Bert

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Player: Krilari

Character Full Name: Bert Ray Nolds

Character In-Game Name: Bert

Nickname(s): ‘Secus’

Association(s): Kul Tiras, Stormwind,

Race: Human

Class: Warrior

Age: 36

Sex: Male

Hair: Black

Eyes: Green

Weight: 195 Lbs

Height: 5’ 11”

Skills and Abilities:

‘When I was a Younger Man’ - Bert was once a man revered for his fisticuffs in Stormwind’s underground rings. While he once was an elite in the underground world, he’s now all but receded from such a life. Even still, he maintains a rightfully fit form and a plethora of fighting experience.

Appearance: From a young age the fisticuffs champion was crafted to his pervious profession. Beneath comfortable clothes Bert remains a well-muscled figure that has yet to give in to the wear and tare that accompanies the middle ages. A smile is normally worn upon his face, just barely covered by a well-groomed mustache that nestles along his upper lip.

The most common sight for the man would be in his work clothes; a gray brimmed hat, a red workman’s shirt that tucks into a pair of jeans. A less common sight would come to be his formal ware which, as the name suggests, is far cleaner than his working clothes.

Personality: Always the explorer, Bert seems to hold a natural wanderlust in his heart. He has never been known to hold a permanent residence for too long, no matter how much he would even want to. Thusly he hadn’t had much the opportunity to bond with others. While many have come to be acquaintances or a cheap night’s stand, there are none that he’s been able to hold onto aside from his own mother and father.

A curious mind may be the defining trait, but that’s not to say that there aren’t a myriad of smaller ones behind. Fueled by his travels Bert has taken a hand into visual arts; sketching, painting, whatever have you. In the same turn he has come to define himself as a hedonist to a degree, not simply in physical pleasures, but all the pleasures the world holds available to him.

History: Kul Tiras was a land of lonely wives, Fern Nolds being no different. While some turned to young men, the middle-aged woman remained true to herself and to her husband that set off to sea months prior. It would be on a cold February night that the same sailed into harbor, but the homesick sailor was all the woman needed to warm herself.

Upon the following November the same woman gave that same departing kiss to her lover, though this time raised a bundle of cloth to the sailor. A gleam of pride caught into his eyes, the sailor setting a second kiss upon the brow of his newborn son.

Growing up, Bert never had the chance to know his father as well as he did his own mother. For months his father would disappear upon the ship’s deck, hauling supplies to and from a myriad of different locations along the Northern kingdoms, coming back only for three or four months at a time before shipping back out. Despite his constant disappearance, the young Bert came to long for the sea, to find what it was that drew his father away much like the moon draws on the tide.

Studying and scrambling over chart after chart, Burt came to be recognized by the schools as a competent navigator, though he never had the opportunity to practice out on the water. At least, not until his father’s fleet pulled into port. After years upon the salty seas, one of the fleet’s navigators finally decided to pocket his sexton and set his boots upon dry land. With a word of advice from his father and a long night of drinks with the ship’s owner, Bert would come to be an apprentice navigator beneath a senior who had grown to know the sea as well as the back of his palm.

With the responsibilities not always so set upon the young navigator, he commonly enough managed to slip down beneath deck for a few mug-fulls of rum. One thing would lead to another, as it seems to always do, and soon enough the greenhorn of a navigator would find himself set into a fisticuffs match with one of the biggest brawlers upon the ship’s crew. in due time Bert would find himself washed into the fighting ring time after time, each time with a bit more knowledge, a bit more confidence, a bit more muscle. It wouldn’t be long before he actually started winning.

Standing on the cusp of the ship’s port side, Burt now looked out to the town he once called home. It had been five years since he first shipped off with the trade fleet and the wear and tear of the sailor’s lifestyle quickly made its mark upon the now twenty year-old man. His once athletic build now bulged into a brawler’s body, his tied hair had been trimmed down to nearly a buzz cut. If there’s any hair on his head that wasn’t on the brink of non-existence, it would be the mustache that had sprouted in his later years upon the vessel. Soon enough he would be off, taking his mother, now a woman well into her elder years, into his arm in a final embrace. Much the same he gave his father, a man happily retired. While many words were said, they elderly couple knew well that there was nothing to keep their son from the world beyond the isles.

In two month’s time the same ship pulled now into the docks of the ever-busy Stormwind City. From dawn to dusk, and even still late into the night, men would slave over stone and wood to raise the city up to it’s previous glory. Bert, being filled to the brim with youth and vigor was quick to enlist, if anything so that he would have a few silvers to waste away at the local bar. And so he did. Night after night was spent rattling off drunken tales as if they were fresh in his mind. Eventually with enough embezzled recants of his fisticuff victories, it wasn’t long before Bert was introduced into Stormwind’s underground rings.

Embezzled or not, the Kul Tirian proved to be one hell of a fighter compared to the drunken bigots of Stormwind. Where he had spent days simply brawling away, the underground circuits were diluted with nothing more than muscle-bound peasants that were looking for a quick gold. In a few months time, Bert would find himself nestled atop the highest ranks of underground. He was not a shady fellow, or morally corrupt. He simply fought, and enjoyed it. In these times brawling hadn’t become a task or a pleasantry. It turned into his life, his profession. Eventually he dropped from his day work altogether in order to put a central focus upon his life at night.

If there was anything wise he had done in these times, it would at least for him to go by a false name. ‘Secus’ he was called. He didn’t know what it meant, or even if it meant anything. It rooted itself in what would be nothing more to him than another one-night stand. The woman’s voice, thick with a northern accent, uttered the word and it simply stuck in his mind. Knowing his own luck, the man would assume it was probably some insult, but he went with it never the less.

It was a sight to see, for sure. The night of the underground championship. The bar’s basement was filled to the kegs with observers. Not just plebeians looking for blood, but nobles, corrupt guards. An air of class filled the air with a thick scent of perfume. That night it would be ‘Secus’ versus his only equal, a man whose form towered over Bert’s own with muscles scaled appropriately. With the bartender’s cue, the two broke out into a fierce flurry. Each of the two worked through the arena with practiced grace, and it would actually be a fairly long period before either actually managed to land a blow. However when they would... Bert’s own style called for quick strikes that would wear at the essential muscles while his opponent’s every movement felt as if it were a haymaker in itself. No amount of practice would’ve prepared him for such an opponent. They drew on for hours- as they were expected to by the crowd- but eventually there would simply be nothing left to Bert. Bloody, bruised and swollen he went into the final round with fists bore up, though fell just as quickly. Brutal blows mixed with blood loss caused the Kul Tirian to go down with a growing, cold darkness. He would awake alone a few hours later, pressed against the cold stone, set into a puddle of his own blood.

Perhaps it was the haze of bloodlust finally lifting, or the decision of his blood-lacking brain, but the brawler would come to rise only to look back down to his form with shock. It was not at the blood, or the bruises - he was well used to them- but instead simply by himself. quickly he picked his bloodied self up and staggered out of the inn, disregarding any of the early morning patrons as he shambled into the dawning day.

A lonely week was spent in recovery, though moments not spent icing wounds were securing his finances. Once they were set all gathered before him, set upon the old maps from his life at sea, the washed-up brawler would come to buy a small holding out in Elwynn’s woods. The days of underground brawling were quickly put behind the young man, who had managed to join and leave the league all in the same year. Now a richer and wiser man, he set off to live the life of a recluse in Elywnn’s mesmerizing groves.

Once more years would tug at the man. Youth had come and gone, the bounding energy spent within the rings of combat and lately tending to breeding fine stallions and mares. Even as age would approach, he tended well to himself and fended well against the wear. Even as a retired fighter, he still strived to keep himself in a physical peak. Granted, he didn’t look to gain mass muscle as he one had, but he took good enough care to the ones he already had. Peaceful as he may be, the curious nature of his mind would begin to itch as it always would. The same urge that set him sailing towards Stormwind would now pointed Bert to a new horizon, one undiscovered by his own eyes.

The farm would sold along with any investments. The livestock were gone and traded, all but one. A single, strong stallion to play his companion as he would take to the world. Just as the brawler’s life was gone and abandoned, so was his life as a simple farmer. It would be here that his hedonistic life took root.

It was not the cheap thrills that he sought, the dangerous drugs or the gallons of ale. They were all nice, yes, but he lusted for pleasures beyond that of a brothel. In the midst of his travels Bert would come to stop along groves and valleys, deserts and lochs to simply sit and look, inspect the blades of grass beneath, the beating sun above. It were these moments that he held dearly, these moments that would outweigh any fisticuffs opponent, or any beautiful mare that he had raised.