[General Information]
Nickname(s): Gare, Ros, Mouse.
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Race: Orc / Elf
Origin: Burgûn
Occupation: Sellsword of the Hooded Company
Hair: Black.
Eyes: Black sclera's, amber-gold pupils.
Complexion: Swarthy-blue, almost gray.
Height: 6'0"
Build: Toned.
Weight: 165lbs
Body Markings: Garos wears splotches of dust, dirt, scratches, and small scars that tell at least a hundred stories of adventuring the wilderness, and through the dirty streets he chooses to dally in, but the majority of them are covered by the leathery bulk of his armor. Most notable, is an arc of scar tissue that starts in his hairline and slashes through his right eyebrow, ending just above his lip, rippled like a bolt of lightning. Another prominent scar is banded across his throat. A thin, white line. At times, he covers it with a red handkerchief. Other cuts and marks litter his body here and there; the product of many years of fighting and a few of them he can actually give you a story for.
[APPEARANCE]
A swarthy, swaggering fellaâ. All bluster, no bite. Mostly. Unless thereâs an invitation attached, quipped with a coquettish smile. Garos cuts an intimidating figure, looming less like a gangly tree, and more like someone whoâs built to bust heads and eschew taking namesâthat is, until he opens his bowed lips, perpetually lifted into something just seconds away from a toothy grin. A chest-guttural laugh is never far behind, breaking whatever impression of savage fortitude he might have been trying to illicit. If he keeps his jabbering maw firmly closed⊠thereâs a chance his countenance is enough to make someone wary, or at least convince someone otherwise inclined to raise a sword in his direction. Itâs clear that his hands arenât baby-smooth, unfettered by labor. Heâs forged from tougher stuff. Broad-shouldered and rife with a musculature only a hard-working man could achieve, either from the mundane, or from shadier endeavors. A farm-boy. Or an ale-totting mercenary with a stupidly big axe.
Hawkish features form sharp, cutting angles, cheekbones seated high; clearly of Elven lineage, though his complexion is enough to give anyone pause. His skin is a dusky shade of blue, nearly gray in certain areas. Compared to the fair-skinned lads in the woods; heâs all wrong. The wrong palette of monochrome, too bulky, too crude. A poor assembly. Dirty-blooded. A taint to their pristine, unsullied line. Of course, there is an opinion that he might be a âmixed breedâ due to his tilted and softly narrowed ear tips. Though heâs never said for certain. Savagery with a dollop of grace, as heâd liked to say. Best of both worlds⊠because heâs able to grow facial hair, whereas the forest-children with their bare, baby-faces cannot.
As is common to most Orcs, Garosâs hair is black as midnight. The colour of thick ink. Narry a hair out of place, heâd say. Quite wrong. Itâs a mess in the best of circumstances, as if heâd just roused himself from a bedroll. If itâs not a birdâs nest perched across his head or pushed backwards, in a warriorâs fashion, he tends to tie it into a small tail. Bound with a leather piece, or whatever pretty ribbon he gets his hands on. Green is his favorite, to date. The sides of his head is shaved close to his skull. His eyes are particularly peculiar. No doubt, another deplorable, Orc-afflicted trait. His pupils are a soft ember, like melted, homespun gold, striking a contrast against the blacks of his scleraâs. Slightly slanted and continuously squinted. As if heâd heard a joke and wished to share the punchline. He stares, unashamedly. Quite a lot.
Garos is used to wearing light and loose fabrics from his time in the Orcish Empire, in which he lived quite close to the perpetual heat of the tropical coastline. Often enough, heâll choose to go shirtless if the day is particularly sunny. Intentionally so. Probably. More commonly, heâs decked in a full array of leathers, tightly fitted to his frame. From his dark brown trousers, tucked neatly into black, calf-high boots to his black, sleeveless tunic, bound closed by some sort of canineâs teeth, riddled and laced up the front. Over that is a brown leather jacket with a high collar, grizzled with white fur on the inside. Iron-wrought pauldrons seat his shoulders and his forearms are tightly wrapped. Garb fit for a mercenary. He tends to think he cuts a rather tough figure, like a squabbling sheep in wolves clothing.
No oneâs without their imperfections⊠even Garos, as heâs so resistant to admit. Orcâs have rather long bottom teeth. Snaggle-teeth. Tusks. A source of pride, and strength in their little community. His are pathetically small. Largely ignored if his mouth is closed. An inch long and only noticeable once he speaks, barely bumping up against the front of his lips. Just as short as an Orc-womanâs. Despite his cheery, lackadaisical view on things, this humiliating fact sticks close to the heart. Itâs a sore spot heâs like to deflect with a sardonic, whittled grin. All forced, unamused.
[D E M E A N O R]
If only Garosâs outward personality carried its weight in pure, unadulterated strength, heâd be a giant of a man. Not so. Wiles are wind and wit isnât nearly sharp enough for every occasion. While he exudes confidence in almost everything he does, he can be a blustering fool. Riddled with eccentricities and certainly not enough talent to back it all up. Even so, heâs rarely dissuaded once he sets his mind to something, coming off as pushy in situations that he feels he has superior knowledge and experience. At times, he tends towards bossiness even when heâs lacking both of those qualities. The desire to be heard radiates from him in spades: an audience, and he, the smarmy actor with grandiose tales of his misadventures. Some are true, most are baldfaced lies. The pretense to an insecure, inconsistent wanderer.
Outgoing and personable with nearly everyone he bumbles into, he is often loud and the first to laugh at even the worst joke offered to him. Because, he damn well laughs at his own. Friendly to a fault when not eliciting his services or soft-serving his tough guy act, he has made easy friends of both ruddy clients and wayward travelers at the various circles he has visited. As outgoing as he is, there are things about Garos he rarely lets anyone see. While he is quick to deflect all seriousness with smirk-tendered quips, when things affect him in more negative ways, his gates close. The walls fling up, and he shuts down tight. Some would say he turns to stone when presented with unpleasantness, and can come off cool where others would be devastated. Thereâs a cynical disposition hidden there, swept under a metaphorical rug. Sealed with a smile.
Why hasnât anyone sung songs about him yet? Course, he yearns for much more than his station has provided him with. A commoner, while free from duties and responsibilities, can only go so far. Trekking on grandiose adventures, filled with undiscovered treasures ripe for the taking and monsters to be valiantly slayed; that is what he desperately wishes for. Braving the seas as a courageous sailor or graceless pirate sounds absolutely magical in his opinion. So does scrambling through the mouth of a dragon or weathering frightening storms in order to ambush an advancing army. Storming castles and wielding weapons far larger than himself, as well. Fairy tales, folklore and stories have been his bread-and-butter since he was a wee lad. He's always been engrossed in the fantastical. Paired with an unquenchable thirst for adventure and knowledge. It's difficult to turn him away.
Oi, laddie. Garos is a man of many identities and many voices in his arsenal, choosing identities which are specific to the person he is responding to. No role is too great or too difficult to shimmy himself into. Heâs capable of changing his outlooks, his beliefs and his personality to better blend in with the people heâs communicating withâquickly, and with little preparation. Heâs also somewhat of a self-entitled brat (though he's never truly had anything to make him this way). Certain traits still shine through regardless of the persona he's chosen to don. Effortlessly friendly and avidly keen to make others laugh. He usually comes across, at first, as being very air-headed or naive, though he tends to use this to his advantage. What better man is one whoâs underestimated? Sassy and sarcastic, he prefers light conversation over gloomy awkwardness, though he still manages to steer through those murky waters with impressive gentility. He can be a warm blanket on a chilly day or a refreshing breeze when tempers are running hot.
Heroics? Ah yes, that. He clearly suffers from a âLancelot-complex.â Unsuccessfully batting down the insatiable urge to save women from danger, even if he's putting his own neck on the line. Half the time he's aware that what he's doing is stupid, and the other half, he's not thinking at all. He's a knight in (not-so) shining armour; one who prefers scampering around on his own two feet than galloping towards damsels on a horse. Perhaps most prevalent of all is his ability to bring light to the bleakest situations. It definitely puts others at ease, and it may be one of his greatest strengths and characteristics: he cares about people, and he empathizes. He tends to make friends easily, regardless if they share any common ground with him and once he truly befriends someone: he's a friend for life. This, in particular, makes him susceptible to betrayal.
In a world where most people are mouth-breathing warriors, or steely-eyed rogues, hugging is not well-received. He can be unusually affectionate with companions, acquaintances, or even strangers. At times, it can cross the line of appropriateness. Because people have issues with personal space, and he has none to speak of. But, Garos is only trying to flatter you. There's no nefarious reason for his flowery words and waggling eyebrows. He's protective of his companions, and slightly possessive, especially towards the ones closest to him. If they're in danger, he won't hesitate to stand up for them, even if he's quaking in his boots. Some might consider him a little too touchy-feely with his affections and a little too loose with his words⊠though he doesnât seem to mind at all. After all, any attention is good attention.
[FEARS]
- Irrelevance â
- Rejection â
- Unfullfillment â
- Monotony â
[QUIRKS]
- Selfless â Trouble is, Garos forgets that heâs got blood pumping in his veins, capable of spilling from his arteries. Heâs not invincible, no matter how much he acts like it. He has a softness and tenderness of the heart that often leads him into trouble; very susceptible to pity and other kindly affections. He cannot resist helping someone he sees in trouble, suffering or in need, and hardly thinks of the repercussions until everything has already been said or done.
- Cold Climates â Brr. He prefers warmer climates; becomes drowsy, slower and grumpier when cold. Seriously, if you wanna irk Garos without wasting any expenses: dump him somewhere cold and he'll crumble into a weeping ball of misery. He hates, hates, hates the cold. Have you ever seen a grown man cry? It's pathetic, and really, really sad.
- Identities â Garos is a man of many shades; that is to say, he's startlingly good at donning other people's clothes and fancies himself a decent actor. Whether or not this is true, is up for debate. So far, he's only been arrested a couple times (for only a handful of crimes, when his number is far beyond that). How does he evade? He becomes someone else. For a time.
- Snark, snark â Conversation reveals a very to-the-point, startlingly honest, and frequently snarky attitude. His comments are sprinkled with sarcasm and casual mockery, which warrants a colorful array of reactions. Itâs always, always unintentional. A knee-jerk reaction to deflect seriousness; otherwise, he wouldnât know what to say and silence, it just makes him squirm.
[LIKES]
- Women, and men, of all shapes and sizes; they're all beautiful to him.
- Conversations; short, lengthy, brief, it doesn't matter.
- Singing and dancing and merry-making.
- Being looked up to.
- Spicy foods; the spicier, the better.
[DISLIKES]
- Be-littleâers and bullies.
- Disloyalty; and intentionally cruel people.
- Racism of any flavor.
- Uptight people, as well as pompousness.
- Inaction, indecisiveness.
Death panting at the neckline? Not if youâre quick enough to strafe around itânot today. Garos likes to think he spits in Lady Deathâs face, relying on nimbleness and a relentless, often clumsy, strength heâs yet to harness. Relying mostly on athleticism and a horseshoe that seems lodged⊠somewhere, heâs quick on his feet and quicker to bank on his instincts. He likes to think heâs been given the best of both worlds: Orc and Elf. Brawn and grace. It isnât always true, but he likes to think so. Heâs tactical in combat, with no qualms about resorting to âdishonorableâ dirty fighting methods to get the job done. Knee to the grown? Yes. Sand thrown into eyes? Of course. He doesnât care. War isnât about honor. Shite on it. Itâs always been about coming out alive. Garos is willing to dirty his hands in any way to make sure that his throat is whole, uncut. Tongue still capable of wagging.
Lacking technique or any real guidance, itâs obvious that he learned a lot by watching others and trying to adapt it to his own style. Wild. Feral movements; relying mostly on brutish strength and a tenacity that rankles peopleâs expectations. What you see, is often not what youâre getting when facing off against Garosâ stupid, bared-teeth grin. Heâs the type of person who has needed to be prepared for a variety of potential situations, which may explain his lack of concern about stopping to plan things in advance. He assumes himself to be prepared for anything. If nothing else, he's quite suited for survival on his own. Despite his inability to take much seriously, Garos follows a strict training regime that constantly evolves to suit his needs. Heâs also fond of watching others fight, in order to see if heâs able to replicate their movements and techniques.
His fighting style? Embarrassing to those nuanced in tempered techniques, but other than that, Garos is a capable tracker and hunter. Itâs in his blood. Footprints, depths, the wind brushing against your cheekâheâs had to learn the signs to survive on the Line between both of his parentâs territory. Theyâd be hard-pressed to find any help from either of them. Whether itâs skinning a rabbit or finagling a stick and a little bit of rope into a fishing rod, Garos can do it. Get him to cook though⊠and thereâs a good chance he might accidentally poison someone. Heâs also a bit of a living compass; able to direct himself with little more than his hand pressed up towards the sky and a little bit of moss on the underbelly of a stone.
[Weaknesses]
- Blindness â That neat little stripe across his left eye isnât all for show. Itâs a detriment. A wee more than a flesh wound with a puckered scar. Heâs lost most of his vision out of that eye, so if anyoneâs coming from that direction⊠thereâs a good chance he canât see whatâs coming. Be that blades or a teasing, wriggling hand slipping over his face. For this reason, he likes to keep people in front of him at all times, or at least walking alongside his working eye.
- Reckless â Ever seen a yowling beast charge straight over a cliff? Garos is a little like that. He gets carried away, easy peasy. Whether itâs the thrill of a challenge or the blood pumping to his head, he lives for thrills. Gets off on it, probably. Heâs not one to think of the consequences of such actions. It takes a lot for him to still his own hands. Unsurprisingly, this is probably the reason he has so many bruises and scars.
- Deception â The kinds of things that would make a normal person shake their head would have Garos scrambling up in arms; for a conman of his own creation, heâs damned easy to trick into things. That look like an obvious trap? Nope. He sees what he wants to see.
"That's the wrong question to the only real answer, innit?"
[ARMOR]
Leathers and leathers and more leathers. &&
[CLOTHING]
Simple clothes in loose styling. Sailorâs jib. Fluttery tunics with little in the means of decorationsâall worn for the ease of movement because who knows if heâs gonna have to hop out a window or vault over a fence. Subdued greys to deep blues; mostly monochrome colors, unless heâs feeling particularly cheeky.
[ITEMS]
Garos keeps most of his gear in bandolier pouches and belt loops strapped around his waist and thighs. This allowas him relative freedom of nobility, and still enables him to keep hidden weapons on his person in hidey-holes when things get cagey; a necessity of his vocation. His gear includes: a hidden dagger for close-combat. The hilt itself is decorative in nature, possibly pilfered from a nobleman. The blade itself is curved with one serrated edge; a well-used addition for opening throats. A set of caltrops. Loaded die. A lock-picking kit and a small, leather pouch of various coin that seem questionably genuine.
[Primary Weapon:]
Weapon Name: Bludger
Weapon Type: Two-handed Axe
Length: 4 ft
Weight: 15lbs
Origin: Gifted (Ogrin Koor)
[Other weapons:]
Weapon Type: Dagger
Length: 4 inches
Weight: 2lbs
Origin: Acquired off a corpse
[RELATIONS]
[Family]
[list]
mommy
[list]
daddy
[OCCUPATION]
Currently life finds him as a sword for hire. For whom? The Hooded Company. A grimy, slum-living group of men and women peppered across the kingdom, squatting in less-than-savory establishments. Their recruitment methods are mysterious and only spoken about in whispers. Somehow, heâs managed to rub elbows with them. Theyâre a hardy bunch. Need a right hand for a risky job, someone brave to march into an infested cavern, or in need of something looked into without dirtying your own hands? Garos is your man; if the wagging tongue and lewd winks are easy enough to forgive.
[Outlook on life]
âSavage? Barbarian? Civilized? Grace? All titles. What do they mean, collectively? Shite, thatâs what.â
[HISTORY]
Garos was no stranger to war, nor strife. It came with the packageâan unfortunate birth born of an interracial relationship that made most people spit at their heels. The peopleâs in question never really got along either, which only fed the fuel. Stoked the fire. A mutt cannot become a thoroughbred no matter how hard it tries. It was something that dogged his steps for as long as he remembered. His youth, however, was unburdened, if not a little lonely. His mother was a born-and-bred warpup; an Orcish woman with a penchant for pushing against regulations. From the norm. A fiery-tempered rule-breaker. And his father, a wily, smarmy-mouthed Elven scout who scrounged the area on his lonesome, chasing out those who dared to scamper too close.
His mother had wandered too close. Blade pressed against her throat. Nonplussed. Angry, even, that heâd been so bold. It was a story heâd been told a thousand times over. Each time, theyâd laugh. As if it was a normal way to meet someone that would eventually become your partner. A mate in life, even if their worlds only ended in blood. Heâd never questioned their union before. How could he? It was all he knew. All he loved. Conceived between the lands of ash and Elvish tropics, heâd always been exposed to a part-way culture. Worldâs he couldnât quite wrap his head around. Oneâs that he did not quite fit into. In Ogrin Koor, he was treated with a mild neglect. Like a stray, unwanted hound whoâd somehow wandered in. And Raes Ulin⊠it had never been an option. He was Garos of the Ulâvish Tribe, Son of Batul. He was Garos Vanviel, Son of Verion.
At times, he was neither. Safer that way. Even if his face is enough to give someone pause.
Despite his hardiness and unwavering knack for trouble-making... Garos always wanted more than he was given; life was rife with adventure, and he'd take advantage of everything that fell into his lap, whatever the cost. He always had a penchant for bad luck. Things gone awry. He's not a good man; never professed to being one. Sellswords are opportunistic people; and he's one to look after his own skin, unless the opportunity arises to do differently. It's not an easy way to live, but it's one he's adapted himself to. His hands are far from clean, though he's always been upfront about this. An honest man, is what he is. Whatever his experiences, however sour they might have been, itâs certainly not enough to stay his blade.
&&& will elaborate more