The Legacy of Melchiore Garibaldi

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Melchiore Garibaldi

I had field experience, a vocabulary and a criminal mind. I was a danger to myself and others.
- Anthony Bourdain (Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly)

[[ Most spoilers redacted, but minor ones below - read at your own risk. DO NOT METAGAME! ]]

Theme

Full Name: Melchiore Serverino Garibaldi
Birthdate: 15th Dewfall 1313
Birthplace: Aedenshyr
Birthsign: The Tower

Appearance

Age: 33
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 204lbs
Eyes: Icy Blue
Hair: Jet Black
Skin: Olive
Handedness: Right
Posture: Upright
Hygiene: Knows what soap is and how to use it. (But has anyone seen any?)
Scent: Traces of Coal dust, animal droppings, and sulfur. (A real victim of his profession)

Physical Description:
Though heavy for his height, there may be not a single ounce of fat on his body due largely to his profession as a Legion Sapper. The long hours with a pickaxe and transporting the burden of his excavation has sculpted him as the artisan chisels stone. Though one might describe his build as chiseled in stone... that statue is flawed. Scars and burns liter his body. The scars of the Legion flog and the VIC scourge mark his back and mid section. Most disturbing may be his face. Perhaps handsome despite a large nose and thick brow with almost startling icy blue eyes, the scars have turned him into a mutilated horror. A deep gash into his left brow that continues into a gouge in his left cheek, the puckered scars of burns on his forehead and running down his face like a twin trace of tears, the obvious nicks and small missing chunks from lips, ears, and chin. Whether a testament to some torture, mishap, or simply a hard life is not immediately determinable.

Tattoos: In script on his collar "13th AA" above "Flamma mihi proveniet in salutem". Right Bicep: Flamming Grenade imposed over battlements "Sappers Go Deep" Left Pectoral: 9 names with rank insignia with Decusian Sword and Legion Laurels.

Personality

Though sometimes austere in his duty as a soldier, Mel enjoys good drink, loud company (possibly to drown out the ringing in his ears), and a grim joke. He is always true to his friends and comrades, through thick and thin though his impulsive nature sometimes gets the best of him, often getting him labeled a wild child.

General Health: Physically fit
Profession: Digger, Engineer, Pyro.
Faction Affiliation: 1St Torian Legion
Languages: Native Northyrian, Smattering of Colatian.
Accent: Though born in The Baronies, his long career with the legion in Antongrad has given him a Western accent.
Roleplay Tools:

Hobbies:
Mechanisms and pyrotechnics, if there is a way to make coffee using a bomb, this man will find it.
Habits:
Picks his ears,

Personality Description: Military Decorum acts as a wrapper for gleeful chaos.

History:
Originally born in Aedenshyr on 15 Dewfall, 1313 to Parents Pier Taddeo and Benedetta Savina. Melchiorre grew up knowing of The Torment, and of The Flame. Through his early years most of his mischief revolved around small fires and tiny pointless mechanisms. These earlier childhood hobbies would admix later into full-blown pyromania and an obsession for setting things alit from range. Or watching those same things be turned into smithereens. Around 18 years of age he was finally accused, and condemned as an arsonist when a series of over priced shops suspiciously caught fire, though in the wreckage of one of those shops there were many questionable items. He plead guilty and was given the choice of conscription or jail. The choice was simple enough for Melchiorre. A penal conscript, he was sent to some of the worst fronts currently known to man. Antongrad in the Western Territories. Thankfully an insightful Legion Officer happened to be looking for men whom had certain skills and perhaps a flawed idea of self preservation, thus forming the 13th Antongrad Auxiliary. Explosives, machines, Alchemical corrosives, the oddities needed for the destruction of both man and material.

Strengths: Idealistic, honorable
Weaknesses: Mistrustful, does not plan ahead, pyromaniac

Governing Virtue: Honesty
Governing Throne: Chaos

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12th Dewfall 1346 A.S. Theme Music

Melchiore arrived in the First Province, discharged from the great metal linked-carriage, itself a marvel of engineering and the sciences. The smell of coal from the great engine was quickly lost in the smell of dung and waste. He looked into the eyes of his fellow travelers and saw a mixture of gut wrenching fear and determination as his fellows looked upon the Rumbling Pass. The Pass may have been an outpost of the 105th Bloody Maw Regiment, but it was no carriage terminal as one found throughout the Baronies. Piles of filth and flowing sewage ran in the gutters and even on the paths, men like themselves lay in the gutters or slumped along the palisades nearly starved. These were those whose travel visas had not yet been approved, for whatever reason that may be.

Mel approached the camp sentry and rendered a crisp salute before exchanging a quick introduction. The Templar eyed him and perhaps recognizing his military demeanor cracked a smile “take this, and choose wisely.” he said before passing Mel a requisition form. Questions would have to wait as he was quickly shoved through the portcullis by the throng behind him. “Halt! No shoving! I said Halt!” The guard bellowed behind him as the portcullis dropped closed. “Ready arms! Fire!” A rattle of staggered shots rang out from the ramparts into the crowd behind him. There was no time to process this as a number of Templar spear men grabbed him and ushered him on. “Clear the way you! Men, ready arms and prepare to repel!” Mel managed to get out of their way and into the fort proper as more men came rushing forth. “Tally-Ho!” He quickly moved away from the melee, men of the Apothecary Corpse beckoning to keep moving towards a tent ahead.

The tent was strangely quiet after the flap closed behind him, compared to the scene he had just left it was almost serene. A number of Apothecaries and medics examined lines of would-be reclaimers, tradesmen, and fortune seekers. The queues moved slowly as each person was examined, toe to nose and back again for good measure. His turn eventually came, the apothecary hardly lifted their head from a note book. “Name, Age, Occupation, known humour infuriations....” Mel recited the requisite information but hardly got past stating he was a Legionnaire. “A soldi—ah! Decus name whats wrong with your face!?” Mel laughed at the apothecary’s response. “Where should I begin?” He asked wryly before starting without prompt. “The scars under my eyes are just from candle wax dripping off my sapper's helmet, tends to run eh? We call em' Angel's Tears, the missing chunks of lip and ear are from shrapnel, maybe a few scrapes from squeezing through tunnels. The eye was a gift from some Westy Rebel who thought he'd eviscerate me whilst I slept. Should I disrobe and show you the whole collection?” The Apothecary stared mute for a moment digesting the recitation. “No, that answered my questions adequately.” She stated dryly, recording a few notes. After a bit of further examination she waved him out of the tent with a stamp on his visa.

After visiting the requisition officer he received his standard immigration package and was directed to a swift horse without further fanfare beyond the timely opening and closing of the gate. The horse quickly ferried him east then south as The Flame passed High Flame and descended into Early Embers. The path south was uneventful, the only land marks a stony ruin atop a hill and a charred desolate clearing that Mel was unfamiliar with the why of, but he knew the what of right off, copious amounts of cleansing flame.... He could only speculate as the horse flew by like the wind passing a walled graveyard, the vague movements within a foreboding sign as he quickly approached his stop. The South gate of Fort Praesidium stood before him, a pair of archers stood sentry on its ramparts, a quaint row of apartments arrayed down the street before them. It smelled of filth here too, though the piles were less of human waste and more of debris, judging by the function of each pile of detritus, evictions were common.

He quickly headed for the large hall up the street, he found numerous craftsmen and merchants about and quickly set himself up with the further needs of day to day life. It was in this endeavor he began asking about Legion activity in the area. He quickly stumbled upon a shorter man of brownish hair, with one of those midland accents that always seemed to stand out. Mel was unsure if the Midlanders simply had a drawl of sorts or did it on purpose out of pride. The man was working on some woodcraft whilst talking to a prospective customer when he paused, turned to Mel and introduced himself as Jakell Wormwood, carpenter, and former legionnaire. They exchanged a few words of introduction whilst the man worked, and eventually agreed to show Mel were the First Torian was set up some kilometers up the road to the North. Mel sighed, he'd have been there by now if he'd simply walked from The Pass, now he was nearly twice the distance, and not a horse could be bought that would take him swiftly there. Mel eyed his would be guide with his one uncovered eye; this man did not strike him as a soldier, but he seemed somewhat harmless enough. The Flame sank deeper into Last Embers and made the decision for him. He'd follow the man out of necessity rather than be lost in night.

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23rd Highharvest 1347 A.S. Born to Serve

The First Torian's Legate, Lucien Silvercrest's, words "I absolve ye of yer oath." shook Mel deep, his memory sharply flashing with his first day in the Legion.

"I. Melchiore Serverino Garibaldi, swear that I shall bear true allegiance to The Venerated Legion of Decus, that I shall never abandon my service, that I shall never leave the ranks save to pick up a sword, to strike the enemy, to aid a comrade or to protect a Citizen of The Republic."

With that first memory came others, he could smell the mud of Kaduraas, the burning flesh of his Decimated Legion, he shook as clenching his Legionary Insignia ripped it from his cloak, his iron grip crushing it into two jagged halves that cut his hand as he stared into Lucien's eyes.

"I swear this oath shall endure unto my life's blood is spent, or I am dutifully released."

The last line of his oath echoed in his mind as blood dripped from his hand to the floor of the Parish Hall. He placed the insignia into Lucien's hand as the man then put a hand to Mel's shoulder and gave one of his usual carefree grins. To Mel's eyes this Legate was only a mere boy now... absolution of his oath had pulled away the lens of rank and station. He stared long at this boy he had called Legate for nearly a year before he turned and came to a fresh attention before the gaze of Nicolien ,The Prelettes of The De Ravin Parish.

"Lady De Ravin, what oath would you require of me?" He stood stoic, only 15 years of military discipline allowed him to look her in the eyes, the eyes of a living saint. He feared that he trembled, horribly unworthy, as if Decus stood sword gleaming and wings outstretched before him. He had been born a civilian, his parents had never become anything more than civilians with no dreams or even plans to be Citizens of The Republic. He had been convicted as an arsonist at 18 and conscripted into the Venerated Legion of Decus as fedibes in lieu of prison and further punishment. He had followed Lucien here with the breaking of The 1st Torian Legion, he hoped to continue his duty to the Republic. Suddenly looking into her eyes he knew he was unworthy, this was suddenly a terrible insult to her and her family, an insult to the Republic, To Decus, To The Heavens.... and then simply she spoke:

"I do not require any oath from you, just that you act accordingly in public as a member of this Parish."

He stared, stunned briefly then looked at her feet, all the discipline in Vitaveus no longer enough to keep her gaze.

"Yes... My Lady?"

The formalities where beyond him, he had only met her once before perhaps and though there had been introductions, Mel had not been required to speak then and he had been glad. Their only other meeting had been when he helped to deliver the Legion's condolences upon her sister's death. Mel had not stayed for the funeral, he had felt a stranger to the Parish and hadn't known the deceased. The Lady made a small noise, perhaps a laugh that caused Mel to lift his gaze again.

"Just Nicolien is fine."

Mel's head tilted like a dog when its confused, he was probably blushing from embarrassment as he inclined his head and turned away at the earliest possibility. Nicolien turned her business to Lucien and Mel made his own quiet escape across the room.
"Just Nicolien? Surely not..." he spoke under his breath as he stood off to the side lost in thought.