"Freedom is never having to say you're sorry."

Standing a small fraction over 6', this man is usually described as "solidly built". His shoulder-length raven mane of hair is messy and unkempt, framing craggy features. His eyes flash a stormy grey which twinkle in mischief or rage in temper when riled. His strong, stubbly jaw and prominent nose crown the lower section of his visage. His teeth are white and well preserved - all in all his appearance is that of a thirty year old human male despite his unnaturally long life.

For those that knew him, there are a few distinguishing differences marking this Vico. A great scar across his chest from his collarbone to his tummy marks him as unfortunate in his history.

Another fresh scar on the back of his shoulder, above the scapula, near his neck screams "traitor".. he has obviously been struck from behind in the past, possibly fatally.. though this would only be visible if you moved his hair aside.

A chain rests round his thick neck, holding a ruined pendant which he seems quite protective of, often rubbing and stroking the chain absently. It would appear to have no monetary value, all blasted and ruined, but he guards it carefully nonetheless.

If you looked to his left hand, his index finger sported what was obviously a man's ring, chunky but stylish. It was burnished gold, supporting an emerald-cut sapphire, looking dark enough to be almost black. Though not one for obvious jewellry, he seemed fond of the two main trinkets he wore.

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"A General is loyal, a leader of men & women by word and deed."

Vico turned in his slumber, his bronzed, naked form causing a few gold coins to jingle and shake free but not enough to wake him.

"One who would save this city from those seeking to weaken it."

He tossed back the way he had just been facing, his eyes shut but face creased with concern.

"This city needs a strong defender, one that will keep it from slipping between the cleft arse of Tens, or sliding submissively into Anamchara's throat."

Vico's hand reached out in a fist, although blindly striking a large, ornate magical shield which was propped up on a stack of diamonds which plinked to one side, he still did not wake from his sleep.

"This city would not need be rebuilt had it not been invaded. You fawn to these new.. liberators now, begging to be consoled by a touch more fair and even than my own.

We are city of men, and women. This Isle does not forgive the light-hearted and the weak of fist. Your choice is simple, and decreed long ago by forces not even of the ken of the powerful men and women that inhabit this Isle.

This city will be rid of me when my last breath falls from by bones, and mah spirit is sent to Dis to be purged fer eternity. Know yer fate, step up an' remove me or get on yer knees. Ah warn yer though.. go hard, or go home."

Vico awoke with a cry, a few muttered mumblings from the dozing brunette with dusky skin next to him as she almost stirred. He blinked, awake, and seeing where he was, allowed a few consoling kisses to lull the naked sorceress back to sleep as he pondered these visions from a time long ago.

He had issued a challenge on the steps of the Elzigard Palace to the would-be invaders of the city, ~his~ city. He had fought with a fury imbued by magic and rage and lust but was brought down by a traitor and a will of a people that had seen his reign as Consul nothing more than the act of a Tyrant and war criminal.

Vico did not go to Dis when he was struck fatally that day. His soul was captured and stored, and unbeknowst to him, was released by something that saw a purpose to him. Crashing to Sinfar from thirty thousand feet stark naked and on fire is certainly an entrance, but it's shed no light on why he was not dead, and why he was here of all places.

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196 years earlier...

Time stopped for Vico as the axe blade hit home square into his chest feeling ribs crack and sinew tear he suddenly felt numb. The briefest respite of utter stillness before pain lanced his torso and he roared out a shrill cry that could not be mistaken for a death knell.

As Elghinn closed her yellow eyes on his now-stormy greys, she saw the mirror crack, the walls of his hate, his guarded distance from lack of a true soul that was his, melted the instant he felt the enchanted blade cut through to his heart. He almost welcomed the end now, his seven hundred and four years terrorising the Prime and his incarceration on Styss; flashing before his eyes and the rarest, briefest of moments showed a flicker of true regret reflected back to Elghinn.

"This could have been avoided.. Damnable fool!" Elghinn had hissed harshly in his ear, the strange look of sorrow in her eyes igniting spirit that was slowly fading in the big man.

Vico's eyes gave Elghinn her answer as the axe came away with blood and gore attached, sinking to his knees. His vision stained crimson, he blinked away watery tears as he held his chest in his arms, trying to staunch the river of blood that was pumping thoroughly out of him like a macabre waterfall.

Through his bloody haze, Elghinn had gone, Elzigard and everything else was no more. He saw the Iron City ahead. Dispater, the Greater Devil striding toward him with a sadistic grin on his face. Reaching Vico's subdued form, scaly clawed hands reached to his body as if to rip out the soul that was long promised. Vico closed his eyes, waiting for that final tear.

Rebecca's blade sliced home, melting the vision of Dispater and bringing fresh firey pain to his eyes. Her sword bit into his neck and cleaved deep into his shoulder, two horrendous gashes now that poured blood. In his mind he heard Dispater howl as if denied, for a moment Vico didn't realise what was happening.

There was a low, eerie humming sound nearby.

Turning slightly, Vico caught glimpse of the ones that had stood by him, elevated him to more than the guttersnipe mercenary he had been in life all seem to turn and watch him now, his life ebbing out in a river of ruby red staining the Palace steps.

Spineweft was not done. Lenfal Fairchild, First of the Hollow now spoke to Vico in a tongue he did not comprehend save it's intent. "Dispater be damned, your soul is mine."

The humming got louder then blended into a malevolent whining. The bonesword screeching like a banshee as Vico felt what seemed to be like a million metal hooks digging into his flesh and begin to pull. He screamed, a true, terrifying scream that chilled the spine of anyone with a modicum of decency. True fear from the Darksun as the invisible hooks tore at the tarnished soul and ripped it from his body, his face a contored mask of terror.

Those outside would witness a dark shroud close over Vico as he kneeled there, bleeding out. Then a sickening crack and all colour drained from Vico's flesh as Spineweft claimed the soul it had been constructed to do.

The lifeless form of the Consul of Elzigard pitched forward and collapsed face down in his own blood.

The Tyrant was dead.