Macken (Mac) Révorakkah Dunloqehs
Macken Révorakkah Dunloqehs is a tall Dragonborn standing at 6’7” which he takes advantage of often, as he is accustomed to peering down at others in order to maintain his dominance. Weighing in at 16 ½ stones of muscle and sinew, Mac prides himself on his prowess and athletic ability. He is an experienced 36 cycles old, still young and capable yet not as skilled as those who enter the middle ages where Dragonborn really begin to hit their stride and make an impact upon the world.
His scales are a deep red in hue, a few shades lighter than a dark wine. Mac’s eyes are a somewhat lighter red, with a speckled golden outer ring to his cornea. Surprisingly Mac does not have many scars on his wide face, but even if he did they would be overshadowed by the ivory marking roughly cast across his cheeks and snout under his eyes. His sloping brows complement the single row of spiked flesh working it’s way down his neck into his armor.
Mac’s armor is well-worn but kept in as clean and repaired a state as he is able living mainly out in the wilds and traveling so often. Bearing no rust but the occasional missing link to the scale mail breastplate and the usual nicks and bumps in shoulderguards, it overall maintains the dull metallic gray of iron in need of polishing. His arms remain bare, both as a way to exhibit his strength as well as to keep them free of obstruction as he maneuvers his wide-bladed longsword through the fray. His only means of further protection are the leather gauntlets made to anchor metal guards, which Mac has since removed for increased mobility. Leg guards and shin-boots complete his armor, trading as much protection for movement as possible while still ensuring Mac’s ultimate survival from any and every encounter.
Complementing his longsword Mac also keeps a circular oaken shield adorned with rivets and plates to maintain its structure, should he decide it is necessary to provide an advantage. This shield generally rests on his back, keeping his collapsible light crossbow and quiver of bolts in place and protected. There is also a scabbard for his longsword along this quiver, allowing Mac to run unencumbered without the additional weight around his waist.
A typical, well-worn leather belt holds the standard array of pouches and pockets any good sellsword would require. This also serves as the way Mac’s tabard is anchored to his armor. Previously, this would have been the pride of his ornamentation, showing the detailed and beautiful crest of his Empire. In his current state, Mac is no longer allowed to wear this without repercussion. Instead a flat brown tabard without mark is the final stark reminder of the life he has chosen and the life he was forced to leave behind.
Mac had it all going for him.
Raised the son of a wealthy fishing magnate situated on the Western coast of the Krylin Islands, he never wanted for anything. His stomach was always full and opportunity lay just beyond the horizon, he need only reach out his hands and grasp it. Given the best tutors and training, he was positioned to take over his father’s business when the time was right and continue building upon the family’s local legacy. This, however, was not to be.
Recognizing a complacency in his son, Patriarch Dunloqehs arranged for Macken to receive some mild military training to instill some discipline and honor into his heir. He had no way of knowing when he did this that Macken would develop a taste for the excitement and fully enlist for the pacification wars taking place across the sea.
Macken expected he’d be gone for a few spans before his return home, arriving a successful victor from battlefields afar. It surprised none more than he when he looked up and a full decade had passed as the Kryinn forces slowly shored up their occupation zones and entrenched themselves within the larger cities in their path.
Distinguished in the small ways he had contributed, Macken received a generous promotion; from frontline fighter to city guard. His post, the gigantic and beautiful Ahurum was a blessed change of pace from the usual scenes of battle and comrades fallen all around you. In the city, your armor didn’t need to have the blood cleaned off of it nearly as often!
No longer the image of the privileged son of a protective family, Mac carried the weight of his station to its utmost. The hard years of struggle packed on 4 stone of muscle and bulk, with several scars littering the landscape of exposed flesh under his standard armor. A few more years passed as he settled into this new role.
In general, he received the usual duty stations; patrol through these streets, stand guard over this important building, break up that scuffle over a bad business deal. It wasn’t until he started to receive escort duties that he felt he was actually close to the action again within the tall walls of this ancient place.To be a guard was one kind of responsibility, but to watch over the life of those making the big decisions that affect thousands of lives was a true honor.
From his particular vantage point, he saw countless battle plans drawn up or trade agreements finalized between nations succumbing to the might of the Kryinn Empire. He was proud of this duty, of this new legacy he was building on.
That was before the Goliath ended it all.
He was given a new detail, this time to watch over the Tiefling nephew of one of those making the decisions in the city and beyond. It may have not been what he was hoping for, but Mac understood that to be given more prestigious assignments he must truly excel at every order given.
The little shit just wouldn’t cooperate, however. Constantly he found himself out of breath, huffing and puffing tiny wisps of dark smoke from his nostrils as he scanned a crowd looking for the boy or his friends. They reminded him of himself at their age, only these children were not just protected; they were untouchable. With this, they had no choice but to be corrupted by its power.
Often this group would shake down vendors for whatever they wanted at the moment or beat those that looked at them too long, often in plain view of whoever was unlucky enough to witness it. It was little surprise when their antics yet again found him wheezing and searching for their path of destruction. He easily heard the shouts and scuffle in the adjacent alley and composed himself for what he may see as he rounded the corner.
It was a familiar enough view, the boy and his friends surrounding a helpless, bloodied person in a heap on the cobbles. What was different this time was the hulking figure holding up his charge by the arm and shouting at the group to leave their victim be.
Mac wasted no time, breaking into a sprint and launching himself at the Goliath. Pinning him to the ground and ensuring he could not escape, he looked up to see the arm of the boy hanging at an unnatural angle. Broken. Shit.
From there it was simple: someone was to blame, and he was not there. His job, his one job, was to be there. For all his years of service, Mac really was given a lenient sentence. Dishonorable discharge and the mark across his nose to prove it. Eight months breaking down boulders and rebuilding any foundation or portions of walls still yet to be shored up after the occupation of Ahurum years ago.
Looking up once more, Mac was in the wilderness.
No longer welcome within the confines of his station, within his city, within the comfort of his honor, he set out from the city to search for any place he could feel worthwhile after the loss of his service.
Hearing rumors of mercenary groups dotting the countryside and throughout the mountains he did odd jobs hoping to find a group welcoming of an ex-soldier willing to earn his keep. He caught robbers, helped rob others, strong-armed debtors, whatever it took to keep his feet on the path towards his goal.
One day, he would need to return home and present himself to his family. To show them the ivory mark across his scarlet face and acknowledge that he was a failure. There would be nothing left for him at that point, at most a job captaining one of his father’s – or more likely by this point his brother’s – smaller fishing boats. There would be an accounting for who he was and what he had done, and Mac was willing to accept that.
Just not yet.