Specially for a rp battle against Raider.

~~

Name: Moran Virin
Age: 39
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Height: Tall
Weight: average weight

Appearance:
Moran has medium length, dark hair, with a long, black hooded cloak, which he is rarely without. Beneath it he is clad in a soft leather jerkin, like one of a thief - so as not to restrict his movements, but to still provide half decent protection against physical attacks.
His trousers are loose fitting, flowing over a pair of short, sturdy boots.
He has a leather scabbard on his back, and a lean, back pistol thrust into his belt, along with a few spare clips.

Personality: Moran appears from the outside as a cold hearted lonesome soul, rejecting the human comforts and conversation that most are used too, but this is just a mask. Underneath he is much more normal, if tainted somewhat by his affinity in dealing out death

Equipment:

Weapons:
Moran carries his long, silver double edged blade in the leather sheath on his back, strapped there with a thin cord. He is not skilled in its use as much as with his gun, but he still knows some of the basic skills.
He also bears his pistol, a modern semi automatic weapon, which he uses when necessary, with the skill of a veteran assassin.

Armour: Moran is equipped with his leather jerkin beneath his cloak, but no other armour.


Biography:

Moran grew up in a small village, the son of the only properly trained warrior that lived there – an old war veteran named Verac. His father trained him in marksmanship fitness, as well as the bare bones of swordsmanship – but this was not enough for the young fighter.
He yearned for a life of adventure and battle, filled with a lust for adventure and excitement – just like any youth- only his father had the power to give it.
So he was sent off the an academy, spending the next ten years of his adolescence in its sweaty, martial class rooms, or on the muddy shooting ranges and obstacle course, learning the finesse of warcraft.
After his training he was moved direct to the frontlines of a war against someone he had never heard of. Morans life there consisted of scurrying around amongst rats in dank tunnels, a rifle in one hand and a sword hanging from his waist, always in fear of attacks from unseen assailants.
On the third year of the war his squad was ambushed in a dense forestland.
They held their strangled line in the forest for a day as snipers rained lead on their heads, when they were saved by an earthquake, knocking their attackers from the tree perches they hid in.
Moran and his fellow soldiers ran, but their foes kept on their fire, hitting his Morans captain in the back of the knee, and then again through the lung.
Angrily, he turned and opened a rattle of fire against them, grabbing the fallen man from the mud and heaving him along as they fled, bullets chasing them through the darkness

Hours of the chase went by, until they arrived at their only safe house in the harsh forest. Their foes held the chase, but they had still claimed one life.

Moran was sent home later that week. His dreams of adventure shattered, replaced with the dread of war. But deep inside, he still craved the violence, the adventure.
He became an assassin, leaving his remote home to travel the world with his gun, using the stealth and abilities war had taught him to his advantage.