ALBERTO COSSINI, CAPTAIN OF THE "LE MERIDIAN"
"So this is a real dragon, eh? I should leave now..."
Name: Alberto "Scumbag" Cossini
Age: 37
Gender: Male
Race: Human/Tarian
Rank: Drunk-ass Bum. Usually a bartender, sometimes a fisherman.
Appearance: What do you expect of a man whose entire life revolves around drinking a lot, then realizing he has no money
to pay for it, forced into working as a helper as compensation, and fishing in the Lake of Ghost? A plump bum you'd say, and you'd
be right. One would expect that he'd be much fatter but surprisingly he does work out, even if he is travelling from his house to the
bar or to the lake.
Standing at six feet two inches and weighing in at 220 pounds, this man is feared by many. Not because of his swordsmanship,
but because he tends to flail his arms while talking. Many men with broken noses would gladly certify him dangerous. But that is
not one would notice first about, no sir. No, it isn't his pudgy face or his beard or even his curly hair. What they would notice are
his enigmatic eyes. His eyes are his identity. His eyes have this conviction about them, that they would not give a fuck, ever.
Overall, he is much like a normal Tarian who is a descendant of the Stormblood Clan. Like his forefathers and foremothers, he has
an affinity to right hook his opponents and wear loose clothes, usually dull colored (or brightly colored dresses bleached mercilessly.
That works too).
Personality: Lies. Deceit. Rambling. Whatever you want to call it, it is his specialty. Really, since the day he was born, he
bullshitted everyone. He has always been one with a vivid imagination and an intense yearning to escape this place. Imagining
stuff might as well be on his curriculum vitae, otherwise he might as well submit a piece of paper with his name on it.
One of his most regular stories are of his adventures aboard the Le Meridian, an obviously imaginary galleon, as he and his mighty
crew fought mighty dragons, seduced many sirens, deceived gods and slayed many creatures of the nights. His story telling skills
are unmatched in these parts, part due to the sheer number of years of practice he has; and part due sheer lack of idiots like him.
Oh but inside this mask of idiocy lies a wise man. Indeed, he is both wise and a wise-ass, an explosive combination for a man who
has minimal fighting skills. The only reason he recites stories to the masses instead of just thinking about them is to keep people
from getting agitated. Working to construct a whole city is hard after all, especially now. Who wants to work all day, come to the
tavern, and then find people quietly drinking away their evenings? No fun, no fun.
He is also very difficult to anger. Not one person in the tavern has actually seen him angry. That is because he bottles his anger
and lets it out at the Lake of Ghost, usually at the center of the lake. Many who went to the Lake of Ghost at the night must have
hushed noises. Most turned back and ran like there was a ghost. Dear people who ran, it is only your friendly neighborhood Alberto.
Most of the time.
History: Stormblood Clan were known not only for their love for good food, or small community, but also their ingenuity and their
hate for roasted rats ("Yuck!"). They lived farther away from the Lake of Ghosts and hence had some difficulty procuring drinking water.
This is where the their true creativity shone. Using simple canals, they turned their native place from arid to livable, something many
clans have trouble doing. Alas they may have mastered water, but they could never hope to beat nature. A mysterious virus ravaged
the already small community. One of the survivors was Alberto.
Since he was little he wanted to play by the canals or the lake itself. His father used to take him to the lake once a month and every
time had to drag Alberto back. Apart from swimming and boating, sleeping while cool wind blew across his face he loved. It has been
many years since he swam in the cool waters, but sleeping and boating? Almost everyday.
When he was seven, the Plague, as it was called, struck. One person coughed and out of nowhere, half of the population had perished
in two days. By the time the plague passed, only eight clan members survived; three children, of which Alberto was the eldest, and five
adults. Devastated and out of options, they spent a month seeking out a new home before settling in another clan.
After the initial setback, life went relatively easy. Yes, he was considered an outsider and mocked for his lack of fighting skill; but it
was better than sleeping on the naked forest floor. But, even when he was mocked, there was an air of fear that surrounded him. Partly
because he was much larger in build than any other child; mostly because he did manage to right hook an older child making the child
loose about a dozen teeth.
When he was twenty two, came to the village a messenger. Said the man, that a Chieftain was building a city and the clan was welcome
to join all the others. The clan refused but Alberto bid thesevillagers villajerks farewell. Since the inception of the city, he has
been their, sometimes helping with the construction, sometimes mooching of the tavern owner.
Age: 37
Gender: Male
Race: Human/Tarian
Rank: Drunk-ass Bum. Usually a bartender, sometimes a fisherman.
Appearance: What do you expect of a man whose entire life revolves around drinking a lot, then realizing he has no money
to pay for it, forced into working as a helper as compensation, and fishing in the Lake of Ghost? A plump bum you'd say, and you'd
be right. One would expect that he'd be much fatter but surprisingly he does work out, even if he is travelling from his house to the
bar or to the lake.
Standing at six feet two inches and weighing in at 220 pounds, this man is feared by many. Not because of his swordsmanship,
but because he tends to flail his arms while talking. Many men with broken noses would gladly certify him dangerous. But that is
not one would notice first about, no sir. No, it isn't his pudgy face or his beard or even his curly hair. What they would notice are
his enigmatic eyes. His eyes are his identity. His eyes have this conviction about them, that they would not give a fuck, ever.
Overall, he is much like a normal Tarian who is a descendant of the Stormblood Clan. Like his forefathers and foremothers, he has
an affinity to right hook his opponents and wear loose clothes, usually dull colored (or brightly colored dresses bleached mercilessly.
That works too).
Personality: Lies. Deceit. Rambling. Whatever you want to call it, it is his specialty. Really, since the day he was born, he
bullshitted everyone. He has always been one with a vivid imagination and an intense yearning to escape this place. Imagining
stuff might as well be on his curriculum vitae, otherwise he might as well submit a piece of paper with his name on it.
One of his most regular stories are of his adventures aboard the Le Meridian, an obviously imaginary galleon, as he and his mighty
crew fought mighty dragons, seduced many sirens, deceived gods and slayed many creatures of the nights. His story telling skills
are unmatched in these parts, part due to the sheer number of years of practice he has; and part due sheer lack of idiots like him.
Oh but inside this mask of idiocy lies a wise man. Indeed, he is both wise and a wise-ass, an explosive combination for a man who
has minimal fighting skills. The only reason he recites stories to the masses instead of just thinking about them is to keep people
from getting agitated. Working to construct a whole city is hard after all, especially now. Who wants to work all day, come to the
tavern, and then find people quietly drinking away their evenings? No fun, no fun.
He is also very difficult to anger. Not one person in the tavern has actually seen him angry. That is because he bottles his anger
and lets it out at the Lake of Ghost, usually at the center of the lake. Many who went to the Lake of Ghost at the night must have
hushed noises. Most turned back and ran like there was a ghost. Dear people who ran, it is only your friendly neighborhood Alberto.
Most of the time.
History: Stormblood Clan were known not only for their love for good food, or small community, but also their ingenuity and their
hate for roasted rats ("Yuck!"). They lived farther away from the Lake of Ghosts and hence had some difficulty procuring drinking water.
This is where the their true creativity shone. Using simple canals, they turned their native place from arid to livable, something many
clans have trouble doing. Alas they may have mastered water, but they could never hope to beat nature. A mysterious virus ravaged
the already small community. One of the survivors was Alberto.
Since he was little he wanted to play by the canals or the lake itself. His father used to take him to the lake once a month and every
time had to drag Alberto back. Apart from swimming and boating, sleeping while cool wind blew across his face he loved. It has been
many years since he swam in the cool waters, but sleeping and boating? Almost everyday.
When he was seven, the Plague, as it was called, struck. One person coughed and out of nowhere, half of the population had perished
in two days. By the time the plague passed, only eight clan members survived; three children, of which Alberto was the eldest, and five
adults. Devastated and out of options, they spent a month seeking out a new home before settling in another clan.
After the initial setback, life went relatively easy. Yes, he was considered an outsider and mocked for his lack of fighting skill; but it
was better than sleeping on the naked forest floor. But, even when he was mocked, there was an air of fear that surrounded him. Partly
because he was much larger in build than any other child; mostly because he did manage to right hook an older child making the child
loose about a dozen teeth.
When he was twenty two, came to the village a messenger. Said the man, that a Chieftain was building a city and the clan was welcome
to join all the others. The clan refused but Alberto bid these
been their, sometimes helping with the construction, sometimes mooching of the tavern owner.