Name: Nicene Elior (Goes by Nick)
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Apperance: A stocky man with an easy, fluid stature. His mop of blond hair is long front and back, often past the point of obscuring his neck and eyes; while this may look disorderly, his clean-shaven jaw and neat clothes show he is anything but. He just likes it long, which honestly is really stupid of him given his “career.” He's usually wearing a jacket, half black and half bright orange, over whatever shirts he can salvage. It should be noted, but often is not (as in fact the idea is not to be noted), that the jacket is reversible - with a dull but dark gray on its other side. Usually he just wears denim pants below this all, faded - but not torn. Scoff such a thought! Only his duffel bag, thrown carelessly over his shoulder, gets such terrible and ungentlemanly treatment.
Personality: He's easy-going, and is quick to make a joke even if no one will like it. He's got a mean sense of humor, but he's not paid to be nice. (Recently he hasn't been paid to be anything at all, but he doesn't tell that to his clientele!) Condescendment, snark, and backtracking are all part of the game for him.
He's deeply religious. Like, deep enough to reach China religious. (Even though and especially because China doesn't exist in this world.) Ironically, this last aspect of his personality only encourages all the murder.
He's sort of in a cult. He calls it his esoteric order of enlightened worship. But even he realizes on some level that his doctrine is far from enlightened. The actual belief system is flawed and convoluted, but at its heart it's not unlike any extremist group. You believe in your god, and that makes you better than everyone else. This, along with his generally-upsetting life, led to a decaying moral compass that still clings to him, albeit loosely. He tells his clients that his sniping is for safety reasons, but just as important to him is how it depersonalizes his target. The more he knows about them, the more he'll regret the job later. He'll still do it, but he won't like it.
Fighting type: Major: Gun. Minor: Air.
Carried items:
Snack bars. Not energy – candy ones. With bits of rice in them, for a resounding crunch kind of sound. It's supposed to intimidate his opponents. Also, they're cheap. And delicious.
A sniper rifle. It's old, but in good condition. He didn't have a lot of money setting out (and still doesn't) but what he had he spent on this baby. In fact, the one thing that seperates it from any new gun is its outward appearance – a dull, chipped, nonchalant grey coating and plenty of wear-and-tear. Makes it easier to spot in crowds, anyway. And less expensive to maintain.
A whole bunch of bullets. And by a “whole bunch,” it's in the realm of about 60. Plenty for any good action scene he comes across, but not for constant living in the streets. Although he hates how stupid they look clipped to a bandolier, he has to admit it's remarkably effective, so that's the usual carrying method.
Beyond that, anything he can find is stuffed in a
duffel bag. While this looks rather suspicious, so does the sniper rifle. Might as well make a show of it, no? At present it's got a few extra pairs of cloths, some house keys he's swiped from people, and all his cash.
Virtues: Despite everything, he can keep his head up. And his humor doesn't hurt everyone he runs across – some genuinely enjoy it. And if people don't, well, Nicene doesn't care. Perhaps his best skill comes from combining his two innate abilities – a wind tunnel that keeps his (somewhat inconsistent) aim straight when the bullet finally emerged into a controlled cyclone.
Vices: He may not hesitate beforehand, but often he'll regret afterward. His conflicting loyalties to his immature but rather-accurate moral compass and the murderous cult he serves can often leave him emotionally upset and vulnerable. He tries to compensate wth his antagonistic jokes – a little form of control that doesn't give him problems. For him, that's a huge deal.
History: Growing up in the backwaters of Cracaea, the small island city-state off Hamara main, Nick was soon to find himself in conflict. The government of his homeland was a fiercely religious one, and unfortunately some of their views were at odds with his. This started as a few idealistic clashes in his childhood, but culminated in Nick's most startling discovery: his latent ability to control Wind magic. While this wouldn't have been a problem most anywhere else, the two monarchs of Cracaea had long frowned upon magic as an “ungodly aberration.” Nick's family tried their best to hide his secret; trying to buy off their son's affections with marksmanship lessons (a thing he had wanted for a rather long time, to their rather condescending annoyance). The fact that he got them shows how serious they considered his little “problem.”
A bunch of inner tormoil which Nick later admits was mostly teenage angst led him to strange places religiously. He was sort of raised with spirituality as a big deal, so even after discarding the monarchs' orthodoxy he couldn't fathom anything but a different kind. And he found this different kind of orthodoxy in a cult. Actually quite a few of them. He came and went, and while most collapsed on themselves violently he always made it out okay – physically at least.
It took him a few years, but eventually he created his own, solid doctrine – an amalgamation of all those he'd come in contact in. Violence and force where a big deal, almost necessary in the warped worldview he found his mind surrendered to.
All he'd managed to do was snare himself in another oppressive religion, of his own devising but outside his control. Maybe the drugs he experimented with in his cultist days made it worse. Maybe fleeing his land for Hamara main in a spiritual quest ending in a back-alley existence made it worse. Maybe his damaging need for some higher control in life despite mental and physical consequences made it worse. Probably though it was all of the above, although Nick's too idealistic and shortsighted to see it.
All he knows (or thinks he knows) is that he stands alone in a world without spiritual guidance. But he doesn't care anymore. He thinks he's content despite all the suffering he puts on himself, and because he thinks like that he appears that way to others. Some part of him wants to “help” everyone – a part of him probably knows he needs it himself – but over the harsh years on the streets those aspects have been smothered by apathy. If he needs money – and he does – he'll often kill for it, if necessary.