![[Verified by Crosspatch]](./images/checkmark.png "[Verified by Crosspatch]")
 Basic Information Name: Vik Birthdate and Age: Spring 25, 487 A.V./26 Place of Birth: He doesn't remember. Secret :
Race: Human Gender: Male Physical Description An admittedly ratty man stands before those giving him a likely disgusted look over. Standing well under six feet; at a meager height of 5'3", his hap-hazardly shaven chin and rather thin; gaunt, face sets the stage for a nearly unpresidentedly dismal looking fellow. He's a wirey, scrawny, scarred looking vagrant at even the most basic of glances; which is all anyone ever gives him really. His body is, muscular; to say the least- obviously the work of running from the law; should anyone truly guess. As it stands, the man before them is obviously not the sort of person you'd want around. His rather worn, dirty, but surprisingly untorn pants explode outward near the bottom; before reaching to his booted feet. Slightly tarnished iron and leather boots; obviously well worn and treated with a lot of care, it- really becomes apparent he isn't wearing more than a vest with a hood however. Not all that out of place; for a Vagrant. To be honest, many who look upon him with disgust, pity, or even outright scandal; rarely see another look on his face. A smirk, always, plying upon his lips like some sort of vandal. As if there was a joke only he, really; got. The Scar Upon His Chest :
Character Concept I've never had the chance to do a Vagrant Monk of any sort; and that is, technically what he is. A Vagrant Sage; and it's a fun, if mildly silly; idea I've had for ages. I mean, come now; it's a flavorful character at least! Even if he has a strange accent. He's a bit uneducated of course! Personality: Vik is, for lack of a better word; aggressively non-aggressive. While he does fight if pressed, for practice, and if need be- for coin, he is as non-violent as a man can get while still being a fighting man. He is a teasing, joking; mildly braggardly man- who's fast rate of speech and almost improbably astute understanding of where he is in the world, might come off as abrasive to most. But, above all of his own personality quirks he attempts to adhere to some sort of code of tolerance and temperence. Preferring to not fight when he doesn't have to. Lazy perhaps? The real Vik :
Ethics: He follows an Ethic called the Rhetoric of Wisdom, it follows as such:
History: Now with Ultra Special Awesome Tabs.  The Story Starts
Life had been a rather steady pace for the boy; as life was an alright thing- his father and mother being in the same city most of the time certainly helped. They certainly didn't really seem to want for anything, it was obvious his father had been somewhat successful; he had even opened a training... Area? He still didn't remember what it was called, a Dodge-Oh, or something. But, he had a passing interest, originally; in the arts that his father taught to students in his 'School' as it were. He remembers the name of the 'style'- his father, ever arrogant; had named it the 'Style of the Undefeated East' for a slight balm to his pride. Almost a decade had gone by; before his father felt the sting of his arrogance. There were men who appeared; to challenge him, his students; even threatening Vik and his mother if they were not fought. While many fell to his Father's furious style... One man did not wait for the challenge to be taken. It was that night; in the roaring sound of fire; that things changed. Vik, to his credit; had escaped from the inferno when he woke to find smoke spilling into his room. His mother, when he went to wake her; was already dead. Butchered in her sleep by the so-called 'challenger'. Life changed, the inferno that engulfed the small facility and home destroyed everything for his father. So, they began into the wilderness- his father, being more experienced, allowed for them to survive the long trek to the next city. And the next. The Realities of Training
The fact was that the boy and his father had to flee the city of his birth; the men challenging had slain his mother in cold blood and would have burned him and the home down to nothing but cinders. Not even a proper burial could be attained for his mother. He wept, many days, many nights. But, it was these days that his father began to mercilessly berate him. Becoming more of a slave-driver than father figure. He began training in the art of Brawling; a precursor to the style that was 'Undefeated of the East'. His father would attack him at random times; whirling about and striking a blow upon his brow; chest, face- shoulder. It wouldn't matter when, save in absolute danger- of which in Mizahar's wilds there are many and training opportunities were few and far between with the body; albeit the mind itself was trained easily enough to react and counter-react. Another change in his life
A month had passed in the wilds, but, they were close to another town, small- unassuming; when they settled here, one of many times they would. His father revealed to him a secret of the style that he had not told anyone but the highest of practicioners in the style itself. It required the ability to manipulate one's Djed into the muscles of the arms, legs, and chest. While this seemed innocuous at first; there were stern warnings as his father began preparing him to train in such a thing. It, to be fair; was exhausting to do such a thing! Meditation was a key component of this ability, to 'feel one's flow' as it were was stated to make this so-called style better. In reality it strained the body to a point of exhaustion that; the child was forced to train for multiple hours afterward. They left the town after a mere three months. Almost ten years later, as he had become competent in brawling; having begun to fight his father one on one; honing his skills as a combatant while simultaneously improving his use of the Flux magics- The Challenger appeared once more.... A note on 'Small Towns' :
Defeat becomes a Cause
This time, in the wild; where there was truly little place to run. Father and son stood, Master and Student; beside one another. They were filthy from a days training upon the trees within the forest- splinters and bark along blooded knuckles and scraped forearms. They stood together; but, to the surprise of the boy; and to his father- when the first blow was struck by The Challenger himself. The boy fell first; his body writhing in agony as he watched his chest split open like a rotten bit of meat. He crumpled; he fell... But was unable to help it as he watched, helplessly, as the Challenger ripped his Father's heart free of his chest. The Master to the Student; was dead. The Challenger did not even deign the boy with a glance. The assumption of death had been there- as obviously the father was a Master of the art; yet still fell. That, thankfully; was wrong. He clung to the hatred within his heart; even as he lost consciousness. He had found a cause. And it's name was Revenge. How he survived. :
Currently
Six years of traveling on foot; a pack animal; a mule of some sort at his side. Carrying whatever meager equipment he required. He was a man who was as close to a sage as one could get in these tumultuous times.From small town to large cities to small towns again he has gone. Meandering his way and learning what he can from the world around him. He has come from the heart of Syliras, the Heart of Human Civilization to Ahnatep's Sandy Berth and back again once more. His homeland? Forgotten; but for now; he calls the road home and where that takes him? Well, he'll find out soon enough. Such as it is. He rarely does he stay longer than a month in the same place, usually hanging on with a Caravan to insure maximum survival. Such a time as now; having broken from at almost a week before arriving at the City of Syliras. He knew full and well of what was expected; and prepared without much of a worry. These were the lands that he and his Father had traveled the most. To escape; to run, albeit in vain. This, was as good as anywhere else- to train. A note on 'Small Towns' :
His Heirloom a Pipe
 The Long Stemmed Traveling Pipe A gift from his father when he turned 15, it was one of many pipes that his father owned and this one was the most dear to his old man. It was a pipe that his grandfather had used, and his grandfather's father had used. The pipe itself was worn in places where fingers had held it over the long years it had survived. But, even so; he treasures this deeply as it is one of the few happy memories he has of his time with his father, and it brings back nostalgia of their talks on the nights after training- enjoying a bit of a smoke before retiring. That is why it is so important to him, it is his happy memories.
Skills, Lores, and Languages
Skill
Lores As a sidenote, I included descriptions in case people want to know. It might not be needed but a little flavor never killed anyone... Unless someone made a killer chef here...
Languages
Inventory
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Expense Book
Experience Expendatures
Starting Points: 50
Thread List
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Edit (Thank you to Meville Brightshade for giving it a look over.):
- Added Date and Season to Birthdate, forgot to do that.
- Added Height, he's a little guy.
- Fixed my Expenses to include a 'Money Left' tab so mathing isn't required too much.
- Removed cursing from his 'story dialogue quotes'.
- Adding in a description of his Heirloom, why it's important, and a picture.
- Edited 'Currently' location, going to 'start at' Syliras.
- Addendum: I got an explanation of what Lores actually are. Changed.
- Removed 15pts from flux
- Put 5 more points in Survival
- Put 5 in Philosphy
- Put 5 in Rhetoric
Any other errors will be fixed when pointed out.
