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Clyde [Human]
#1
Title of thread: Clyde [Human]

Player: SourPuddle

Character Full Name: Clyde

Character In-Game Name: Clyde

Nickname(s): N/A

Association(s): Kul'Tiras Navy, Kul'Tiras Underground, Wastelanders and Gadgetzhan.

Race: Human

Class: Warrior

Skills and Abilities: Marksmanship, riding, small weapon profeciency, camp building, lassoing.

Age: 38

Sex: Male

Hair: Jet Black

Eyes: Brown

Weight: 184 lb

Height: 5’11”

Usual Garments/Armor: Clyde usually wears a wide-brimmed hat, a vest and leather pants. Sometimes, when it's especially dusty, he'll wear a pancho.

Other:

Personality: Clyde is a wanderer. He does his best to be modest and hardworking, knowing that material needs will often try to overcome him. He believes that honesty is the best policy when you’re dealing with your friends. When it comes to other races, he doesn’t like them too much; learned to keep his gun sheathed when in neutral territory, but outside of that it’s guaranteed to go off. But he’s not quite trigger happy; he knows when to pick a battle or leave it for another day. Some might regard him as a very solemn person, but others just believe he’s just very lonely.

http://i579.photobucket.com/albums/ss238...sketch.jpg

History:

Chapter I : Homeland

Deep, in the swamps of Crestfall was born a child from a small and modest couple, isolated like much of their peers on the island. The damp environment brought scorching heats in the day and bitter, cold nights, which sometimes seemed to freeze the water along the shore. The air itself was irrepressibly thick; bugs seemed to be a constant problem, yet evolution has taken its course to ensure the humans who occupied the region were very immune to their pestilence. A musky smell of the marsh was persistent, constantly invading your nostrils and reminding you of the shoddy conditions the milieu offered. At night, a quiet sleep was wholly unlikely; wolves howled, bugs creeked, looters and pirates screamed, footsteps were heard, women were burgled, food was robbed, and lives were stolen. It was a place where even the most heinous crimes, risks and horrors were not even painted luridly, or with any semblance of animation; everything felt jaded and as dull as the fishermen’s hooks. But, above all else, it was home.

As much anguish as the island of Crestfall could provide, life subsisted off what could be made. Clyde’s father fished regularly for all his life with the Wellmaker family and another man, a quiet man, who recently died to a horrible fishing accident, in which his eye was gauged out and his face exposed to the dank, black bog. His father was not able to oversee Clyde’s birth, saying something about bringing the fished up remains of his friend to “the old Vespillo” down towards town. The baby boy was born a bastard under the care of midwife Sariah, who also birthed a baby boy not too long ago. When his father returned, there seemed to be a big controversy that followed him; his rifle was always at his side. The Wellmaker families head, Bahman was his name, mirrored his attitude and they both seemed ready for some tragic event.

He decided with Clyde’s mother what they would call him, naming him after some made up legend they’d heard in the story tales. It went along in which a famous marksman who fought pirates, raiders and looters, valiantly brought an end to their reign and destroyed the foundation which provided their existence; greed. The name Clyde in itself seemed to resemble honesty, modesty and fairness in his actions and ideas. But amongst these rumours, tall tales and silly folklore, there was reality, which always shook the foundation of theoretical, or better yet, mythical compositions. A storm was coming, in any case.

There was a problem with taxes, or fair share; a gamble gone bad, anything of that sort. Most of the villagers who took up arms didn’t even know why, just that they were supposed to. It happily wrenched them out of their morose schedule of daily chores. A battle ensued between twelve of the villagers with firearms and the two families, their rifles cracked at dawn and blood were spilt, rippling across the marshland like dark red paint across a black canvas. Miraculously, if that were possible, the two survived after waning the enemy’s forces to half strength, forcing them to retreat. Clyde’s father and Bahman knew they’d only be met by more opposition. It was agreed; they had to flee.


After pushing everything of value onto their fishing boat, they left for Boralus, the capital of Kul’Tiras. Both women, burdened with one almost newborn child each, were charged with keeping their infants asleep, or at least quiet. They traveled without a compass, relying on pure gut instinct and guided only by candlelight. When they approached a larger vessel, often that of pirates or looters, they had to extinguish candlelight and squelch their sons; the fog was murky enough to hide their presence long enough to paddle away. It took a few weeks to finally reach mainland, in which they traded supplies for food and water. Even if roads seemed to be plentiful in the development, as a result of the monopoly Kul’Tiras had spawned, it was more efficient for the fishermen to use the boat to trek westward still.

On the boat was where Clyde learned to walk, and by the time they reached the vibrant city of Boralus he was able to talk. The shift of environment brought immediate culture shock to his father, which ended up at the end of a barrel. Bahman found himself a job and a home for his wife and child. Clyde’s mother was lucky enough to rub two coppers together cleaning a brothel, and was lucky enough to be able to use any of the beds, which weren’t currently occupied. Occasionally she’d be denied or kicked out prior to a customer arriving, but for the most part, Clyde was raised here.

Underneath the western sky, smoggy not with the mist of the marsh, but of that of factories, Clyde was a regular troublemaker like many of his peers. He was a nasty one, especially after stealing some rich kids peashooter and pelting the poor boy until he fled. The streets were strewn with blood, waste and soot; the former and latter rippled regularly across the walls of the towering edifices and grimy shacks. The starving crept the street, some literally crawling on their broken limbs, as their murders and burglars took advantage of whatever little they had. Drug dealers and pimps sprinkled around, dealing the poisons of intoxication and lust as much as possible to the downtrodden masses. Lights flashed at night, merchants tried to rip everyone off as fast as possible, reaping in the profits and sloshing the hard sweat, blood and tears off their doorstep.

Rumours spread around like wildfire, but one amongst them all was regarding a young man who turned from a simple pickpocket to a bloodthirsty cutthroat. He had gone about, stealing from caravans on the roads with his gang and harvesting their loot for themselves. It provided a sort of template for young Clyde who was an aspiring sharpshooter and criminal. He stuck to the streets, often malnourished, sticking with a gang with his childhood friend and a few others who groveled beneath the two. Clyde would shoot the sign of the petty food merchant to distract him while the band of juvenile delinquents snatched everything they could off of his counter. Other times, they’d prey on the more sophisticated vendors, who displayed their food in glass. A shot at the small window was enough to crack the shell open and frighten the merchant, leaving ample time for the street rats to grab what they could.

They’d circulate all across the town, but continued to be a nominal concern in comparison to the higher tiers of criminals. When the heat was high, they dispersed and continued on a solo career, before the children regrouped and plotted their next attack. As time went by, their needs did too; rival gangs wanted turf and the big leagues of criminal warfare came into play. Clyde’s partner in crime was thrown into bars by the guards for petty theft and he hadn’t seen him since. But something, very oddly, seemed to raise above all the tumultuous transgressions that he’d never experienced before.

She was always so beautiful; almost every night, he’d sit on the docks, looking across at her getting ready in the dawn to fish with her father. Clyde never knew why he felt such an amorous sentiment towards her, but he always imagined whether or not she looked back at him in the glorious sunset, while the rays rippled across the ocean. With her deep red hair, he could almost feel himself smothered into it in a mildly euphoric fashion. It reminded him of a place where he once was, a mysterious and very solemn emotion that once surrounded him all his life. He found himself getting up early each day just to watch her leave, but soon she never seemed to come back.

The event made him realize how the city wasn’t for him; he knew that waiting all his life didn’t seem to work out as it should’ve. For him, it appeared that everyone was riled up about some Proudmore character, who was praised as a national hero. For who shared Clyde’s socioeconomic status, he could hardly care about patriotism, but he heeded the call and joined the nearest recruitment center. The higher up establishments of navy recruiters required anyone his age to have written consent, but the ones who corresponded with the districts drenched in poverty hardly cared for such a luxury. His skills were mildly tested, and he was assigned as a marksman of the Kul’Tiras navy.

Chapter II: The Navy!

When he was shoved into their quick training corps, he quickly made friends among the other soldiers. In his squadron, put together for temporary organizational purposes, one of them was talking about how he joined the navy to keep the war from Boralus, and that his father had begged him to stay home. He displayed such pride in his duty to his country, Clyde wasn’t sure if he was allowed to do the same himself. Clyde was just going through the motions, he didn’t care about fighting the big fight or becoming a hero, he was happy that he was doing something productive with what he could scratch up. But Clyde found that this pride was something for anybody to enjoy—Any Kul’Tirasian, that is.

When they all lined up to test their abilities with a rifle, Clyde had made practically all bull’s-eyes. He was met with a bout of prestige from his teammates, some others jealous at his skill; Clyde made up for this by being fairly incompetent with a sword and armour. With his luck, he made it to the sharpshooters, wielding a standard issue Kul’Tiras rifle. Being of the lower tier, he was put in as an auxiliary troop rather than assigned to a team of riflemen; to him, he thought he’d be better off behind the lines of armoured men anyhow.

An interesting person he found was one who’d seem to come from similar origins, and was in fact the rumoured after bandit who got drafted into the army. An opportunity to leave for higher planes, or at least safer ground was opened to Clyde, but he refused it in order to continue his career as a soldier. He was given food and a place to rest, and that was more than he could’ve ever wanted. The clock was ticking; his unit was to be deployed at sea very early in the war.

The life of a sailor at sea was tough; rations had to be kept in check, undesirables had to be thrown overboard, the poopdeck always needed swabbing, and with no alcohol the sailors had to occupy their time with sharpening their blades, playing cards or reading. The ship life was one that was lonely, but the sailors could always be comforted by the beauty of the sea, or the fact that they were serving their country by surviving on the vessel. Many of the recruits on the craft had been drafted in; only the captain seemed to be experienced in any military ventures. It was quiet throughout most of their journey towards where they expected the Orcish enemy to be.

They traveled north, barraging an Orc Juggernaught with all their power; Clyde was assigned on cannon duty and got the ship hard at the side of it’s hull, leaving a gaping hole in the wall of the vessel. The colossal Orcish craft escaped their sight, the adrenaline rush that surrounded the ship at the moment of combat cooled down, but the tensions still seemed to be high. He experienced the massive power the battleship could expound upon the enemy, being able to launch enormous balls of lead into the side of another ship. The sound it made as it fired was both terrifying and exciting, while it truly quaked the foundations of the boat.

The Captain looked off to the ship they recently barraged and told the crew that it was mutinying; a battle between the Orcs crew had taken place. It was a morale boost to the crew to know that their enemies spirits were so low, and a light celebration happened on deck before they steadily went after the ship. It appeared, however, the Orcish Juggernaught had pulled themselves together and escaped once again. It wasn’t quite a defeat; more Orcish vessels were to come for the time Clyde was a sailor, providing the battleship plenty of opportunities to prove itself.

When the vessel docked at Southshore, Clyde was assigned to stay and guard the town under a new squad. It was nice to get off the boat, and escape the isolation it brought. For the longest time, he’d felt that the ocean spoke to him; that it helped him sleep at night. But then he questioned whether or not humans were meant for the sea; it felt unnatural at times and the grave desperations it demanded. But now he was on land, and the warmth of fire had never been so welcoming. He’d been only there one day around the campfire, talking about how Gnomish submarines would be the next new thing for naval technology, when their scouts severed head had smacked hard against the ground, launched from a catapault. Grossly mutilated and marked with the scratches only Orcs could make, Clyde and his team quickly assembled for battle.

The Orcs charged at the soldiers terribly, both sides hacking at eachother without a doubt in their mind; blood splattered across the crowd of soldiers while the riflemen picked off the Orcs. Swords and axes smacked into flesh and steel, and a human victor rose above them all, holding an Orc’s severed head by the hair; when a greenskin came from behind to hack at him, the valiant soldier flailed it in the green monsters face and gutted the beast instantly. Displays of gore showered his body—everyone’s body—and victory was safely theirs.

Clyde was immediately pushed under the command of this intrepid hero, acting as the best sharpshooter. It was then that Clyde was introduced to the horse; out of the lot, he got the wildest stallion they had to offer. It took him a while to learn, but under what time and pressure they had, he adapted so that the squad could move onto their mission. He found his experience with the rowdy horse to be enlightening, able to hastily move while firing his rifle at any scouts or skirmishers he’d encounter.

The squad moved further into Lordaeron, and soon was charged with fighting the Orcs from Alterac. The squad itself became thin in numbers, down to a third of their original size, and was able to hold a fraction of the Orcs until reinforcements relieved them. Such a battle was easy practice for the sharpshooter, and gave him experience with mountainous terrain. Their next target would be Blackrock Spire.

After the Gryphons were let loose on the Spire, Clyde and his unit among many others had been deployed in a grand force of all the Alliance forces to destroy the Orcs. Everyone knew it was the last stand, and as time permitted, the famous warcry shattered enemy moral and stimulated even Clyde who cared not for the man involved: "For Sir Lothar!". Visibly, you could see the ranks of the Alliance push forward and decimate whatever demons, Orc or otherwise in their path. Their blades seemed to machete through the walls of enemies, and their victory was well fought.

After this event, he was asked to be drafted into the Alliance Expedition, but he refused the offer because of how few of his fellow Kul'Tirasian's were drafted and his lack of interest to leave Azeroth. When Clyde returned to Boralus, he was happy to be home; now more than ever, since he had the funds to provide for himself. He found an unquestionable urge, one morning, to look off to the harbour. By a stroke of luck, a woman with deep red hair had been waiting at the docks, looking towards the KTS Invincible—a ship that he’d never been on, but certainly heard of—and he knew it was her. He watched with bated breath as she walked onto the ship; his heart was almost crushed, but it seemed as if it landed softly, knowing that she hadn’t disappeared forever. He’d never known her, but whenever he heard the stories of sirens at sea, he couldn’t help but think of the girl. For all his life, from the moment he’s seen her, he’d felt like just for once, he wouldn’t have to be so lonely.

With the war over, he decided to pick up the sport of riding. He found that it brought him some joy to race, but only did so for fun; the competitions in and outside of the city, where betters had splurged their funds, was full of cavalry units, professionals in the art. In any case, he lacked the right connections to seriously partake in the profession. Another hobby he took seriously was hunting in the woods around Boralus; being able to learn about the land and generally survive out in the woods—or atleast getting the experience for another time—seemed healthy to have for someone of his profession.

Horrible news from Lordaeron reached Kul’Tiras; it had been overrun with the plague. Clyde was immediately signed to investigate within a squad; and in hours, he was already on his way towards the Holy land. When they arrived on the black soil, stained with the blood of his allies; some, former Lordaeron soldiers who’d been brought on the journey, had cried at the sight. When they got off of the boat, they began searching feverously. One of the first sights they saw was a road show; a pedestal with a woman strewn over it, blood drained from the back of her head. Below her was a pile of bodies, displaying gore in the fashion of severed limbs and wrenched out guts. It was just one of the many horrors the land provided.

The squadron searched for any survivors of the terrible plague and uncovered any important objects so that looters would be discouraged. Undead hordes were spotted in the plains, but the group was small enough to avoid the bulk of them. Whenever they were encountered with the undead, they were all skilled enough to handle the enemies with ease. In a matter of weeks, the squad was able to find a few stragglers who hid inside their basement, just as they were about to turn back to their boat.

Clyde found himself needed by his country once again, under Dealin’s fleet, going westward. Clyde wasn’t too fond of the idea of escaping the world he was so comfortable with, but didn’t believe it was much of a choice; he decided that it would be the last thing he’d do for his country before he resigned. The ship heading westward turned out to be the longest journey he’d ever taken. Cannibals, murders and thieves were all thrown off on the journey there, but morale was mostly boosted by the Captain’s “parties”, where most of the crew off-duty would talk about their adventures on and off land.

Most of the stories were very true, but other sailors had a funny way of telling their tales; for instance, one man stated he “wrestled Myrmidons while riding on sea-serpents, so that he could make love to the elven princess’s the vile thing captured”. It was all very fake, even the teller of the tale knew it wasn’t true, but it always seemed to bring a boisterous roar in the crowd. It was little things like this that helped the crew get through the tough voyage across the sea, and it wasn’t long until they saw the sight of land again.

Chapter III: Foreign Lands

When Clyde’s ship arrived at Kalimdor, they received immediate orders to destroy the nearby Orc encampments. Clyde, being experienced, was commanded to have the largest gun the ship could offer, and used it to the best of his abilities. The outpost fell easily; oddly enough, the Orcs didn’t even go to battle stations until the battleship attacked. It just displayed the Orcs incompetent nature when it came down to strategizing and providing communication. But to the extent they saw, it was shy of a miracle how unprepared their enemy had been.

Their next target was an island, which was rumoured to be full of trolls. The “Echo Isles” were a prime target, and Clyde was released on the island in order to extinguish any enemy opposition. He and his squad quickly made good work of any villages they came across, burning the structures to the ground. When they met up with the other groups, a few were notably torn, telling of tales of a monster-like Troll who was just like an animal. It was beyond their comprehension, and some of their lives ended at the end of a barrel in order to keep morale steady. Soon, after they appeared to clear the island, the rest of the fleet was rallied back to what seemed to be a giant fortress.

Once they were inside the halls of Theramore, they were greeted by their comrades who had settled in on the island. Every soldier there, and civilian too, was overjoyed to hear of Daelin’s return. But there was a sort of discomfort in the air, especially when the subject of racial resentments came up. It was as if these Theramore marines had actually cared about the status of the greenskinned monsters. The moment most of the marines realized that the peers in Theramore had allied with their enemy was a moment of confusion. Some were unsure whether or not to attack their comrades in arms, or see the Orcs as friends. Most, if not all soldiers simply waited for the orders by Daelin.

One Theramore guard was explaining to a small child how he couldn’t train him anymore; it seemed to attract an great amount of attention. The story echoed through the barracks; it was sort of a sign for many of the soldiers there; that peacetime had been breached. One of the Kul’Tirasian soldiers Clyde had known for most of his life shed tears, remembering how his son was a failure to him, how he seemed to invest his time in studies other than that of the military. It was a subject Clyde seemed to never dwell on, and in this time it made him evaluate his life so far.

He met a Dwarf, who was part of the Kul’Tiras Navy, interesting enough, talking about how another of his kind had got married the day they reached the land in Kilmador. Clyde couldn’t help but remember the girl in red hair, waiting by the docks, or going off to go fishing. Occupying himself with the Dwarf, the warrior told him how he couldn’t quite “make peace with his mind”. They talked a long time, but they decided that now wouldn't be the time to find themselves; it was another quest for another day.

Soon, the whole Kul’Tirisian army would move to destroy the Orc’s, and solidify the hold the humans had on the western lands. Clyde and a large troop of mounted units were sent out to scout and ruin any Orcs they come across. When they saw a squad of Orcish raiders charging towards them, they prepared for a head on attack from the barbaric warriors. Clyde took aim at one Orc who seemed to grapple onto a friends steed, but couldn’t get a clear shot. He rode with lightning speed around, in a style of a skirmisher, to take good shots at Orcs who opened themselves up too easily. When he looked back to see how his friend had fared with the Orc, it appeared that the green monster was already eviscerating the body of his comrade, blood, gore—muscles, organs, bones flying in the air as the brutality persisted. The whole cadre decided to retreat temporarily, and blame the event on incompetence on the part of the commander who let the Orcs flank them. But the image of the horrifying event was branded permenantly in the eyes of those who saw.

When they set up camp, some soldiers from another company talked about ambushing a “cow-man”, which initially seemed preposterous. Some talked about how female trolls seemed to be taking up arms, which was a suprise from what they saw on Echo Isle. The men talked quietly about their conquests, or debated politically on whether or not they should seek amnesty with the Orcs; no one knew why Daelin had changed their sentiment, but everyone believed it was for the greater good.

It wasn't long until Clyde was stationed at Tiragarde Keep, one of the primary strongholds in Kalimdor. He was assigned, coincidently, around the time of Daelin's death after Theramore had been raided. Morale plummeted for the large amount of soldiers there, mutiny was unacceptable, but desertion was certaintly a popular element in the ranks. One man seemed to be the go-to guy for escaping back to Lordaeron; ironically, it was the same man from long ago who said his father had begged him to stay in Boralus. Clyde, on the other hand, had a very different idea of desertion.

Chapter IV: So Far Away

After rounding up the best horse he could find, he saddled up most of the supplies he could muster. Well armed with plenty of bullets and a trusty dagger, he told the stable master he’d been going on an unofficial scouting mission. When the stable master found it was a hoax, Clyde was already riding off into the dark red sunset. Alarms were to sound, but with so many disappearances, it seemed to scarcely matter. Clyde figured he already did his duty for his country, and that it would be the last thing he’d do. It was a one-way train to insanity; there was no way reinforcements were coming, and he was better off alone.

Clyde steadily followed a path west, taking the mountain path to avoid most of the Orcish legions. Once he seemed to reach a sea of sand, he set up camp alone with his trusty steed by his side. The desert was just like the ocean, except you were spared the luxury of a ship. Wolves and coyotes howled mercilessly through the night as they scavenged whatever life the desert had to offer. Ruthless sandstorms swept across the dunes, taking with it whatever life had subsisted from existence in a matter of seconds. There was hardly any air; the sun seemed to be a vacuum, leaving hardly a cloud in the sky or a plant in the ground. He thought no one could seriously live amongst the sand dunes here, but it was obvious to him that this was home.

After coming across some wastelanders, he had bought new supplies and traded off much needed military provisions; hunting the wildlife seemed to be profitable for Clyde, and it at the very least kept him alive. The nomads were not always friendly to him, and on some occasions he had to remind them to behave at the end of a barrel. It was only when he arrived at Gadgetzhan that he realized what position he was in.

Upon arriving to the Goblin city, he didn’t care to talk politics; there he found easy work for hunting outlaws and doing small deeds mercenaries were often employed for. But Clyde made sure not to stay too long to this foreign city, often leaving for the desert in solemn contemplation. When he felt alcohol was too heavy of a problem, a trip into the arid abyss served him well to relieve himself off the substance. It was here where he’d remain, living in the wild west.
[Image: Calvin_and_Hobbes_hug_by_Humongous_E.png]
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#2
Write a profile like this again, and Savaan is getting dragged off into a hidden passage of the house, never to be seen again.

...I enjoyed reading and listening to it, and can't see anything amiss.

Approved.
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#3
Wiki'd!
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