Post by Marko Veselinov Iliev on Jul 6, 2013 20:18:47 GMT
GENERAL
Name: Marko Veselinov Iliev
Age: 25
Nationality: Archadian
Order: -
Class: Mercenary - Paladin, Sariel branch.
LOOKS
Hair: Black, sleek, comes to midway down his neck at its longest part
Eyes: Dull hazel, practically grey
Built: Tall, decently built
PERSONALITY
Likes:
- Yogurt: It's his favourite foodstuff. It's not uncommon to see him with a bowl of it.
- Alcohol: Rakija, vodka, beer; if it's potent, he'll probably knock it back without any complaints. He's not one for cocktails or any of that 'girly crap', as he'd put it - but if he'll drink wine if it's decent, too.
- Pretty girls: You've got a better chance of getting on his good side, if you are one.
- Tobacco: This, as well as alcohol and yogurt, is pretty much what he blows a good percentage of his earnings on. He can't wake up in the morning if he hasn't had a cup of strong coffee and a smoke.
- Money: And yet, he never seems to have enough of it...
- Fixing things: He takes a weird pleasure in tinkering with old pieces of worn out junk and making them work. He finds it rather therapeutic.
- People touching (their) eyeballs: His eyes were bad when he was a kid, and so just the thought of people doing this gives him the creeps.
- People touching his more "personal" stuff: Which includes his sword. Really, unless he gives permission, he'd rather you kept your hands off. He likes to have everything in its place and if anyone moves anything without his consent... Well, he won't be happy.
- Losing: Boy, is he ever a sore loser. Depending on how vitriolic he's feeling at the time, his losses can either result in a muttering of a few harsh swear words, or a considerably more audible reaction.
- Certain rules and regulations: He's fickle with the ones he chooses to follow. He prefers to be his own boss and do as he pleases, really. This kind of makes him a bad team player, sometimes.
- Food being too salty or too sweet: His taste is pretty sensitive. Usually he won't complain, though.
- His name in history books: Even if the Hume world is dying, he wants to do things great enough to have a lasting legacy.
- See if his mother is alright: He hasn't seen her since she joined Mateus's Order; he figures she's safe with them, but he'd like to make sure.
- Establish order in Balfonheim: Might be a delusion of grandeur, and he can't do it alone, but one day he'd like to see the town go a day without the mercenaries and pirates getting into a fight.
HISTORY
Born in Archades to a military family, Marko had a fairly average upbringing, though he was a temperamental child and difficult to keep an eye on. He often picked fights with other kids and challenged them to spar with him, even if they were bigger and older than he was. He was raised with the belief that he would one day become an Archadian solider like his father.
One day, however, his father the small battalion he was in were sent out of the capital by the Archadian senate, to tackle a powerful monster in the Tchita Uplands that was slaughtering many of the wayfarers passing through to Archades. None of the battalion ever returned home, and it was mercenaries from Clan Khavalian that reported back. The soldiers had managed to weaken the monster, but all had perished before it was able to be felled completely.
Marko was 12 when his father died. His mother left as his only family, he planned to join the military when he could be accepted at age 14 so that the two of them could continue to live comfortably under the empire's protection. However, it was soon apparent that his mother had lost much hope in a future for their family at this time. Fearing that her son would perish the same way as his father, she became a part of the Order of the Corrupt, Mateus's Order, and begged Marko to follow. Seeing no point in her actions other than her considering the Order a safety net, he refused.
After parting ways with his mother, Marko ended up staying with Clan Khavalian for a few years, running errands for them such as posting hunts on the board in the tavern, polishing their weapons and buying their supplies from the market. Though the years went by quickly, in the end he decided to stay with the mercenaries rather than join the military; he preferred the freedom of their lifestyle to being ordered around as he would have been in the army. By age 20 he'd done a fair few hunts and was considered an experienced member of Khavalian. Though, being located in Archades, there was never much he could sink his teeth into there, other than the monsters in Tchita. He'd always heard talk of the port town of Balfonheim needing more mercenaries to deal with the wyrms - and the pirates - in that area, and so he moved there soon after.
Five years on and he still operates from Balfonheim's Sariel branch as a Paladin class mercenary.
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE
[April 21st 1917; Lake Dojran, the Macedonian front]
When he had closed his eyes, it was late afternoon, and there had still been a pale light shining behind the grey clouds. When he had opened them again, it was pitch black. It seemed the blizzard had never stopped once. Neither had the shelling.
He wondered why he'd fallen asleep, seated on the trench floor, his legs crossed and his shoulders hunched over, hugging himself for warmth... Then, momentarily, he wondered how he'd managed to sleep at all through the noise. The barrage was near deafening.
Shaking the settled snow off his coat, Bulgaria rose with a stagger, his legs numb from the cold. With no source of light, he was forced to pat around the wall to get his bearings. There were no soldiers in the trench around him; those who were not on lookout were behind in the galleries, he expected... He hoped. Squinting, he looked up at the black sky above. It was difficult to make out what was bullets and what was snow. It was perhaps midnight, were he to take a guess - it was too dark to go looking for a watch or a clock of some kind - and the British had been firing relentlessly since the previous morning. It had come as a shock, at first. But that was natural - how often did open fire not come as a shock? Yet since he had last checked, only three of his men were wounded. It was both relieving and gratifying, to think that, whilst knowing that the shells were flying far overhead.
Perhaps England's aim was just abysmal. Or perhaps he was wasting perfectly good ammunition on purpose. Maybe he'd bored him to sleep - maybe his tactic was to bore him to death. Unlikely. He was there to defend what was his - his land, his people, his honour and dignity. The Entente's task was to break through the Balkans. His task was to liberate Macedonia. There was no room for error. Losing here would open the way for the enemy to enter Sofia. They would do it over his dead body.
When the hail of bullets ceased, it came suddenly, and as the silence filled the air for a moment, it was almost as if the battle was over. Cocking an eyebrow in both surprise and suspicion, he felt around for the trench ladder, and - beginning to get the feeling back in his legs - climbed, peering over the top, cautiously - though the likelihood of him being shot at was incredibly slim. He licked at his chapped lips for a moment, mulling over whether this was some kind of trick to lure his men out... Was England aware he wasn't hitting his targets? Perhaps he'd given up entirely. His mind toyed with the notion of victory for a moment... But he remembered he'd been told not to get cocky. Vazov's tactics were working almost perfectly, but if he got ahead of himself, he could mess up. That was normally his downfall.
Still, he narrowed his eyes, spending a while watching the other side of No Man's Land. So much so that, when they came, he was startled - if only because he was surprised he hadn't seen them first.
The first voice to break across the hissing northern wind cried backwards, towards the galleries. 'They are coming!'
And come they did - armed, in a line, fading in from the dark abyss of the other side; seeming to carry themselves without concern, without doubt, advancing over No Man's Land like Angels of Death. Interesting... So England thought he'd won, after all. How he wished he still had the capacity to smirk. He jumped off the ladder and went for the nearest machine gun, as the men departing the galleries upon being called forth would soon do, too. He was confident, he wasn't afraid of England or the Entente or the fact that they outnumbered him greatly. But his soldiers were naught but humans; naught but men incapable of suppressing this level of fear. He'd witnessed many officers abandon their uniforms for parade clothes and white shirts. All this time, they expected they would die. Yet their morale was superior. They were defending their homes, their families, their freedom.
He locked on to the other nation, aimed, and put his finger to the trigger. Silently, he thanked his men for their bravery.
OUT OF CHARACTER
Mun's Name/Nickname: Bul
Country: England
Skype/E-mail: Ask for my Skype
Have you played Final Fantasy 12? You bet your ass I did.
