to fight dirtily if need be. He isn't above taking hostages; there have been occasions where he has wrapped one arm around a soldier's neck and used him as a shield while he shot the man's brothers in arms, and then proceeded to break his neck. After all, it's not like his enemies wouldn't do the same to him if they were big enough.
While Rhys' size grants him great strength, it also makes him an easy target and makes crouching behind low cover difficult. However, Rhys is capable of taking a few hits, providing he's not shot through the head.
HISTORY
Relationship Status: Widower
Family:
Father - Daniel Blackmore
Mother - Alice Blackmore
Wife - Maria Blackmore †
Son - Jonathan Blackmore
Younger Brother - Alexander Blackmore
Personal History/Background: Rhys was born in Gehenna as the first of two sons to Daniel and Alice Blackmore. Daniel worked as a miner, and his wife was a tailor. Five years after Rhys' birth, another child entered the Blackmore family: Alexander. There was never anything particularly special about the family, neither of Rhys' parents were abnormally tall, Alexander wasn't, and until hitting puberty, neither was Rhys. From an early age, Rhys showed a fascination with music, so when he was ten, his parents bought him a flute and paid for a tutor. Rhys showed promise as a musician, and has continued as a flautist to this day.
At the age of 13, when Rhys began to hit puberty, he began to grow abnormally tall. By the age of 15, he was at the same height as his father, and his growth didn't stop until he was about 25, leaving him towering over most people, in particular his younger brother, who only made it to 5'9".
Rhys joined his father as a miner at the age of 18, and has worked as one ever since. It was in the mines that Rhys discovered his knack for fixing machinery after repairing a jammed mining drill with no prior experience. His natural talent impressed people, who began to bring whatever they needed fixing to him. People began to spread the word about Rhys' skill with machines, and soon more and more people came to him for assistance. This lead to him meeting the woman who would become his wife, Maria Bradley.
The two married three years after meeting, and together had a son whom they named Jonathan. They all lived happily together as a family until Lazarus Heyward became the new dictator and announced that he had no concern for the people of Gehenna. Despite her husband's warnings, Maria joined a protest march, only to be executed by the military, along with hundreds of other citizens. To add insult to injury, Maria was forbidden from having a proper funeral, as she was an enemy of the state.
That proved to be the final straw for Rhys. He sent his now teenage son to live with his grandparents, and began to build up a resistance force. Among others, the Master Eldorado and Alexander offered their aid. The group was first seen when the army appeared to end another strike, but were driven back by a mob of armed revolutionaries sporting gas masks. Reports said that they were led by a titan of a man, who has come to be known as "the Bear of Gehenna". Since then, more reports of gas masked revolutionaries fighting against military personnel have surfaced, sometimes initiating confrontations, sometimes defending protesters. Propaganda both in favour of and against the resistance has gone up around Gehenna, and bounties are being offered to anyone who can kill or capture anyone in a gas mask.
OTHER:
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length, at length — after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered, and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence and Desolation! and dim Night!
Gaunt vestibules! and phantom-peopled aisles!
I feel ye now: I feel ye in your strength!
O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls;
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat:
Here, where the dames of Rome their yellow hair
Wav’d to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle:
Here, where on ivory couch the Caesar sate,
On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder:
Here, where on golden throne the monarch loll’d,
Glides spectre-like unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones.
These crumbling walls; these tottering arcades;
These mouldering plinths; these sad, and blacken’d shafts;
These vague entablatures; this broken frieze;
These shattered cornices; this wreck; this ruin;
These stones, alas! — these gray stones — are they all —
All of the great and the colossal left
By the corrosive hours to Fate and me?
“Not all,” — the echoes answer me; “not all:
Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise for ever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As in old days from Memnon to the sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men. We rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds
We are not desolate — we pallid stones;
Not all our power is gone; not all our fame;
Not all the magic of our high renown;
Not all the wonder that encircles us;
Not all the mysteries that in us lie;
Not all the memories that hang upon,
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length, at length — after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered, and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence and Desolation! and dim Night!
Gaunt vestibules! and phantom-peopled aisles!
I feel ye now: I feel ye in your strength!
O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls;
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat:
Here, where the dames of Rome their yellow hair
Wav’d to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle:
Here, where on ivory couch the Caesar sate,
On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder:
Here, where on golden throne the monarch loll’d,
Glides spectre-like unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones.
These crumbling walls; these tottering arcades;
These mouldering plinths; these sad, and blacken’d shafts;
These vague entablatures; this broken frieze;
These shattered cornices; this wreck; this ruin;
These stones, alas! — these gray stones — are they all —
All of the great and the colossal left
By the corrosive hours to Fate and me?
“Not all,” — the echoes answer me; “not all:
Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise for ever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As in old days from Memnon to the sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men. We rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds
We are not desolate — we pallid stones;
Not all our power is gone; not all our fame;
Not all the magic of our high renown;
Not all the wonder that encircles us;
Not all the mysteries that in us lie;
Not all the memories that hang upon,
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
