Emryc
In his youth Emryc had been described as a lamp post with a jacket and a flock of seagulls haircut. There wasn't a lot of fill to his figure - almost as if his skeleton simply outgrew his body, leaving his skin pulled taught. He'd been all bone and rock-solid sinew until one day he suddenly grew up into a figure of brawny art that would have made the Gods jealous. Pale eyes might’ve been marvelous were it not for the hardships of his childhood that sunk them in and darkened them. A mouth may have presented a smile if he didn’t hate so much. It’s said the lines of his brow are permanently etched there for all the paranoia he’s rightfully developed. Knuckles are often white with scars from a life spent in a constant state of proving oneself worthy only to get beaten to the bottom of the barrel again.
He’s not without a measured stare or a twitch of emotion from time to time. Despite the husk of a man that grew up simply in the wrong place, there’s a bit of humanity buried deep down. Though it makes attempts to surface, it’s often hidden behind the smoke of a cigarette or the harsh words of one who can’t afford to appear weak. He’s a man come into his prime, the hard edges of his silhouette chiseled and beaten into place through years of debauchery and criminal activities just to stay alive.
Appearance
Skills and Abilities
Personality
Biography & Lore
“Listen kid, you can’t take these things personally. Here? Nothing’s personal, it’s just good business, and right now you’re bad for business. Your mother’s a wretch of a whore and I’m just a guy who spends too much time away from his real family to bring in the dough. Sidepieces are trouble kid, keep that in mind. Look at me, you little whelp, I’m doing this for your own good.”
It started before he could even remember and it never stopped. A constant diet of hatred and blame fed between fists to the face will turn even the scrawniest of whelps into granite. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. After a few years you don’t really believe in any kind of higher power other than the guy standing over your bloodied, broken form. The problem is every time you get there, wishing it’d be the last blackout, you always wake up. Alleyways never get any warmer to wake up in, but eventually you wind up in the right one.
“I know you’re Arrion’s, but don’t think that name does you any favors. It’s not your name anymore. It’s my name. Arrion is an expensive name, too high-brow for a mutt like you. Mutts get trash. You get leftovers. You get the names nobody gives a shit about. You … your name is Emryc, now. Hear me? What’s your name?”
Everyone always hates the name they’re given. This one doesn’t mean anything at all, which was better than Emryc could say for some of the other mutts he'd been trained with. One of the others got a name that was the equivalent to the shitter in some foreign language. Some of them had no name at all, or found a name for themselves. Emryc didn't have that choice. He was special, but he was also nothing. Meant nothing. Maybe he meant it literally because he liked to call Emryc the very same. But everything and everyone starts from nothing. Nothing he could work with. Easier to work with nothing than a fething shitter.
“You’re a grunt now, and grunts do everything and say nothing. If I tell you to stab a fucker in the foot, you stab a fucker in the godsdamn foot. If I tell you to punch your grunt brother in the face, you punch him in that fat fucking face. If you can manage to do what you’re told long enough without fucking it up I might let you start earning in. And then you might actually be somebody. Who are you, Nothing?”
Archon wasn’t actually the guy in charge but he was second in command and that pretty much made him the guy in charge. No one ever saw Qosta, the real Qosta, the guy that ultimately decided your fate. He was always back in his office or shadowed out to his horse or off at some meeting or party. Important guy, that Qosta. Really respected around this part of Vel Anir. Nobody fucked with him, and when somebody did you never heard from them again. The Forsaken took care of them - that’s what earning in got you, some stupid title with a lot of clout behind it. Oh, and a bed to sleep in at night, and food to eat, and security of the name… fucking right, it was tooth and nail between the grunts to earn in.
“This is it, isn’t it? This is what we need to earn in. Archon can’t turn us away this time, this is serious shit. We’ll be Forsaken, real Forsaken and won’t nobody mess with us. Daskin has a nice ring to it, don't you think? Picked it out myself. I think I’ll get it engraved on my first sword. Alright, let’s split it up here before we go….the feth you think you’re doing Emryc? We were supposed to split the shipment - that was the deal. Give me my half! What are you doing…? Emryc….!”
No such thing as friendships within the grunts. Every scrap is life or death. Sure, it’s easier to hunt in the pack, but when earning in is on the line you can bet they’ll swipe every ounce of credit they can get for themselves. Emryc was no different. He’d already been that guy. He’d already been burned. Twice. Six years as a grunt does things to you, makes you desperate, makes you mean. This other grunt had been around for a while, but not as long as Emryc. He still trusted and that was his own damn problem. Maybe shoving him off the cliff had been a bit much but Emryc was far too high on adrenaline to really feel that twinge of guilt.
Maybe he would later.
Not likely.
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