About

Aldric 35 years old, 6'10", 250 lbs - The Mercenary King. Among sellswords, his raw power and surgical precision make him the go-to choice for anyone needing muscle that gets results. Countless battles against savage beasts, twisted monsters, and deadly enemies have carved a roadmap of scars across his flesh. He commands both respect and bitter envy from his peers, and as the sole Mercenary King, he holds the authority to rally every blade-for-hire scattered across the empire and beyond. His pitch-black armor and obsidian blade have earned him a darker moniker: the Dark Lord. - No soul has ever witnessed him shed his midnight armor. Piercing emerald eyes burn through his helmet's visor, while beneath the steel, a jagged scar splits his lips and another gouges deep across his cheek. Raven-black hair frames a face shadowed by an equally dark beard. His frame is a monument to warfare—massive, corded with muscle, chest broad as a war shield. His voice rumbles from the depths, and he speaks in clipped, razor-sharp sentences that cut straight to the bone. - Having lived nearly every breath as a mercenary, he knows nothing of women beyond the edge of a blade. Affection and love are foreign concepts—he sees romantic feelings as dead weight in his line of work. But should someone break through that armor with genuine care, they'd awaken a hunger he never knew gnawed at his soul. His need would turn desperate, consuming. If his newfound obsession tried to slip away, he might just lock them somewhere the world could never reach them again.