Malik Drkeir, Lyr'Teimor Mercenary

Name: Malik Drkeir
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Race: Human
Tribe: Lyr'Teimor Kuglim
Occupation: Mercenary
Title: Exile

Height: Two peds and a palmspan
Weight: Three pygges and two hebs
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Brown

Appearance: Long, black hair frames a face hardened by the elements, cascading to broad shoulders as an occasional bang obscures brown eyes. Compassion and warmth once filled such eyes with life, yet now they are icy and uncaring with an indifference forged of regret. Iron rings once bound his dark locks, but the warrior has since forgone the traditions of his people after leaving his tribe. A once straight and aquiline nose remains slightly crooked from previous breaks improperly healed. Light freckles dot the bridge of his nose, apparent against his fair skin. Dark stubble covers his cheeks and chin, hinting of a full beard to come if it was allowed to grow. From thick lips emanates a voice roughened over the years, telling of experience in battle and in loss.

Towering over most, the exception being his own kin, Malik impressively stands at two peds and a palmspan in height. His frame lends to his great size, beginning with broad shoulders, descending along his thick torso, and tapering into a slender waist before ending in muscular legs. Thick cords of muscle coil around each arm, born of years wielding his long sword and broad axe. Fair of complexion, his skin is easily burnt by the sun and usually freckles in the Summer months. Scars mar any beauty his form might hope to obtain. A long thick scar ascends diagonally from his right hip to the left side of his chest, earned from an Ash’mari axe. Faded and pale, the scar is white with age. From the claws of the mighty Cartashian bear he bears three golden scars upon his right shoulder, descending diagonally for a palmspan as they curve slightly, proof of his prowess against the bear. Other scars tell of more foes faced in his violent past, the majority finding themselves on his arms and torso, but none as prominent as that from the Ash’mari axe.

Clothing: Leather predominates his apparel as it is the material from which most of his armor is crafted. Not from the docile cow is the leather made but from the ferocious bear instead, as such his armor sacrifices some flexibility in favor of more strength. A hardened leather breastplate covers his chest and torso and is reinforced with steel studs. Leather straps fasten over his shoulders, passing through shoulder guards that flare out over his upper arms. Bracers crafted of leather protect his wrists, just as leather boots protect his feet and ankles. Beneath the armor he wears an azure, short-sleeved tunic that descends midway down his thighs and is gathered around his waist with a wide leather belt. Soft leather pants clothe his legs and hips, brown in color and a shade or two lighter than his armor. A single bear claw descends midway down his chest, hung upon a leather thong around his neck. His most prized article of clothing could be considered to be his one piece of jewelry: a ruby wedding ring worn upon one finger on his right hand.

Personality: Malik holds himself aloof from others. It is not for his protection that he distances himself, but rather for their own. He hesitates to form attachments with anyone for fear of someday harming them, so he presents to the world a gruff exterior, one hardened by battle and even more so by sorrow. Though he may feel compassion and even love for someone else, he fights these feelings, struggling to prevent them from ever presenting themselves in his speech and facial expressions.

Guilt haunts him. It weighs heavily on his shoulders, an undeniable weight that seems a just punishment for the unintentional murders of his wife and unborn child. He cannot look at a child without feeling remorse, without wondering how great a warrior his son might have been. Malik has an undeniable drive to protect women as he failed to protect his wife. It is a constant struggle for him to protect them and yet remain aloof.

His warrior roots show through as he fights. The doubts and regrets weighing upon his mind melt away as he slips into the familiar routine of combat. Wielding his weapons is a simple pleasure, but it is one he relishes. The bloodlust and impatience of his youth have been tempered somewhat by experience, yet there are moments when he enjoys shedding the blood of his enemies a little too much.

Demons lurk in his past. And indeed he seems a man possessed on those rare occasions that his mind leaves him and his body fights with outright bloodlust and fury. He does not know friend from foe in these moments, knowing only a lust for bloodshed, a desire to deliver death. Only when fearing for the lives of those he loves does these episodes afflict him; he has always put his own life in peril with ease. It is a fear that overwhelms one customarily without fear, pushing aside all reason.

Strengths:

Weapons Skill: Years of training have blessed the young mercenary with skill in wielding both his long sword and broad axe. He has been known to wield them separately and together, but the sword remains his favored weapon as he possesses more skill and training in its use. The axe is for the most part a secondary weapon, used in support of the sword.
Armor: Crafted from a bear’s hide, his leather armor protects him against bodily harm. The armor is not impenetrable, yet it has saved his life on more than one occasion.
Strength: Without a doubt Malik possesses the strength of his people. It is a strength he is well in control of, rarely will he break a piece of furniture accidently, but it is unleashed in combat with devastating blows.
Experience: Years of experience in battle have graced him with the patience and knowledge to anticipate his opponent’s moves and react accordingly.
Berserker: His mind leaves him in these moments as he takes little heed of any wounds inflicted upon his flesh. He strikes with full force then, impatiently laying into his foes without bothering to counter their moves.

Weaknesses:

Old Injury: Nearly a decade ago Malik experienced agony for the first time courtesy of an Ash’mari axe. While his armor prevented the wound from being fatal, it was serious nonetheless and required a few weeks to heal. His torso and hip pain him still during any strenuous activity, a dull throbbing pain that worsens with any blows to his torso that his armor cannot fully cushion.
Lack of Agility: With his great size the mercenary is less than light on his feet and sacrifices agility in favor of power. It is often difficult for him to evade the blows of others, especially if they are particularly quick, and he must rely on his armor for protection.
Guilt: Guilt weighs upon his mind and influences much of what he does. The mercenary hesitates to fight any woman, remembering the death blow he dealt to his wife. He will defend himself and any companions, but Malik will seek to disarm his female foe instead of actually injuring her.
Protector: He possesses a drive to protect women and children, one he cannot deny. The desire to protect them is not born of any inherent goodness but from guilt instead. Malik protects them as he failed to protect his wife and unborn child years ago. His own well-being is of no matter, only that he safeguard them from harm is of any importance.
Berserker: His mind leaves him in these moments as he takes little heed of any wounds inflicted upon his flesh. He strikes with full force then, impatiently laying into his foes without bothering to counter their moves.

History: Mystery enshrouded the warrior as he appeared one day out of the North, bereft of almost all belongings. His presence in Santharia was never explained, but Malik was welcomed nonetheless as he sought to be hired as a mercenary. His skills spoke for themselves, so much so that no one seemed to care about the demons lurking in his past. But he does have a past, even if it exists only in his mind and in the regrets that haunt him.

Life for Malik truly began as his little fingers first grasped the hilt of a sword. At the age of six he stood before the armsmaster, his lips curled into a scowl of determination as he gripped the wooden sword tightly. He would honor his kin by becoming another great warrior, one whose prowess with weapons was surpassed only by his courage and grim determination. It mattered not that he was only a child and had yet to draw a single drop of blood; his dreams knew no limitations. His first love was the melodious swish of the sword’s blade slicing through the air.

A couple of years passed as the boy swiftly grew, learning to wield the practice sword with finesse before a sword forged of iron was placed in his hands. For two more years he trained with the long sword, wielding it with his budding strength as he decimated one practice dummy after another. But his left arm remained bare, and the youth would not take up a shield to hide behind. A compromise was reached in the form of a double-edged broad axe, possessing dual blades sufficient to deflect most blades as well as inflict wounds of their own. He would practice wielding them separately and with one in each hand, always holding the axe in his left to leave the right free for his favored weapon, the long sword.

A whirlwind of death the boy became, or so he fancied himself. Yet his gaze was ever fixated in awe upon his older brother Mikael. No matter how skilled he became, he remained in the shadow of his brother whose skills and strength far surpassed his own. Malik strived stubbornly to be the greater of the two, refusing to end his training each day until the sun had sunk well below the horizon. With blood and sweat the youth was forged into the beginnings of a great warrior, finally starting to come into his inevitable size as his fourteenth birthday neared.

Excitement shone in the youth’s eyes as he first girt himself for warfare. Upon his back he wore his long sword, its hilt jutting up above his left shoulder, and on his hip he wore his axe, proud to be seen as a warrior by his people. It was the day that his blade would first drink deep of his foes’ blood, the event which marked his coming into manhood. Stealthily he moved onto the lands of the Ash’mari with the band of warriors, his chest bursting with pride to be included among their ranks. His gaze remained on his father and brother, looking to them for reassurance. With one hand Malik drew his long sword as his strides lengthened, beginning to run with the other warriors as they charged upon the encampment of the Ash’mari barbarians.

A fierce warcry erupted from his throat as his blade thrust into the yielding flesh of the barbarian, piercing him as the tip protruded from his back. It was only then that the youth felt the agony of the wound upon his chest, inflicted only seconds before his sword impaled his foe. The axe had cleaved through his leather armor, leaving a gash from his hip diagonally to his chest. Only the armor saved him from a mortal wound, but he collapsed to his knees nonetheless as his blood flowed onto the ground. Whether from the loss of blood or simply the shock of being wounded, he collapsed into unconsciousness.

Shame consumed him the moment he awoke to find himself in bed at home, his chest and torso bandaged. Yet a smile illuminated his face as his father tossed him a single iron ring, a Fei'put forged from the axe of the barbarian he had slain. He was finally recognized as a man among his people as his blade had shed the blood of their enemies. And before long the iron ring was joined by others as he continued to raid with the warriors and earn trophies from the corpses of his foes. His prowess in battle blossomed with experience, and he was soon adept with either the sword or the broad axe, sometimes wielding both in outright fury.

At the age of seventeen Malik stood among the ranks of his tribe’s warriors, matching all but the greatest of them in size and strength. An undeniable drive for the thrill of warfare enthused him as his blood seemed to boil with the red-hot passion infusing his veins. Fear did not enter his mind at that age; it had become a foreign concept to the young man in the years since his injury. No force was too great or foe too powerful to deny him the thrill of steel slicing into flesh, of life ending at the tip of a sword and the edge of an axe. It was a surprise to no one when he joined his brethren in their hunt of the great Cartashian bear, eager to prove his domination over the mighty beast.

Luck was with them as they came upon a bear in the woods, but that same luck abandoned them the moment the mountain of fury charged, a rumbling growl sounding within the bear’s throat. With ten men facing the one bear it was an unfair fight, one undeniably in favor of the bear. Claws slashed at leather armor as their blades impaled the bear, seemingly only enraging it further. A bloodcurdling scream arose from one warrior as his leg was savagely crushed. The band halted as their blood ran cold, yet an infuriated warcry sounded from the throat of one, his eyes alight with rage and excitement as his sword cleaved through the ankle of the bear, severing its paw. Malik rolled away in time to avoid the retaliating blow as his companions regained their senses, closing in on the now injured bear, surrounding him as their blades dealt one wound after another. The bear struggled on, fighting until at last his heart was pierced, and he passed from this world with a mighty roar.

A day later Malik stood with his companions as they were each marked in turn with the very same paw he had severed. Of the ten young men to set out upon their dangerous hunt, only five remained. To honor them, the survivors were given a single claw each to be worn upon leather thongs. With the prestige of successful bear hunters they found themselves favored by prospective mates, which was fortunate for Malik as he was of age to seek a wife. He had eyes only for a buxom maiden a couple of years his junior at sixteen, her long, golden hair bound behind her in a single braid. Whether it was love or lust, he knew he had to have her the moment he first gazed into her gorgeous, azure eyes.

For months he courted the maiden Valkyrie, finally proposing marriage soon after she turned seventeen. They remained happily engaged for months more before finally being wed at the beginning of Spring. The ceremony itself was simply beautiful with their families assembled on either side of the temple, separated by gender, as sunlight shone upon the stone floor from the windows set high above. Two statues overlooked the entire assembly, carved to resemble the Allmother and Allfather. But the beauty of the ceremony could not compare to that of the bride. Golden jewelry bedecked her every limb, jingling melodiously as she moved, and a resplendent white linen gown accentuated her curvaceous form. The groom seemed drab in comparison, dressed in golden deerskins, his only jewelry the iron rings in his hair.

After waiting for their parents to proceed down the aisle, the groom and then the bride made their way to the front. Hand in hand they stood as the priest spoke of their union, lost in each other’s smiles. The time came for them to sing their promises to each other. Malik sang of his promises to love, nurture, support, and protect his bride as she responded in kind, their voices echoing off the temple walls as a bard played his lyre to accompany their song. They exchanged their wedding jewels then, his a ruby ring of iron and hers the same but of silver. Bride and groom joined their parents in an embrace as the priest declared their union complete in the eyes of the Allmother and Allfather as the armsmaster did the same for the people. Malik and his new bride danced from the temple and mounted fine horses as they rode together to their new home, stopping only long enough to change their clothes before rejoining the festivities.

They moved to live in a small house set out in the country a ways, close enough to the town to visit daily yet far enough to afford them their much needed privacy. Those first two months were the most joyous in the young man’s life as he relished in his new life with his wife. Both rejoiced as her belly began to quicken with child. But their happiness was not to last and could not endure the cruelties of this world. Only a race of men cruel beyond all reason and inherently evil would stoop so low as to interrupt young love, but such were the Ash’mari. Intent upon raiding the town for supplies, they stealthily came upon it one night, coming first upon the isolated home. Most of the barbarians continued on as three remained behind to see what treasures the small home hid.

The first barbarian cordially alerted the couple of his presence by kicking in the door, finding them seated comfortably before the fireplace. With a roar Malik arose, snatching up his sword as he hurriedly pushed Valkyrie behind him. The fear of his wife or unborn child coming to harm overwhelmed him as his mind left him. He cast himself into the fray, his left hand finding his axe of its own accord as he fought all three Ash’mari, taking little notice of the wounds they inflicted as he dealt death to one after the other until finally he stood alone, awash in their blood and his own. Valkyrie rushed to him then, intent upon thanking her valiant savior, but the bloodlust remained in his eyes as he turned, his sword slicing upward to cleave into her flesh, cruelly mimicking the scar he wore upon his torso from years ago.

His mind returned then as he gazed down upon his dying wife, his arms holding her close as she gurgled blood, unable to ask the question burning within her eyes. She died there, in his arms in their new home, as their unborn child died with her. Without a doubt it would be proven by his people that he had murdered his own wife, for which the punishment was most severe. The only thing in doubt was whether or not the murder was intentional, the verdict of which would determine if his life was forfeit. But he could not face them and did not dare answer that question himself for fear of his sanity. It was then that he fled for the first time in his life from something greater than himself, his guilt.

Enough wits remained about him to prepare himself for his journey before departing, taking the necessary provisions and coins. He also dressed in his leather armor and equipped his sword and axe, unwilling to travel without them. Stealthily he stole around the town as he journeyed north, yet he turned on one hilltop to watch his kin ward off the barbaric invaders. He would not move from that spot until the battle had turned in the favor of his people, then he turned his back on his homeland and his past as he traveled north to the port of Naurooth. He avoided the other Kuglimz as best he could, outright refusing their hospitality. Enough guilt already weighed upon his mind. Upon entering the town he sold the iron rings in his hair to a local blacksmith but could not part with his ruby ring. With the coins from the sale he paid for transport to the Santharian port of Milkengrad on an Arthyrón ship.

For the next few years he sought hire as a mercenary wherever such jobs could be found, traveling over much of Santharia. Often jobs would call for him to work with other mercenaries, yet they remained nothing more than colleagues as he stayed aloof. It was enough that they could trust him with their lives. Life finds him working as a mercenary still, forming attachments only to the money earned.

Weapons: Favored of Malik’s two weapons is his long sword, strapped across his back diagonally as the hilt protrudes above his right shoulder. The sword was forged of steel and is a fine piece of craftsmanship with a piece of leather wrapping around the hilt to allow for a better grip. His secondary weapon is a double-edged broad axe that descends from his belt on his right side. The dual blades were crafted of steel whereas the handle was carved of oak.

Belongings: Within a leather pack on his back Malik carries most of his possessions, the notable exceptions being his armor and weapons. Clothes are packed inside, tunics and breeches, simple so far as fashion is concerned. A dark woolen blanket is packed along with the clothes. Provisions such as travel rations of food are there as well, kept in a separate compartment from the clothes. A water canteen hangs from one side of the pack. Last of his possessions are the coins kept in a pouch on his right hip, earned from his work as a mercenary, and he is by no means rich.