Warren Caylim

[Warren Caylim]

Player Name: Warren
Name: Warren Caylim
Nickname: "The Axeman"
Age: 37
Race: Human
Height: 5 feet, 10 inches
Weight: 155 lbs


Physical Description

In a word, Warren is disheveled. His curly brown hair is badly in need of a cut, the differing lengths of curls brushing at his shoulders and the nape of his neck. It's obvious that his last bath was in a river without soap. His clothes are oft repaired and stained, as well as wrinkled from travel. They look like the last time they were washed was at the same time Warren did. His beard is brown but graying, and is fuller in some places than others, compliments of shaving with his knife and without a mirror.

As obvious as it is that Warren doesn't much care for his appearance, or for water and a bar of soap, he doesn't smell as badly as one might think. He's reached a point when his body no longer produces much of an odor.

The clothes themselves are serviceable woodsman's garb, if dirtier than even most woodsmen keep them. The shirts are varying shades of brown covered in dirt and road dust, while the pants are uniformly dark brown, also covered in dirt and dust. At some point in his travels, the shoes he had set out in wore out enough to fall off his feet as he walked. The next day, he had killed a deer, dressed and skinned it, smoking the meat and the deer skin. After taking his time for the next few days, he managed to create a pair of decently made boots, obviously handmade and over-stitched, but that he still wears.

Warren wouldn't be described as muscular by anyone who saw him, but his profession as a woodsman (see below) has given him a wiry strength and dexterity.

During the border skirmishes, Warren earned the nickname "Axeman". Being reticent when it comes to striking up conversations, and not caring what people call him, he's taken to offering that as his name when people ask.


Possessions

Warren carries a travel weary backpack that contains such mundane things as two changes of clothes (both dirtier than those he currently wears), flint and steel for lighting fires, the smoked remains of some type of recently trapped game animal, various other types of foodstuffs, and a thin white scarf with a small red rose on one end. The scarf, folded neatly and in a separate pocket from his dirty items, is obviously well cared for and recently washed. Also in this pocket is a fold of leather which contains a small amount of strong thread and a needle picked up on his travels.

Tied across his pack is an unstrung bow and several worn but usable arrows. The bowstring is in his pocket. A sheathed knife hangs from a woodsman's belt on his left hip, close to his left hand, and another is sheathed on the small of his back, mostly hidden by his untucked shirt and backpack. A rusty looking woodsman's axe is held in the right hand loop of his belt. On closer inspection, the axe head seems to have some rusty colored substance dried onto it, a substance that tends to flake on occasion.


Powers or Strengths

Warren is not at all magically inclined. Not one drop of blood within him is magical or mystical.

His main strengths are those of a woodsman. He can make clothes from animal skins, is well versed in building his own shelter, and can survive off the land with little need for the amenities usually found within cities and towns.

He is capable of fighting if the need arises, and even learned a few things while in border skirmishes on the western coast of Eyropa. He uses his woodsman's axe as his main weapon, and his dexterity allows him to make moves many people wouldn't think he'd be able to make with such an unorthodox weapon.

Warren is ambidextrous, and can use both hands equally well to fight. As such, he is well suited to wielding two knives at once. He is also quite well-versed in the use of a bow, the woodsman's main source of bringing down food. He can hit a running rabbit from twenty paces most of the time, and rarely misses the opportunity to bring down a deer for dinner, or several days of dinners.


Weaknesses

Having no formal training in fighting, either with weapons or hands, Warren can often be caught at a disadvantage by skilled opponents. It was a small miracle that he wasn't killed during the border skirmishes, but he does have a few scars to show for his time there.

Warren is driven to distraction by boys between the ages of seven and ten. His own twin sons were eight when they were killed, and the sight of boys in the same age range often causes him to stop where he is and stare. His surroundings no longer mean anything as he relives his past for a few moments. More than one fight has been started by his staring at boys as a mother or father take exception to his interest and chase him off as either a pervert or a simpleton.

To this day, any type of violence towards a woman sets him off. He will put his nose in where it doesn't belong, oftentimes incurring the wrath of both the woman and the offender at his intrusion. It is rare that he ignores an episode of anything that looks like violence towards a woman, and it causes difficulties wherever he goes.

Warren is not a people person. He comes across as sullen and aloof, even through his dirty appearance. People don't often come up to him to start a conversation, unless they sense something of his past in his face during those times of introspection. It is rare that he tries to start a conversation beyond the basic necessities of ordering food at a tavern or purchasing supplies at a store.


History

His wife and children were dead. The ones who had killed them were dead. He had nothing left to live for, yet he couldn't end it. War had come, or more accurately another border skirmish to increase land held by some prince or another, as it always did with humans. Battles fought as men invaded from across vast landscapes, the need to move and conquer more, always more, driving the greedy humans.

He sat in the kitchen at the table, which was partially set for dinner. A broken clay cup lay at the edge of the table, other crockery and utensils scattered across the table. He took little notice of the disarray, instead staring across the kitchen into the bedroom, where he could see his wife's bloody hand, to one side of the open doorway, and the lower leg of one of the invaders, blood-soaked pants below the knee, and a pool of blood intermingling from three bodies spreading below. So much blood.

He couldn't see his sons, who he knew were in their own bedrooms. It had been the tortured screams of those boys that had finally brought him out of the back woods, axe in hand. He had been cutting wood for the winter, only using the trees that had already fallen. It was nearly fall, and after the hot summer, those fallen trees had been dry and would burn well during the winter months.

Pain caused him to look down. The tip of the knife he held at his own wrist had poked through the skin, and a beaded droplet of blood snaked it's way down the wrist into his palm, where it followed the deeply worn lines of a working man's hand until it settled in a crevice near the middle of his curled hand. He pulled the knife tip from his flesh and held it up before his eyes, not really seeing the trace amount of blood before him.

His eyes saw too many other things. Two men raping his wife in his own bedroom. Two others torturing his sons in their room, cutting flaps of skin off their chests. His blind fury at the choice the gods had laid before him, knowing that to hesitate would cause him to lose both, but not knowing which to save first.

He had moved silently and quickly, hoping to finish the first two quickly and relatively quietly. He had chosen the boys, hoping against hope that the two raping his wife wouldn't notice the noise if they were too busy, and she would still live when he reached her.

The first man turned towards the doorway and opened his mouth to shout something. His eyes widened in his bearded face as he recognized the danger, his previous thought of getting a turn with the woman gone in the surprise of seeing a woodsman's axe dropping through the air at his face.

The man dropped with barely a sound, and his partner turned next. The moment it took him to pull the axe from his first downed opponents' ruined face gave this second invader time to shout, but what came out was an inarticulate cry that ended in a gurgle as the blunt end of an axe crushed his windpipe.

The cry had been enough. The man raced into his own room, entering in time to see his nearly naked wife's eyes lock onto his even as a knife was drawn across her throat by the invader behind her. A confident smirk almost hid the near panic in this invader's eyes, as he had literally been caught with his pants down.

The man took two steps towards his wife, loath to let her fall, but knowing if he went to her now, there would be nothing he could do for her or the boys if these men were able to kill him.

Something behind him, a sound, a movement, a change in the air, caused him to turn. Not a warrior, the turn saved his life as the fourth invader revealed himself, coming from behind the open door. A sharp pain traced across his ribs as the short sword the invader had stabbed at his back ran across the bone. Not caring, the man gripped the axe in two hands, one hand at the end of the hilt, the other near the head. Instead of stepping back, like any seasoned warrior would, he stepped forward, surprising the invader. The head of the axe was brought up with all the force he could muster, and the edge drove into the bottom of the invader's jaw. Bone cracked and teeth, followed by the tip of the invader's tongue, flew through the air. The impact lifted the invader from his feet, his greasy hair spraying droplets of sweat and grease through the air as he fell straight backwards and landed hard on the ground.

The man turned to the last invader, not pausing to look at his wife. This invader had just finished doing up his pants, and, pulling a pair of daggers from his belt, began to come forward. The panic was still in his eyes, but the man could see this invader was used to controlling it. They circled each other in the small space between the bed and the wall in which the doorway was, and the two bodies behind each man. For long moments, neither made the first move.

Then the invader straightened some, and held his hands out to either side to show he didn't want this fight. The man watched as the invader placed one dagger back into his belt, then spoke in a language he could not understand. He shrugged, indicating to the invader he couldn't understand. The invader touched a pouch at his waist, which jingled slightly with what could only be coins, then pointed towards the man's wife. Again, the purse was touched, and the invader pointed to the man.

He was dumbfounded. The invader thought that if he paid for his wife's death, things would be alright. His mind was already made up; he would die along with his wife, for he was nearly certain she was dead, but this man would also die.

With an off-handed shrug, the man indicated he would take the deal. The invader smiled and spoke again in the language the man couldn't understand, unhooking the belt pouch. As the invader's eyes flicked quickly down to the pouch, the man seized the opportunity. With a quick step forward and a vicious diagonally angled swing, he drove the head of his axe through the invader's collarbone, crushing bone and finally ending an inch above the sternum. Surprise registered on the invader's face for the moment it took him to realize he was dead, then he slumped to the ground, taking the axe with him.

The man let it go, dropping to his knees and crawling to his wife. He cradled her head in his lap, holding her hand as he stared into her brown, sightless eyes. No tears came, or ever would again, as he held her and spoke softly to her, apologizing for not being there to protect her. He pulled the white scarf with the rose from around her neck, one of the only scraps of clothing she was still wearing. It oddly had no blood on it, and he pressed it to his nose, smelling the faint smell of her odor and the hint of perfume she liked to wear on special occasions.

Hours passed before he thought to check on his sons, but he knew they had already been dead before he had killed the invaders.

Pain again brought him out of his reverie. He didn't remember putting the knife to his wrist again, but the tip had again pierced the flesh, deeper this time. Blood ran thicker down his wrist and into his cupped hand, before running between his middle- and forefingers to drip on the floor.

A groan caused his head to snap up, and he pulled the knife tip out of his flesh again. He moved quickly to the door to his bedroom, his skills as a hunter helping him move quietly again. The invader whose jaw he had broken was beginning to come around.

The decision came quickly. He would go find the latest skirmishes, and try to rid his home of the invaders. Purpose overcame him, and he worked quickly, grabbing his bow and taking two daggers. He slipped on his traveling cloak, grabbed a change of clothes and some food and stuffed them into a pack. He threw the pack over one shoulder, then moved to a shelf by the door where he kept his flint for lighting the wood stove. He quickly tossed that into the pack and replaced the pack on his shoulder.

He knew that there were many things he was forgetting, but such was his need to be gone that he didn't care. Spying a clay jug he kept oil for the lamp in, he grabbed it and walked into his bedroom. Avoiding looking at his wife, the man first put the clay jug on the table next to his bed, then placed a heel on the neck and collarbone of the last man he had killed, wrenching the axe head from the death wound. Not bothering to clean it, he slipped the handle into the loop on the woodsman's belt he wore, then retrieved the jug. He poured the oil on the unconscious invader, careful not to splash any on his boots, then poured a trail back into the kitchen, then to the doorway of his sons' room. He couldn't bear to go inside, and couldn't even look at his sons, who were tied to their beds so they couldn't struggle as the invaders had tortured them. He had been too nauseous to cut them free.

Now it didn't matter. Their bodies were only vessels, and their souls had been freed to whatever world existed after this one. He still couldn't look at them. He emptied the jug, then turned and tossed it towards the table. It shattered, and more oil dripped out. He next went quickly to the lamp and lit it with the flint he took from the pack and one of his steel daggers. He turned and surveyed the scene before him, everything seeming so surreal. Vertigo took him and he wavered on his feet, and he avoided considering how his life was going to change after this day.

With a casual motion, the man tossed the lit lamp towards the shattered clay jug. Not stopping to watch it's flight, he turned and opened the door, no longer caring what happened to the little three room cottage and it's contents.

The sound of shattering glass followed by a loud whoosh exited the door with him as the oil ignited. In minutes, the cottage was fully engulfed, and sudden screams of agony could be heard from inside. The unconscious invader had awoken to being aflame, and spent the last moments of his life screaming in pain before fire being sucked down his windpipe with every intake of breath seared his lungs and caused him to suffocate.

The man never looked back. Not when the invader began screaming. Not when another jug of oil burst, and not when the dry roof went up with a loud roar. He paused on a hill overlooking the cottage, just before the trail he was following headed down the other side. He half turned, as if he might look at the cottage.

With a slight shake of his head, he turned back up the trail and continued walking, leaving life behind and moving headlong towards death.

-----------------------------

The border skirmishes ended, as the do after time, and Warren has no place to go. He had expected to die during the many battles, but for whatever reason, it did not happen. Even as the locals and military were celebrating the win, having driven the invaders from the north back to their own lands, Warren turned his back on those that he might have called friends had times been different, and put his feet to the road.

That road has brought him to Thar Shaddin (insert cheesy line of arrival here).

[Niabi]

Wow, I really like this character. In fact I was a bit surprised that this might be from a new member so I had to check and make sure that you weren't an existing member making a new character.

The only thing I might suggest changing before approving this would be changing the mention of war to that of border skirmishes. Our last major war in which invaders from other lands were fighting one another took place some 2255 years ago. Eyropa is a united contentment that hasn't been plunged into an all out war since the time of the Changers, but the various nations do regularly have disagreements with one another that can surface in border skirmishes.

[Warren Caylim]

Edited. I basically just changed any reference to war into 'border skirmishes' or 'battles', and made the invaders 'from the north', instead of from across the ocean.

I hope that fits better with the setting. The history is actually the prologue to a book that I'm in the process of writing, and I'm attempting to use this site (and you guys) to help flesh out the main character a bit more. I've sort of hit an impasse with the book at the moment.

Let me know when I'm ready for action.

[Niabi]

Approved.