Markk the Brown

[Markk the Brown]

Name: Markk the Brown
Age: 28
Birthplace: Land of Ice and Snow
Gender: Male
Alignment: Neutral Good
Species: Wolf
Job/Position: Mercenary
Physical Description:

At 28 Markk is in the prime of his life physically imposing and scarred, add to these features his tall stature and he seldom goes unnoticed. His chosen profession does not allow for much fat or softness, his body is defined and powerful.

His fur is brown, except for his face and muzzle and chest which is off-white. While not long or shaggy he is by no means well groomed. Two blue eyes regard the world around the wolf closely, but also curiously gently. This friendly gaze is contrasted sharply by the two large scars running across the top of his nose.

Markk is surprisingly talkative and inquisitive, unusual not only for a wolf but also for a mercenary - both known for being more taciturn and dour. This nature is reflected in his gait, which is light and sure of its self, and in his visage which despite its scarred appearance seems somehow approachable and warm.

Belongings:

The tools of his trade are by far his most prized possessions; a great bastard sword, a hauberk of mail and the other pieces of armour which on countless occasions saved his life, though he has a shield he rarely uses it. Beyond that he has a small journal that is his most prized possession. Various sundry items have naturally been accrued in his travels, but never more than he can carry easily on his back.

Personality:

Markk is not a very good mercenary, indeed his father said he was not a very good wolf. He is a gentle soul, and while he excels in battle and he does enjoy the thrill of it, he has a soft-spot for the oppressed. In short he will often fight for free, or break contract should he find his employer less than savoury. While noble to be sure neither is good for business.

He is genuinely curious about others and the world, and more than he'd care to admit is quite wounded when others do not associate with him or are wary of him because he is a wolf.

In battle however Markk is a fiery whirlwind, a sight to behold. While he has a sound knowledge of how to lead, he is a better warrior than general. During the clash of arms he prefers to be right amongst the din, fighting at the heart of it all, than calmly leading others.

This fiery battlefield personality has earned him another epithet: Markk the Berserk. He is also occasionally prone to outbursts of temper even when not in battle, and has difficultly controlling it.

History:

Born in the Land of Ice and Snow Markk was an outcast from the beginning - he was the only brown wolf in generations beyond memory. His father Sean Redpaw was a strong and mighty warrior. Of his mother Markk knew nothing, his father never spoke of her and the young wolf learnt quickly that if Redpaw did not talk of something you did not mention it - or else.

Redpaw captured slaves in such droves that his name struck fear beyond even the Land of Ice and Snow. Roaming the snow stricken landscape and coast capturing unwary travelers, poor farm and fisherfolk, none escaped. Often times Redpaw would simply slaughter his intended captives, never giving a reason - Markk long struggled to find one, but beyond the cruel smirking smile of joy the act brought to his father's face Markk could think of none.

Markk learnt quickly and early the art of battle, and here at least he did not disappoint his father. By the age 15 the wolf was already the best swordsman in Redpaw's gang of ruffians. Despite this he was still looked down upon and treated as a foreigner for his brown coat; but perhaps also the lack of glee the young wolf took in the capture or slaughter which the band spent their days and night working.

To his everlasting shame Markk did indeed participate in the horrid acts, murdering, and worse, and more but unlike the rest Redpaw's son took no joy... he did it to belong, to earn his father's pride, but never because he enjoyed it.

Until his 20th year Markk struggled and continued alongside his father, becoming a renowned warrior in his own right - should some village send out their champion Markk would cut them down in one stroke, to the cheers of the horde that rushed past him to take the village. However (there is always a however in any good story) while the gang lay in ambush to take a group of wagons heading to a local market Markk spotted something; something he had seen a dozen, a hundred times before, and yet this time he truly saw it. Running alongside the wagons, giggling with glee, were several young Otters. Markk knew too well what awaited them.

He turned to his father and begged Redpaw to let the wagons go, saying that surely better prize awaited them elsewhere. But his father glared at him angrily and told Markk to shut up. But Markk refused, appealing to anything he could think of - his father's greed, pride, even maybe if it existed at all his paternal feelings. But all he succeeded in doing was to make the Redpaw angrier.

With a howl that sent chills into all that heard it Markk's father sprung the ambush and along with his men rushed to the slaughter. Markk remained frozen on the spot, unable to move, wanting to do something... finally his muscles propelled him forward with great speed and darting between the slaughter and rampage placed himself next to the lead wagon.

Crying out to his father that the slaughter must stop, silence fell, not a single soul on either side dared even to breathe. Redpaw growled for his son to get in line, Markk stubbornly refused, and so his father without a second glance nodded at his men and they advanced murderously upon the wolf.

Markk cut each one down in turn, with ease till no more advanced. Redpaw growled with fury, and cursing his son and his men, advanced on Markk his bloody axe dripping and ready to butcher his son.

The duel between father and son continued uninterrupted for nigh on an hour. Markk finally gaining the advantage and with a ripost slicing the tendons of his father's good hand. Redpaw however truly lived up to his name, and forgetting all weapons leaped upon his son. Claws deeply cutting across Markk's face and nose, and brutalising his chest.

Swearing and cursing Markk's brown hide Redpaw was senseless to anything except killing his son. Fortunately for Markk the travelers used the distraction to rally themselves and to repel the raiders - who dragged Redpaw off with them.

Markk was broken and battered, but taken in and cared for he was slowly nursed back to health. It was the first time Markk had entered a village and not seen it burn about him.

They taught him to read and to write during the long months of his recovery. Markk would never forget the little village which had taken him in. And though he has traveled far from the village since, whenever he learns of a ship heading there he entrusts the captain with a small purse for the village.

He was 21 by the time he left the Land of Snow and Ice. Using the skills his father taught him he served as a mercenary, on ships, in guards, in armies, with anyone who would hire him. Often times he defaulted on a contract, and he developed a reputation as while being a very talented warrior not a reliable mercenary.

Come the Autumn of the Golden Oak Markk was passing through Mossflower, once again having defaulted on a contract - in point of fact having helped the poor fellows who he had been hired to kill better prepare their defences and to beat back the pirates.

Markk was a wolf without a home, cause, anything except what he carried... and if he was honest it was taking a toll on him. Markk longed for home, and a cause, which he could truly fight for and belong to.

[Treble Tiderunner]

Awesome. Accepted.