Emrin Tallas

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==Description==
DM Handle: Eb
Character’s Name: Emrin Tallas
Place of Birth/Origins: Lugard, Murandy. (Raised in a Home for orphaned boys).
Age: 36
Height: 6’
Weight: 195 lbs
Hair: Medium brown with lighter streaks
Eyes: Blue-grey
Distinguishing Features: Short moustache and triangle-above-a-square goatee. If that’s hard to picture, see the photos attached. In fact, let’s just say he looks entirely like a chirpy, Bandified, medic-y Erik Thomson.
==History ==
Division of Choice: Other - Medic
Primary Weapon: Fists and/or whatever he’s holding on to at the time.
Secondary Weapon: The next most dangerous object in the immediate vicinity.
(That’s at this point. Seriously though - this dude will need some training! Or at least some sort of vaguely reliable mechanical weapon…)
Suggested WS: 2 or 3 – He’s good in a fist fight and even if he’s not familiar with any specific weapon, he does have intimate knowledge of which parts of the body hurt most and what sorts of damage kill quickest…
Personality
Emrin is one of those immediately, almost annoyingly likeable people. He can’t help it. He’s an alpha personality who loves to be the centre of attention and keep other people happy. He’s as quick with his wit as he is with his hands and he has a very raw, boisterous sense of humour. He likes nothing more than stealing a victim right out of Death’s clutches, and second to that he likes to shock people and make them laugh. Almost nothing fazes him about the reality of human behaviour and existence – including the inevitability of life to include copious amounts of broken bodies, blood, guts and death.
History
Emrin Tallas was orphaned and five years old when he discovered he’d been born to be a medic.
Callen Danaert had fallen from the top of the tallest tree in the playing field, right to the very bottom, catching several branches on the way down and landing with his head on a rock. Truth be told, he didn’t look much like Callen by the time he’d landed. The other boys had run off screaming for the mistress of the home and the healer who lived and worked next door. Jaem Turner wet his breeches and fainted cold. Emrin, heart pounding so hard he thought it was about to explode out of his chest, pulled off his shirt, soaked it with the contents of a waterskin and used it to cover the exposed parts of Callen’s bowel. Then he pushed Callen’s scalp back into place from behind his ear to his forehead, and used the pressure of his bare hands to try and stop the spurts of blood that were spraying profusely from his friend’s thigh. By the time the healer came running across the yard towards them, Callen’s head and limbs had started twisting outwards at joints. By the time she was beside them, Callen was twitching awkwardly- a strange, irregular tic to his entire left hand side. Then the twitching stopped, just as suddenly as it had started, and the spurting blood under Emrin’s hands had subsided to a messy ooze. The healer shook her head, white as a ghost, and reached out a shaking hand to Emrin’s shoulder, guiding him gently, but urgently, away. He wasn’t sure if the gesture was more for his comfort or hers. He wasn’t sure it mattered. It wasn’t until he let Callen go that Emrin actually cried, and then it was mostly because he was afraid that he’d done something wrong. He hadn’t, but since he was only five and was following instinct rather than instruction, he wasn’t sure. 
Less than six months later, Ellie Tanner dropped from where she stood teaching at the front of the classroom and started to shake in almost the very same way that Callen had. Emrin ran to where she lay, face blue, body shaking; and when she started vomiting and choking on the vomit, he screamed out until the other kids came and helped him roll her onto her side. He held her there and watched in satisfaction as the vomit which had been pooling in her mouth seeped down onto the floor through her tightly clenched teeth. When the healer arrived she took up position where Emrin sat, waited until the shaking stopped and then turned Ellie’s head further downward, opening and tilting the jaw so that the airway was straight and the vomit could drain that much better. When Emrin asked her what had happened, and why the teacher shook even though she hadn’t fallen from a tree, the healer looked at him closely and told him to come and see her when he had some time spare from schoolwork and his chores. She even arranged with the mistress of the home to allow for the special visit. And the next. And the next. And indefinitely after that.
For ten whole years Emrin worked with the healer whenever she required and whenever he had spare time - bandaging wounds and re-setting broken limbs, clearing infections, stitching large lacerations and breaking fever-dreams. As he grew, he learnt a fair amount about how the body worked and what made it better when it didn’t from the healer’s books and notes – but he learnt a hundred times more from watching her work and trying things himself. Primarily he learnt that life was all about death, and that he felt most alive when he was trying to stop other people from immediately dying. 
He left Lugard at the age of sixteen. Sick of the injuries and ailments of thieves and usual tavern brawls, he took off in search of foreign sights and more challenging work. Over the years he found it. First he spent some time in the service of a Lord in the north of Murandy, patching up the war-wounds of those who fought against the Queen’s Guard and armies of Andor in the South. From there he made his way north and anywhere the wind and his boots would take him, working in various hospitals and offering services to countless local healers and armies for as long as wherever he was could capture his interest. Everything changed when he made it to Bandar Eban just days before the Seanchan. In his almost thirty years of tending bodies sick and wounded, he had never seen such carnage as he did there. He was thrown headlong into the most challenging and exhausting work he’d ever known. For once, more people died in his care than he could manage to save, and the wounds that others were left with made even his iron stomach turn. 
He learnt much, but the failures haunted him. During and after the battle, the army of the Band of the Red Hand had provided him with many of his first and most traumatic casualties. Shattered in the aftermath, amongst patients dying and recovering, he learnt of their cause. Eventually he requested formally to join their ranks, feeling as if he owed them some sort of better service – and, perhaps most importantly, almost certain that the worst of the events was yet to come...  
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Category:Biographies
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