- Who Am I...
I am Dismas, an imperfect gentleman out of time.
- Romantic Interests
Well, that seems awfully forward, doesn't it?
- My Story Is...
Being perfectly honest, even Dismas is relatively unaware of his own story. His origins date back to the Earth that most of us should be familiar with, particularly the sixteenth century of human history. He was once quite a charming man, betrothed to a beautiful wife, laying claim to both property and modest wealth. Hard times and infidelity drove him from the comfort of that existence and into the less scrupulous stylings of a common highwayman. By dagger and blackpowder, he took what he needed and never lingered in one place too long.
Growing road weary he began to seek out bigger scores, wishing to secure a vast wealth that would allow him to grow old and die in peaceful solitude. A fateful encounter with the heir to a vast estate would seem to offer him just that. The heir’s inheritance had been occupied by a cult dedicated to one eldritch evil or another, and Dismas was offered a considerable sum of coin to join a ragtag group of adventurers and soldiers to cleanse it. Driving out a host of maddened vagabonds seemed simple enough, but he would soon discover that the profane horrors they offered worship to were all too real.
It began simply enough, but eventually his party would encounter an indescribably horrific beast, all teeth, tentacles and eyes, and that is where Dismas’ memory begins to fail him. Battle was given, blood, screaming, horror, and then, blackness. Dismas would awaken to an entirely alien world, memories of his past marred with an impenetrable fog that would grow as this situation seemed to repeat itself as some sort of morbid cosmic motif.
Times, places, all meaningless after a certain point. Dismas has seen things entirely removed his the reality he once knew, drifting from world to world as he died – or did he dream? Did he exist to begin with? It all mattered very little, as all he knew for concrete reality from that point forward were the things directly in front of him.
- My Appearance
Dismas has a gaunt face, shaven, handsome and angular with high cheekbones, but marred by myriad thin scars. None are particularly disfiguring, but they criss and cross his features like a child’s attempt at artistic expression. Three particularly lengthy and long healed lacerations extend from he left cheek and into his hairline on the side of his head, carving notably barren trails through his jet black hair. Sharp blue-green eyes peer out from their sunken sockets.
He is a thin man, perhaps malnourished, and quite pale of flesh. He wears a heavy, tattered and worn leather longcoat trimmed with ragged, dirty white fur around the collar. His leather gloves are not fingerless, but simply bare his thumb and index fingers on both hands. A worn-out and discolored red bandana hangs around his neck, and is often pulled up over the lower half of his face. The man clearly needs a new pair of boots.
– A dagger with a leather-wrapped hilt and wide brass guard, worn and pocked by the use of many years, but well sharpened.
– A single edged hunting knife hewn from a single piece of steel, well worn and well maintained.
– Twin flintlock pistols, with shot and powder. Carved painstakingly into the barrel of the first is: “Peccatum,” and into the second, “Perditio.”
– A modern, .45 caliber Colt 1911, with very, very sparse ammunition. It’s seen better days. It might be assumed that Dismas has absolutely no idea how to clean or take care of it. A crude inscription into the barrel reads: “Et Redemptor Meus”
– A heavy silver coin, painstakingly shaved razor sharp on one side. He often palms it, or causes it to dance across his fingers in moments of boredom.
- My Secrets Are...
As many as my regrets.
- I Believe...
Very little seems worth believing when you've seen what I have.