From the Bunk:Edit
Nickname: Much Obliged
40 years of age.
6'0" in height.
Albino- thus red of eye, white of fur.
Once upon a time, this albino fox possessed three souls.
Rather, he suffered from multiple personality disorder. Quite a severe case- on any given day he might have been a vicious, arrogant brute, a kindly and mysterious swashbuckler or even the wind.
Marquo Lysander Senderjay has changed. After his many adventures serving aboard the infamous BlackShip , as her bosun first and then as second mate, the albino fox vanished from Imperial society, locked away within the great towering gothic edifice known as Sleet Hall (so named after IceRain A. Sleet, the former Minister of War who gave the property to him as a farewell gift).
Within those dark corridors he amassed the things necessary to destroy his madness: many gilders, much food, the company of a great black tom and, of course, chairs. Countless chairs. Stacks and stacks of them, piled high, arranged into towers and pyramids and all manner of odd designs.
Ask not why.
Now he has returned, victor of his war at the center of the mind- overcoming delusions and nightmares and the beckoning of death's ultimate peace. Though somewhat worse for the wear, the light in his eyes has not gone out- he is still perfectly amiable, still given to flights of theatric fancy, still attracted to heights (and the occasional comely vixen).
Alongside his compatriot Alabastor, Marquo has disposed of his fortune- approximately one hundred and eighty-thousand gilders, give or take- in order to start life anew.
((The following is a snippet from the Author's death post. If you would like to read the entire thing, it is on Page 4 of the Thoroughfare thread "Winter War: The Harbour")) His words elicited a harsh, barking laugh from the warrior, who stepped back, slinging a heavy messenger bag around his hip, unfastening its strap with one deft motion. “The only worthwhile kind,” he spat, aiming his stave’s blade at the Minister of Niceties. “A storyteller; and blood, you will find, tells the only worthwhile kind of story.”
Marquo could not immediately comprehend what he saw next; the Verfolger elite drew a severed head from the bag, and while this alone did not startle the Minister so much, the shape and color and conformity of its features did. Creamy yellow fur and wide, lifeless grey eyes, strangely unmarred from years in contests of violence. The blood-encrusted stump of her neck was torn and ragged; her beheading had not been quick, nor clean.
Marquo blanched, unable to reconcile the grim image with his last memory of the Skeered of Nothing’s captain, the Blademaster of the Unsmudgables. A rare, sincere smile, gratitude and vulnerability, stern tension giving way to the assumption of joy--
Sen Zhao, the Blood Scribe, died with his armored claws still twined in her headfur, his last moments spent dumbstruck at the old todd’s lightning speed. Marquo crossed the distance between them in a pace and a half, slipping past the waiting tip of the Verfolger’s blade by the width of a blade of grass. The colichemarde punched through robe and chitin and chain alike, several blackened inches erupting from the elite warrior’s back
“A story for you,” Marquo hissed, leaning his muzzle down to Sen Zhao’s ear. “Once, there was a coward who hid behind a mask.
“He died in ignominy, and the gods laughed to hear his name spoken.”
Hearing no attempt at a reply, nor any sort of breathing, the Minister prepared to draw his blade free, to see the foebeast’s body collapse in an inert pile at his feet. Grasping the accursed corpse by its shoulder, he gathered his strength, only to hear the dying captain’s final words rasp from between blood-flecked lips.
Marquo had not so much as heard or felt Zhao’s Executioner draw up behind him, and nobeast had the time or attention to cry out, fighting for the very last inch of their lives. It was a simple dagger, forged from good steel and fashioned in the likeness of hundreds and thousands before it, that ended the Minister of Niceties’ life. Wordlessly the Verfolger took hold of him by the nape of his neck, pressing the lethal edge to the underside of his chin, carving a crimson grin across his throat.
Heavy arterial flow spattered his finery, the ground beneath his feet, and even beneath Sken’s as the Executioner pushed him away, sent him reeling as all sense and sensation fled him. He thought to cry out, to speak Kaiea’s or Sken’s name one last time, and found he could manage only a pitiful gurgling; thick blood flowed from his muzzle, joining the veritable waterfall cascading from his neck.
THE WHEEL TURNS
It was easier on his knees, he found, to keep hold of his thoughts, though those were taking their quiet leave in turn. He vomited, spraying hot life’s blood and bile in a fan on the ground before him. It did not hurt so much, but it was cold, the memory of steel’s caress opening the softness of his flesh and fur.
He fumbled about uselessly, and it was only by chance that he found Kaiea’s head, drawing it close with a sputtering grunt of exertion. He realized he was weeping as he looked from her face, the rictus mask of death, to the living splendor of Nuori Sken, who yet stood and directed their home’s final stand in the face of impossible odds.
Let him die, but not these two--pillars of the Imperium’s strength, pillars of his strength--
AND TURNS AGAIN
Tucking Kaiea’s head beneath his chin, he gasped for air one final time, transfixing Sken with an unblinking stare, his expression a wretched blend of despair and regret. He tried to speak again, forgetting the limitations of his particular brand of finality, and the meager few words never escaped but as a blubbering retch.
to the grave, abdicating glory
He passed as all beasts do--where once there were moments, points in time unto apparent infinity, no more existed. His dearest friends near at paw, he passed in a quiet moment; the horrible cataclysm of war, the blind, screaming agony of his sundered heart, all muffled to a dull roar and then silence eternally.
to live again and again
Alternatives Controlled by Much Obliged:Edit
Grimiron [deceased], Collector 7, Alabastor S. Levantine, Elliott Armenaud[deceased], Anor Amontiado[deceased], The Custodian, Kazarin al-Pasmati, and Maeve MacArlough[deceased].