Post by Dire Wolf on Jan 31, 2011 22:51:27 GMT -5
Name: Marcus Davion
Race: Human
Age: 27
Height: 6'
Weight: 205lbs
Birth place: Dantooine
Appearance:
Marcus is a fairly tall man with brown hair and brown eyes. For all intents and purposes he looks average. A light amount of stubble from not shaving, though its not completely unkempt. He hates facial hair on his neck, and upper cheek. The fact that his muscles are filled out and he's built like a brick shat house, and he is pretty much covered in tattoos make him look slightly less average, but below a few layers of clothes he looks fairly normal.
A tribal tattoo rests on his left shoulder, the word "Carpe Diem" is scrawled across his right flank, and a great dragon is crawling down his arm. Vibrant fire shoots from its mouth down to his wrist, and its tail is wrapped around his bicep. The words "Valar Morghulis" seem to be melting away in the dragon flames. Various other tattoos are across his body, including a giant one on his back and a few smaller ones on his chest. He has more than his fair share scars as well. There is one scar on his cheek that starts at the base of his left eye and goes down to his chin, and the rest are scattered about his chest and abdomen.
He generally wears simple farmers clothing, his one favored possession being a bomber jacket used by his grandfather in the war against the Mandalorians.
www.utopiabase.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/b/a/bane_coat_1.jpg
Personality:
On the outside Marcus is a raging alcoholic. Fortunately he's a happy drunk most of the time, but this also renders him completely unable to watch over or even support his daughter. He is a generally happy man when he's drunk on beer, gin, and most other alocholic beverages. When whiskey rears its ugly head, though, he turns into an angry, violent man that is best avoided. He stays away from whiskey at all costs for that very reason.
When he's not drunk, which is rarely, Marc is a cold and detached individual. He's emotionally distant, sarcastic, and almost constantly on edge. Nightmares pervade his dreams when he goes to sleep without alcohol in his belly. At times he can be irritable, confrontational, and even irrationally angry.
He lives for two beings. The first one is is daughter. No matter how drunk or dour he is at the time he turns into a smiling, happy man when he's around his little Mirri. The other one is Danny, the faithful dog that he's raised since she was a pup. She gets the same reaction out of him that his daughter does.
Beneath the dry, drunk, and distant shell of Marc is a good man with a strong sense of morals. Honor and courage are two words that he holds close to his heart, and he makes it a point to never lie or steal. These are two qualities that he keeps close to his heart at all times, except for the occasional beverage. He has been known to be caring, and a genuinely warm individual other than all that.
Profession: Farmhand
Skills:
Artist
Expert Marksman
Brawling
Strength: 7
Intelligence: 5
Speed: 4
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 7
Melee Weapons: 2
Ranged Weapons: 7
Ship Name: N/A
Alignment: +1
Bio:
"A hero of war. Yeah that's what I'll be."
Marcus Davion was born to the administrator of the Sampson compound and an artist who would never admit that no one would take her work. For the most part he had an easy life as a child. School was easy, friends weren't rare, and his mother and father got along famously. His own skill at doodling had gone noticed by the elementary school's resident art teacher, but when asked to present his drawings to the art class he simply shrugged and ripped it apart. Drawing wasn't something that he did for adoration, but rather something to pass the time instead of listening to a broken-record drone on and on about how to do something he figured out how to do on his own.
Boredom turned into depression for a time after he hit puberty. Because of this he was one of the rowdier of the bunch of kids that played on the Sampson estate. Without something to challenge his mind he began to mull on the things that he didn't have rather than the things he had on his side. Trouble was a good distraction to his teacher droning on and on, and he got into much of it. Pranks were his forte.
At the age of eighteen he joined the Grand Army of the Republic. This decision was rushed, and he later admitted that his recruiter pulled him into a sudden decision. Its one that he regretted every second of his time in the military. After all of his training was completed, the newly christened soldier was shipped off to the (mostly) desert world of Ordo. There was some vegetation around the equator, but other than that... nothing. It was also one of the original mandalorian colonies that had been stolen away in a treaty two decades before Marcus was born.
It may as well have been a deployment to a warzone, minus all of the killing. Bands of mandalorians may have been waging a minor guerrilla campaign on the republic soldiers, but all in all it wasn't much to speak of. The locals, as one would imagine, weren't exactly friendly with the troops either. One step short of hostile in fact, so that ruined any chance of the boy going out to town and spending the night with a girl, or even leaving the base at all.
He spent one year on Ordo doing nothing but collecting a paycheck and playing video games over the holonet. It may not have been fun, but he got his kill to death ratio up to 1.6. Every time that he took leave he found himself receiving a hero's welcome at home, which always made him feel a little guilty. His family was proud of him for what he perceived was nothing, yet he didn't say a word to change their view. Not a thing he said would change it, and it wasn't worth the attempt. So he took the praise with a certain kind of begrudging silence. Though he silently prayed for the day that he could come home and feel like a hero.
Things on Ordo seemed to pick up during his second year in the military, and continued onto his third. His time wasn't quite as boring as it had been in his first year. The mandalorian militia became more aggressive and his quiet base was attacked almost every day. His unit was sent out on patrols more than once a month, and combat with a martially superior enemy was a frequent reality rather than a simple day dream.
It was on one of these patrols that he made something of a name for himself from one end of the Republic to the other. They were walking through a town when the Mandalorian rebels unleashed hell on his platoon. A blink of an eye had the highest ranking members of his patrol dead or incapacitated. The ones that weren't physically injured were mentally broken, and babbling on and on after the remnants ducked into a few buildings for cover.
Marc took it upon himself to lead the remnants of the platoon to survival. Victory was hardly an option. His unit was spread out and cut off from support, some of the men too suppressed or wounded to even duck into a building. Without a thought, he screamed at his men to unleash everything they had the mandalorians firing at his friends. Without a thought for himself he charged forward, firing his blaster at nothing in particular, and dragged a wounded man back to be treated by the medic.
Then he went back for the next one. And the next one. Until every man was in the building. That's not to say he wasn't wounded in the valorous action. Shrapnel from grenades had peppered him, grazes from blasters seared his skin, and just as he prepared to go out for another man the bolt from a heavy blaster rifle slammed into his chest. Had he not been wearing body armor he would have died instantly, but as it turned out the armor protected him enough to shield him from most of the damage.
The medics instantly went to him, but were ordered away to treat more seriously injured soldiers. Drawing his pistol, he dragged himself to the back door of the house to protect the position's rear while the battle raged on. It wasn't long before a shape appeared heading towards the door with something in its hand. It was a woman. He screamed at her to stop and turn away, but she refused. After a few more steps he pulled the trigger, sending her six feet under. A box bounced out of her hand as it fell, its emblem a white box with a red cross in the center.
He fell unconscious not long after that, the form of the faceless woman haunting what dreams he had until he woke again in the hospital. A mixture of gunships and artillery had saved them not long after, but not before another third of his unit had died. Thirty men died, and he was one of fifteen to survive. Five of those because of him. Two of the dead were counted among the men who had been too wounded to move.
For his heroism he was awarded the Medallion of Honor for performing above and beyond the line of duty. Despite being awarded such a high honor, he hardly felt as if he earned it. The medal didn't bring back the two he could have saved, or the woman he killed because she didn't understand his muddled and mispronounced mando'a. Six months after being awarded the Medallion, he was out and free of the military. Not once did he look back.
Marcus went back to his homeworld to receive a hero's welcome, as he always had. As always, he responded to the perceived misplaced adoration with silence and smiles. After everything had settled down and he found a job, the man found that drinking had been a good way to relieve stress and forget about his past. Soon that stress reliever turned into a coping mechanism, and he was spending what little money he made as an office clerk on alcohol and even drugs on occasion. Family and friends alike were pushed away by the cold hearted drunk that Marc had become, except the only woman in his life: Danny.
Her hair was black and short, her body toned and sleek, and her nose wet and cold. She was a dog, and probably his best friend in the universe. Other than his daughter, Mirriam. Her mother was the product of a one-night stand followed by a year of perfect clarity because he "found the one." As soon as the mother gave birth and let Mirriam be with her father. His "clarity" didn't last long after Mirri's mother left. His descent back into alcoholism didn't take long, and Mirri was quickly turned over to the Sampson compound's caretakers for children on a more permanent basis. Marc knew that he had to get his act together, but his past was just too heavy for him to simply shrug off.
When the sith took over they expected him to emerge as a powerful enemy. Instead he emerged as a drunken fool, much to the disappointment of those who called him friend. They left him alone. The DLA went to him expecting some kind of poster boy for their little rebellion. They found the same thing as the Sith, only a few more insults the likes of which are too adult for the possible audience.
It wasn't that he hated the republic. Quite the opposite. He loved the republic, its idea, and everything that it stood for. That was why he chose the military in the first place. He was just tired of war and fighting. Every time he saw a gun he saw the faces of the men he failed, and the woman he killed. A year has passed since he told off the Sith and the DLA, and while his attitude has improved his dislike for killing has only grown.
"Is that what they see? Just medals and scars? So damn proud of me."
Password: Bylgia
RP Sample:
Marcus quickly gulped down the bitter tasting drink and slammed the now empty glass on the bar. It made quite a loud crash, even above the too-loud music and conversations of many people in the background. "This's good. Another!" he bellowed the final word loud enough to drown out the rest of the patrons and the music without particularly trying. That was one thing about the military: they taught you how to yell. Without a word the bartender refilled his drink, only to have it gone as if it were a shot.
The world began to get a bit funnier and his memories began to fade just a little bit more as he finished his fifteenth drink of the evening. A smile cracked across the man's face as yet another beverage found its way in front of him, and then promptly down his gullet. It was about then that he became vaguely aware of a uniformed man's presence, but it wasn't a uniform that was worn by the republic. Instead it was jet black with a trim of red, and certainly a lot flashier than anything his republic brethern would enjoy.
"Sergeant Marcus Davion? We're here to ensure that you don't plan on doing anything... regrettable... that would require us to detain you."
"What'dja call me?" Davion smiled a bit as if it was all a joke. Two mirror images swam around his vision as he swayed uncontrollably, "I don'care 'bou' noneatha' osik y 'c'ntrol. I jus' wan' live m'life," the man picked up an empty glass, "drink my osik," he then clumsily reached down and patted Dany on the head a little too heavily. The dog had her hackles up and a sinister snarl was rumbling from behind pulled back lips. "An' pet m'frakin' dog. Now lemme be."
This would mark the fifth time in a single month that he had been harangued by the sith scum. Perhaps they just liked kicking a man when he was down, but his will to fight had been broken long ago. They knew it. He knew it. So they let him have his little drunken speech, and walked away with smirks on their faces.
Race: Human
Age: 27
Height: 6'
Weight: 205lbs
Birth place: Dantooine
Appearance:
Marcus is a fairly tall man with brown hair and brown eyes. For all intents and purposes he looks average. A light amount of stubble from not shaving, though its not completely unkempt. He hates facial hair on his neck, and upper cheek. The fact that his muscles are filled out and he's built like a brick shat house, and he is pretty much covered in tattoos make him look slightly less average, but below a few layers of clothes he looks fairly normal.
A tribal tattoo rests on his left shoulder, the word "Carpe Diem" is scrawled across his right flank, and a great dragon is crawling down his arm. Vibrant fire shoots from its mouth down to his wrist, and its tail is wrapped around his bicep. The words "Valar Morghulis" seem to be melting away in the dragon flames. Various other tattoos are across his body, including a giant one on his back and a few smaller ones on his chest. He has more than his fair share scars as well. There is one scar on his cheek that starts at the base of his left eye and goes down to his chin, and the rest are scattered about his chest and abdomen.
He generally wears simple farmers clothing, his one favored possession being a bomber jacket used by his grandfather in the war against the Mandalorians.
www.utopiabase.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/b/a/bane_coat_1.jpg
Personality:
On the outside Marcus is a raging alcoholic. Fortunately he's a happy drunk most of the time, but this also renders him completely unable to watch over or even support his daughter. He is a generally happy man when he's drunk on beer, gin, and most other alocholic beverages. When whiskey rears its ugly head, though, he turns into an angry, violent man that is best avoided. He stays away from whiskey at all costs for that very reason.
When he's not drunk, which is rarely, Marc is a cold and detached individual. He's emotionally distant, sarcastic, and almost constantly on edge. Nightmares pervade his dreams when he goes to sleep without alcohol in his belly. At times he can be irritable, confrontational, and even irrationally angry.
He lives for two beings. The first one is is daughter. No matter how drunk or dour he is at the time he turns into a smiling, happy man when he's around his little Mirri. The other one is Danny, the faithful dog that he's raised since she was a pup. She gets the same reaction out of him that his daughter does.
Beneath the dry, drunk, and distant shell of Marc is a good man with a strong sense of morals. Honor and courage are two words that he holds close to his heart, and he makes it a point to never lie or steal. These are two qualities that he keeps close to his heart at all times, except for the occasional beverage. He has been known to be caring, and a genuinely warm individual other than all that.
Profession: Farmhand
Skills:
Artist
Expert Marksman
Brawling
Strength: 7
Intelligence: 5
Speed: 4
Leadership: 5
Unarmed: 7
Melee Weapons: 2
Ranged Weapons: 7
Ship Name: N/A
Alignment: +1
Bio:
"A hero of war. Yeah that's what I'll be."
Marcus Davion was born to the administrator of the Sampson compound and an artist who would never admit that no one would take her work. For the most part he had an easy life as a child. School was easy, friends weren't rare, and his mother and father got along famously. His own skill at doodling had gone noticed by the elementary school's resident art teacher, but when asked to present his drawings to the art class he simply shrugged and ripped it apart. Drawing wasn't something that he did for adoration, but rather something to pass the time instead of listening to a broken-record drone on and on about how to do something he figured out how to do on his own.
Boredom turned into depression for a time after he hit puberty. Because of this he was one of the rowdier of the bunch of kids that played on the Sampson estate. Without something to challenge his mind he began to mull on the things that he didn't have rather than the things he had on his side. Trouble was a good distraction to his teacher droning on and on, and he got into much of it. Pranks were his forte.
At the age of eighteen he joined the Grand Army of the Republic. This decision was rushed, and he later admitted that his recruiter pulled him into a sudden decision. Its one that he regretted every second of his time in the military. After all of his training was completed, the newly christened soldier was shipped off to the (mostly) desert world of Ordo. There was some vegetation around the equator, but other than that... nothing. It was also one of the original mandalorian colonies that had been stolen away in a treaty two decades before Marcus was born.
It may as well have been a deployment to a warzone, minus all of the killing. Bands of mandalorians may have been waging a minor guerrilla campaign on the republic soldiers, but all in all it wasn't much to speak of. The locals, as one would imagine, weren't exactly friendly with the troops either. One step short of hostile in fact, so that ruined any chance of the boy going out to town and spending the night with a girl, or even leaving the base at all.
He spent one year on Ordo doing nothing but collecting a paycheck and playing video games over the holonet. It may not have been fun, but he got his kill to death ratio up to 1.6. Every time that he took leave he found himself receiving a hero's welcome at home, which always made him feel a little guilty. His family was proud of him for what he perceived was nothing, yet he didn't say a word to change their view. Not a thing he said would change it, and it wasn't worth the attempt. So he took the praise with a certain kind of begrudging silence. Though he silently prayed for the day that he could come home and feel like a hero.
Things on Ordo seemed to pick up during his second year in the military, and continued onto his third. His time wasn't quite as boring as it had been in his first year. The mandalorian militia became more aggressive and his quiet base was attacked almost every day. His unit was sent out on patrols more than once a month, and combat with a martially superior enemy was a frequent reality rather than a simple day dream.
It was on one of these patrols that he made something of a name for himself from one end of the Republic to the other. They were walking through a town when the Mandalorian rebels unleashed hell on his platoon. A blink of an eye had the highest ranking members of his patrol dead or incapacitated. The ones that weren't physically injured were mentally broken, and babbling on and on after the remnants ducked into a few buildings for cover.
Marc took it upon himself to lead the remnants of the platoon to survival. Victory was hardly an option. His unit was spread out and cut off from support, some of the men too suppressed or wounded to even duck into a building. Without a thought, he screamed at his men to unleash everything they had the mandalorians firing at his friends. Without a thought for himself he charged forward, firing his blaster at nothing in particular, and dragged a wounded man back to be treated by the medic.
Then he went back for the next one. And the next one. Until every man was in the building. That's not to say he wasn't wounded in the valorous action. Shrapnel from grenades had peppered him, grazes from blasters seared his skin, and just as he prepared to go out for another man the bolt from a heavy blaster rifle slammed into his chest. Had he not been wearing body armor he would have died instantly, but as it turned out the armor protected him enough to shield him from most of the damage.
The medics instantly went to him, but were ordered away to treat more seriously injured soldiers. Drawing his pistol, he dragged himself to the back door of the house to protect the position's rear while the battle raged on. It wasn't long before a shape appeared heading towards the door with something in its hand. It was a woman. He screamed at her to stop and turn away, but she refused. After a few more steps he pulled the trigger, sending her six feet under. A box bounced out of her hand as it fell, its emblem a white box with a red cross in the center.
He fell unconscious not long after that, the form of the faceless woman haunting what dreams he had until he woke again in the hospital. A mixture of gunships and artillery had saved them not long after, but not before another third of his unit had died. Thirty men died, and he was one of fifteen to survive. Five of those because of him. Two of the dead were counted among the men who had been too wounded to move.
For his heroism he was awarded the Medallion of Honor for performing above and beyond the line of duty. Despite being awarded such a high honor, he hardly felt as if he earned it. The medal didn't bring back the two he could have saved, or the woman he killed because she didn't understand his muddled and mispronounced mando'a. Six months after being awarded the Medallion, he was out and free of the military. Not once did he look back.
Marcus went back to his homeworld to receive a hero's welcome, as he always had. As always, he responded to the perceived misplaced adoration with silence and smiles. After everything had settled down and he found a job, the man found that drinking had been a good way to relieve stress and forget about his past. Soon that stress reliever turned into a coping mechanism, and he was spending what little money he made as an office clerk on alcohol and even drugs on occasion. Family and friends alike were pushed away by the cold hearted drunk that Marc had become, except the only woman in his life: Danny.
Her hair was black and short, her body toned and sleek, and her nose wet and cold. She was a dog, and probably his best friend in the universe. Other than his daughter, Mirriam. Her mother was the product of a one-night stand followed by a year of perfect clarity because he "found the one." As soon as the mother gave birth and let Mirriam be with her father. His "clarity" didn't last long after Mirri's mother left. His descent back into alcoholism didn't take long, and Mirri was quickly turned over to the Sampson compound's caretakers for children on a more permanent basis. Marc knew that he had to get his act together, but his past was just too heavy for him to simply shrug off.
When the sith took over they expected him to emerge as a powerful enemy. Instead he emerged as a drunken fool, much to the disappointment of those who called him friend. They left him alone. The DLA went to him expecting some kind of poster boy for their little rebellion. They found the same thing as the Sith, only a few more insults the likes of which are too adult for the possible audience.
It wasn't that he hated the republic. Quite the opposite. He loved the republic, its idea, and everything that it stood for. That was why he chose the military in the first place. He was just tired of war and fighting. Every time he saw a gun he saw the faces of the men he failed, and the woman he killed. A year has passed since he told off the Sith and the DLA, and while his attitude has improved his dislike for killing has only grown.
"Is that what they see? Just medals and scars? So damn proud of me."
Password: Bylgia
RP Sample:
Marcus quickly gulped down the bitter tasting drink and slammed the now empty glass on the bar. It made quite a loud crash, even above the too-loud music and conversations of many people in the background. "This's good. Another!" he bellowed the final word loud enough to drown out the rest of the patrons and the music without particularly trying. That was one thing about the military: they taught you how to yell. Without a word the bartender refilled his drink, only to have it gone as if it were a shot.
The world began to get a bit funnier and his memories began to fade just a little bit more as he finished his fifteenth drink of the evening. A smile cracked across the man's face as yet another beverage found its way in front of him, and then promptly down his gullet. It was about then that he became vaguely aware of a uniformed man's presence, but it wasn't a uniform that was worn by the republic. Instead it was jet black with a trim of red, and certainly a lot flashier than anything his republic brethern would enjoy.
"Sergeant Marcus Davion? We're here to ensure that you don't plan on doing anything... regrettable... that would require us to detain you."
"What'dja call me?" Davion smiled a bit as if it was all a joke. Two mirror images swam around his vision as he swayed uncontrollably, "I don'care 'bou' noneatha' osik y 'c'ntrol. I jus' wan' live m'life," the man picked up an empty glass, "drink my osik," he then clumsily reached down and patted Dany on the head a little too heavily. The dog had her hackles up and a sinister snarl was rumbling from behind pulled back lips. "An' pet m'frakin' dog. Now lemme be."
This would mark the fifth time in a single month that he had been harangued by the sith scum. Perhaps they just liked kicking a man when he was down, but his will to fight had been broken long ago. They knew it. He knew it. So they let him have his little drunken speech, and walked away with smirks on their faces.
