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Armand Delgado

Known as Rattler in some parts because of the dual revolver he carries, he is a lone Drifter with no love for humanity, but a little for Filgaia itself.

0 · 62 views · located in Filgaia

a character in “Dust on the Dunes”, as played by Soul_Alchemist

Description

Name: Armand Delgado
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Height: 5'11”
Weight: around 190-200 Lbs. (not good with judging weight)
ARM: Colt Diamondback x2 (revolver, 6” long barrel, .38 caliber, one black and one silver)
Tool: 'Fishing Pole'
Although it looks like, and can be used as such, it's really just a pole about 3 feet long with a hole at the end along with a small supply box which contains string, hooks, and weights of varying sizes. He uses this as a long range tool to, for instance, sneak the key out of someones pocket.
Appearance: Image

Personality

Armand has never been one to trust others, due to a series of events in his past, however he knows that in some situations it is a necessary evil. Even in a group he seems to be a loner, staying on the fringes, watching over his shoulder just in case.

Although you would probably never guess it, he is a lover of all plants and animals, and during his travels he catalogs anything he can find. He has a small collection of various cactus seeds. Should he ever see anyone mistreating a horse he has been known to shoot them without saying a word. Someday he hopes to find a quiet place to settle down, where he can plant the seeds he has collected.

Over all he doesn't care about the world or other people, having taken many lives in his time already and knowing many more are likely to fall at his guns, and as a result he rarely speaks, but when he chooses to do so it is usually something important, or something that someone else should have said but lacked either the courage or mindset to voice. Some might call him the voice of reason. He calls himself nothing, save for his given name, despite those titles a few others have placed on him. In come parts of Filgaia he is known as Rattler, in others he is called 'That Drifter who shot the man for stepping on a flower.' Names mean very little to him, however, when the time come for him to take a life he reveals his own to whomever stands before his guns, and often says, "My name is Armand Delgado. I tell you this so that when we meet in the other Hell you will remember my face, and we can have a rematch."

History

(This is kind of long, it's a chapter from a story I'm trying to write, hope you don't mind.)

“You fool, there is nothing more we can do for him, the wound is too deep and he has lost too much blood!” Sterling says, a tall, thin man with straight black hair and eyes like dull jade in the light of the moon high above, “Not even that magical brew of yours can do anything now! Leave him dead, end his suffering now and let us move on, quick, before they have spotted us!”
This is the tale of a man named Issac Kaine, who died in battle during the year 1703 at a battle which was never recorded in the books of history. He was a proud, noble man who thought he knew exactly where his allegiance lied, and upon whom he could count. But all of this changed one night, beneath the light of a full moon on a grassy field behind his own castle, his own ancestral home passed down for years untold from father to son, until it came to him. Until his line ended.
“Leave us Sterling,” Mort says, deathly calm, the grim reaper all dressed in black with his blade at his side and dark, hollow eyes that reveal no soul within.
“Sir, I cannot leave you here!” Sterling pleads once more, but his words are drowned out by the sudden burst of thunder from above, as lightning pierces the heavens to strike the west tower of the castle.
“I told you before, old friend, that I cannot leave him here. Go, you know where to, and I will be there by nightfall tomorrow, you have my word!” Mort yells at the man, the poor dark figure who still holds his own sword in hand, as if it could save his life from what was about to happen. “I will meet you there, now go!”
Reluctantly Sterling nods, then turns and lowers himself closer to the ground as he makes his way towards the cover of the dark forest. To the Jackal he races, a sack of gold coins and jewels bouncing against his back, a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. Emblazoned into the shield, in silver and black and gold and red, is the family crest of the man he was forced to leave behind, his dear friend, the closest thing he had left to family aside from the other being he had left behind. The being known as Mort, who could not be called human, and too dark to be a saint sent by the lord above.
As the rain falls from the sky in large drops, the the tears of the gods who weep to see such a spirit ebbing away from the world of the living, Mort works his darkness. From his belt he produces a large leather pouch, and from this another, smaller pouch, repeating the process over and over until he is left with a tiny silk bag lined thickly with the black and gray fur of wolves. Finally from this silken sack he removes a tiny glass vial, stoppered with not a cork or a rag, but a crafted top made of crystal from a cave to the counties in the east. The liquid inside glows a sickly, pale green and smells both of death and the sweetest nectar all at once.
“Drink, my dear friend, my brother,” Mort speaks softly, lifting Issac's head so that his lips meet the vile, “Drink from the elixir, and suffer no more. Drink, and join my ranks in honestly this time.”
“Your ranks are those of demon and saint...old friend...” the knight-lord says, laughing weakly, “...I was to die here tonight...and I shall, whether I drink or not...”
But the man drinks.
He drinks from the glowing glass before him, allowing the liquid to flow into him even as his life blood seeps from his chest and into the ground beneath, which is already saturated by the rain that falls steady and true all around them.
The rain is cold, almost unbearably so, as Issac is filled with a heat unknown by man, a heat he feels in the depths of his soul must be created by the hot embers of hell brought up to the surface by the man who now forces him to drink, forces him to take in the evil and the darkness and the unholy spirits.
“I've found him! I've found him my lord, and he's dead already!” a voice calls from a short distance away.
“Already?” another voice calls, one familiar to Mort, unlike the first.
The voice belonged to a man named Leon Walker. A lord and a heartless bastard, the one who had arranged for this terrible night to occur, for the death of Issac Kaine and all those who followed in his path.
“Yes my lord, but there is another with him!”
There were more voices now, more footsteps and the clinking of heavy chain armor.
Oh, what a fool they must have thought of this man, this man who held the dead close to him and bore no armor of his own. So confident are the soldiers that they approach without raising their weapons, without waiting for the reinforcement of their lord or the others.
“I am sorry for taking your lives, as I am sure you are all good men, but you have been led astray by the one you call Master and Lord, and for that, and for what you have helped to accomplish here...you are all already dead...” was the small speech given as Mort gently laid aside the body of his brother, letting the cooling rain wash away the remnants of his blood and the mud from the field under him.
And so it has failed, Mort thinks to himself as he stands before the armed men, with only his undrawn sword for protection as they draw near. The elixir that was able to grant me new life when mine was at an end could not bring back another. Has Guilaume cursed my hand?
The blades were upon him now, slashing, seeming to glow for a split second now and then as they caught the lightning while moving through the air.
But the strikes were so weak, Mort barely felt them.
His blood, his kind of blood, dribbled thickly from the wounds as the men left off, stepping back hurriedly when they realized they had not slain the demon before them. It was dark, almost black, though in reality it was a deep shade of green, similar to that of the elixir. Soon it stopped flowing out, as the wounds quickly closed themselves up, though the same could not be said of his cloak and shirt, which fell around him in shreds.
“Good night, all of you.”
These were the last words the soldiers heard before the demon with black blood moved and struck them down, delivering only a single blow to each man, a tap to the base of the neck which severed the spine and ended them in seconds.
The rain came now in a torrent swept round by the wind, and the thunder sang out all around him as the lightning lashed at the land.
“When the gods weep, when they are moved so deeply, the earth itself feels their pain...” Mort says, so quiet no human could have heard him. “Sleep now, kind Issac, and I shall avenge you. The world shall be a bit more peaceful by the time the sun rises, and I shall at least be the one to thank...”
“So, you are Lord Kaine's pet demon,” the voice of Leon, muted by the weather, calls out from behind him, “Mort I believe is what he called you, yes? An apt name, I'm sure...Death.”
Turning so as to face this man, Mort is surprised to find him so close, his senses apparently having been dulled by the sorrow of his loss and the storm. Leon Walker now stood only a few feet away, with the tip of his great blade aimed squarely at the demons chest.
“And I shall be the lord who concurred Death!” Leon calls out, thrusting his sword forward, feeling with satisfaction as it runs the being before him through, piercing his heart on its journey. “This land is mine now, and there is nothing in this world which may stop me now!”
From the mud, from where the body of Issac lay in the darkness, there came a moan, a cry of pain and anger...and hunger.
In a flash of lightning Mort is able to see a figure surge from the ground at Leon and knock him away, leaving the sword still in his chest. As he falls to his knees he is able to witness the figure fall atop the man and tear at his throat with long white fangs, ripping away the flesh to lap of the crimson liquid that flows out from the wound. When the flash has ended, so has his vision, and with the last of his strength he pulls free the sword, gripping the bare blade with one hand to do so, and falls down into the muck.

So begins...

Armand Delgado's Story

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