Adair Vosk

"Ave, Imperator. Morituri Te Salutant."

## Appearance

Adair is a physical behemoth. Standing over eight feet tall, and weighing nearly 475 pounds, this ex-gladiator is covered in both muscle and scars, lending a looming terror to his aura. While his dirty blond hair and icy blue eyes hint to his potential Ulfen heritage, his deeply tanned skin belies his years spent burning under the desert sun. He cuts his hair short in the Taldoran fashion, as he’s been accustomed to all these years, and keeps his face completely shaven, hating the itch and heat of a beard.

Despite his intimidating size, Adair is always incredibly relaxed, his every movement fluid and connected, with not a single wasted motion. 'Loping' is a far better description than walking for Adair. This gives an observer the feeling of incredible violence just contained, like a dormant tornado or building tempest. Adair carries himself like a king, always sauntering down the street with his head held high, his every action perfectly assured, never once betraying fear or weakness.

His square, chiseled face and nose that’s been clearly broken & reset more than once give the impression of his sturdiness and reliability, and his usual soft smiles make him seem far more approachable and less menacing than a man of his size should be otherwise. It seems as if he can never be divorced from his armor, and will be found wearing it constantly, as if perennially ready for the next battle. Likewise, his beloved greatsword seems inseparable from him, and can always be found hanging from its baldric on his body. Otherwise, Adair seems to dress quite simply, preferring leathers, wool, and furs to keep warm or cool as the weather requires. A short shoulder cape allows for protection against the elements, and sturdy boots allow him to continue walking for miles after most would be hobbled with blisters.

## Personality

Though often soft-spoken, Adair is a friendly person, welcoming the company of others, and is much more social than his ferocious demeanor might otherwise suggest. This is only more exacerbated amongst good friends or when he’s been drinking- in those scenarios, Adair feeds off the energy of the group as a whole, and quickly enlivens the atmosphere, becoming outspoken and breaking out into uproarious laughter, his more boisterous personality breaking through.

In day to day life, Adair has a rather wry sense of humor, regularly cracking a short line mocking whatever unfortunate circumstances he’s found himself in this time. His is a rather easygoing personality, taking whatever comes as it comes. Despite this laid-back nature, he is a dutiful man, and will do what is required to keep his word, so long as it doesn’t break his moral code.

While fighting, Adair is decisive in his every action, always aiming to win. Though he doesn’t like to admit it, he loves fighting, and loves a good opponent, and that feeling of striving towards victory while dancing on the very cliff’s edge of death. At times like these, a savage sort of smile can be seen on Adair’s face, only broken by the end of combat or by an unstoppable rictus of pure fury as someone dares to attack his companions instead of him. His duty is to protect others, and he holds no mercy for those who attempt to break his word for him.

## Relationships

* Emi Kaneko - Having hired the strange swordswoman to help him defend the farmers he protects, he trusts her to have his back, even if he's very confused as to why a supposed noblewoman with a mansion is picking up two-bit jobs like his.
* Hannah Ritter - This former Sheriff also helped out without asking for so much as a copper when Adair's farmers were beseiged by zombies, and so, Adair has a rather high opinion of her. The two bonded over drinks and tearing down some of Emi's more unfortunately advertising posters, so the poor noblegirl could fix some of the more... unfortunate wording.
* Dmitri - Though he doesn't have much more than a working relationship with this priest of Groetus, having completed a few quests with the man, Adair does find him useful, if overly nihilistic.

## Goals

If he's being perfectly honest, Adair isn't quite sure what his goals are in life, ever since his tribe broke apart. He wants to get and stay away from Taldor; he knows that for a fact. He'd like to make a little bit of money and enjoy a good life that he never had before- he knows that too. But he barely made anything defending the farmers out at East gate, and yet that was the most fulfilling work he'd done up until that point. Stopping the rampant constructs within the puddles also made him feel like he had made a difference in someone's life. He may not know what he wants for himself just yet, but he does know he wants to be a shield for other peoples' lives and dreams, so that they have all the time in the world to think of what they want for themselves. He figures if he does that enough, he might just be able to piggyback a goal of his own, if he hears one he likes enough.

## History

"Ave, Imperator. Morituri te salutant."

The words had once more become as devoid of meaning as they had when he had first said them, unaware as to what they meant. “Hail, Lord. We who are about to die salute you.” Impressive and fearsome when two dozen gladiators shout them simultaneously, but once a man accepted he was merely a walking corpse, with the only variable being time, they seemed to lose their power. Looking across at his opponents, the expectant gazes of Taldorian nobles bearing down upon his body, Adair lowered his visor with a soft sigh, and hefted his sword once more.

Adair had been an unwanted child, that he knew. He had the look of the Ulfen about him, with his blond hair and blue eyes, but he had been abandoned in the forests of Taldor, discovered only by a drunken hunter’s stumblings. He brought the baby home more out of a whim than any real reason, and while his wife did her best to raise the child, after his single act of goodwill, the hunter seemed wholly disinterested with Adair. His only interactions with the boy were to tell him to shut up and stop being such a burden, and when Adair grew older, the same message, but this time delivered with his fist.

Ten years went by this way, until the hunter’s wife died. They said it was suicide, but no one dared to look at the hunter during the burial, and no one mentioned the bruises that striped her neck like a tiger’s. A few weeks after the burial, and the old hunter had drunk his way through the town’s goodwill. Adair remembered looking out the window to see the old man staring at him the same way he would a buck the few times he remembered how to hunt. One day, well before morning the hunter told Adair to get dressed and follow him, that they were going to hunt and he needed someone to carry the prize. Obedient, if not the wisest, Adair followed, even as the sun rose and they went well past the hunter’s usual grounds. The sun was beginning to set by the time they reached their goal, but any complaints Adair had were lost as the bewitching splendor of the city of Oppara entered his sight. The gold blinded him at first, causing the old hunter to impatiently grab Adair’s arm and pull him forward as the young boy blinked the stars from his eyes.

A bit more walking, past harder and harder looking men, and the glorious gilted buildings gave way to rougher structures of stone and wood, and the bodies began to press in until Adair would have worried about being lost in the crowd were it not for the hunter’s strong grip. Finally, they reached a clearing where no one dared to press in, save for Adair and the hunter. The old man faced a woman who was well dressed, but flanked by half-orcs big as any two humans put together.

“How much?” The old man asked, throwing Adair forward, causing him to stumble.

Adair blinked. He looked toward the old man, who studiously refused to make eye contact. Adair saw nothing the old man could be trading- they hadn’t even bothered to trap so much as a pheasant on their way here.

The woman looked Adair up and down, with the same look the old man had given him the week before. “I’ll give you… 20 gold for him.” It was as if someone had detonated a cask of black powder under him. The world spun, and though he watched the old man and the well-dressed woman haggle back and forth, he couldn’t understand any of the words. His ears rung like he had been slapped, and he didn’t even offer resistance as one of the half-orcs reached forward to drag him away. His last sight was the woman counting out gold into the old man’s hand. The hunter never even looked his way once, too entranced with the clinking coin between his palms.

Though he hadn’t lived very well before, it was only now that his life truly became miserable, focused towards a single goal: survival. He had been sold as a gladiator, and there were many years of training to go to get there. And if he failed- well, there was always a need for more bodies to practice live weapon training on.

Still, his heritage slowly began to reveal its advantages as he grew older. Now that he had enough food, his Ulfen blood began to surge, throwing his body through growth spurt after growth spurt, and packing meat and muscle on his body like a stonemason who had finally received his granite. He took to the lessons faster than the other children, and though he was not the strongest of them, he seemed able to summon endless reserves of stamina, outlasting every other soul, only to rise up earliest amongst all of them the next day to do it all over again.

On the day of his 15th birthday, he was ‘formally inducted’ as a gladiator, half drowned in lion’s blood and covered in red as he slayed the beast in single combat. Of the 40 of them that had started all those years ago, 12 remained. They were all granted the last name ‘Vosk,’ the 22nd such batch the wealthy slave trainer had trained up to this point. A glorious feast awaited them that night, for the next morning, they would once again fight for their lives- this time against men and women with every intent to kill them.

Adair mostly remembered the raw panic of the moment. The moment the sun glared down on him, and he saw the massive brute of a man charging him from across the arena’s sands, all knowledge of battle seemed to have fled his mind completely. Still, his body knew what his mind had forgotten, and muscle memory pulled him out of the way, his form dancing across the sands as he slipped from the behemoth’s lunge. His sword flickered up then down, and just like that, the man roared in pain as he fell to his knees, the tendons sliced from the back of his heel. One, two, three more cuts and a kick left the man completely disarmed and face down, the jeers of the audience baying for his blood. Adair finished it with a thrust to the nape of the man’s neck, his blade swifter than a serpent’s tongue as it licked out and took his life.

The cheers escorted Adair out of the arena and into the new chapter of his life. As years went by, and Adair stacked victory upon victory, he no longer resembled the child of his youth. A hardened man, Adair now resembled more the granite statues that adorned the city streets than the lost foundling with more bruises than teeth. And on his 18th birthday, his training changed as well. No more just a convenient sword holder, Adair began to learn diplomacy and manners, how to carry himself amongst nobility, languages, and other arts as well. His newfound patrons, men and women both, began to make demands upon his time outside the arena as well, and with how they paid, compliance was all but demanded. Though he acquiesced, the fire of rebellion was slowly stoked within his heart. And on his 22nd birthday, the same anniversary and year as his Naming, he stoked it into a flame to burn down the whole damn arena.

Adair raised the champion by his neck, shaking his head slowly. The champion’s duel was always a duel to the death. “I’m sorry, brother.” He whispered, as his spare dagger flashed across the man’s neck, coating Adair in crimson as the former champion bled out on the sands. Adair was well and truly sick of the bloodshed, but this one last murder of his brothers was required if the plan was to succeed. The Taldorians couldn’t have any advance warning of their insurgence.

The plan was set into motion after the laurel was placed on his head and the feast celebrating his victory was in full swing. Weapons snickered through the air as the gladiators retrieved their blades and bows, hidden before the banquet. The food quickly turned from well-done to bloody raw as the slaves enacted their gory vengeance. Breaking through the house guards, the slaves managed to commandeer the rowing galley left at the River Porthmos dock- and well, no one knows how to row a galley better than a former galley slave.

 As they tore out of harbor, the men and women thought they were finally free. But they underestimated just how much Oppara was willing to make an example out of them. Zimar Corsairs hounded their heels constantly, forcing the rowers to work night and day until they all but dropped from exhaustion. Their speed fell with the men and women, and one fateful night, as they crested the mouth of the River Porthmos, the Corsairs caught up. It was a brutal battle, but pirates never fight fair. Adair remembered fighting desperately against the boarders, cutting grappling hooks in between opponents, when his world suddenly sang out and the wooden planks opened up to swallow him whole. A cannonball had just missed him and instead taken out the deck below him, depositing him into the water below. As Adair desperately tried to unbuckle the armor that was slowly sinking him towards the bottom of the lake, his last sight was his galley burning.

He awoke to scorching heat and shifting sands beneath him. He kept his eyes closed, unwilling to see the arena’s hated walls rise around him once more in his captivity. But when the lash never fell on his body, he risked opening his eyes and looking around at the tent he found himself within. A child nearby was startled, and jumped up yelling “Mom! Mom! The stranger is awake!” As Adair got his bearings together, and noticed all the bandages covering his body, an older woman walked into the tent and knelt down next to him, followed by a man covered in scars and missing an eye. Adair was immediately put on edge by the man, before the mother began to explain that they were heatstone scavengers and had found Adair washed up on the shores of Qadira before nursing him back to health. They exchanged words for a while longer, before leaving Adair to rest.

It took a few more weeks before Adair was once more operating at full capacity. Now a free man, but not knowing what to do with that freedom, he began to live with the nomadic tribe, finding heatstones amongst the sands and helping fend off bandits and beasts. On the anniversary of the new year, the old man, Ocrus, took Adair to the revered battlefield that spawned the tribe decades ago from the collected survivors, made him fast a day, and at high noon, made him recite a vow Adair will always remember.

“In my own name, unsullied and bound to my virtue, and in the name of Al’asadriel, this I swear: with my blades I shall defend the innocent from those who threaten them wrongfully. With my eyes I shall look for evil and with my words and deeds seek to turn it back to good, or else destroy it. With my mercy and conviction I shall lead others into the light, and with my courage I shall hold back the shadow, until the day I die or Al’asadriel returns to release me.”

After this oath, Ocrus began to explain to Adair as to his order, and trained him in their combat style so as to guarantee the survival of the tribe. Another year passed by in this manner, and though his life was simple, for the first time, Adair lived for himself and for others through his own will. His skin grew tan from the harsh ministrations of the sun, and his heart grew soft from the tender care the tribe had for one another, and how they had accepted him as one of their own without even skipping a beat.

Still, it seemed as if Adair was never meant to live the quiet life, and his personal curse visited its wrath upon his newfound family once more. The youngest son of the chieftain contested his brother’s claim to the right to rule upon their father’s death, and the tribe split in half between the two brothers. As the factions began to tear the clan apart, scavengers heard the rumors, and the raids began to increase in both frequency and intensity. Finally, in a fit of wrath, after one particularly ruinous raid, the eldest brother slew the youngest, fracturing the tribe once and for all. They all split and went their separate ways upon reaching the nearest town. Ocrus headed for the nearest pub as he watched his life’s goal slowly fade into the sands, but not before giving Adair a few parting words of advice.

For his part, Adair decided to leave the country completely, taking on work as a caravan guard to raise enough money to afford the boat ride to Absalom. There he figured was just as good a place as any to start his life over once more, using the only skillsets he had ever curated. He figured they’d be in high demand, even as the city still tried to rebuild after the Cheliax invasion.