Joey
Portrait
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Not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood, restless harbingers of violence and bloodshed, knowing no other path.
-Robert E. Howard Who'se this Joker? Face: A smirking expression painted by what one could guess was confidence, likely born through experience. Joey could easily be mistaken for fool hardy, prone to making unwise desicions; to a keener eye though, it might've been seen as bravery. The man's brow was often bounding through hoops, conversing as much as his pierced mouth box; furthering his energetic disposition. Joey could have been handsome at any rate, if the man had given a fuck. Hair: Despite being of good hygiene, it wasn't out of place to see Joey with hair akin to a snow coloured landslide. With a stylish case of neglected bed-head, Joey didn't seem much for styling it any which way. That being said, the mess of hair was never seen impairing his vision; always combed back by a calloused, talon tipped hand. Eyes: Many words could rightly describe the measuring gaze of Joey Tudor; imposing, calculative, questioning, devious, considerate, keen, thoughtful, and so on. It was the fact as though there was something burning within his man, hardening nearly every aspect of him; and it was through his silvery gaze that it found easy release. Body: It was evident in every movement of Joeys, that the figure trained and exercised on a timely basis. Tall, broad, and dark, he wore an enduring and capable appearance. Perceived to be the kind of unyeilding and athletic warrior, Joey didn't stray a single step from your assumtions of a sharpened combatant. His body was cut of impossibly lean, rigid muscle mass; shapely toned arms rivered with buldging veins, a stomach that could powder rock, and legs that resembled the thick trunks of trees. Armour: Joey protected himself with a practical cuirass, seemingly smithed for the man himself. It was of hardened steel, glinting with dull polish. Small sparkles of light were caught in the mind aching amount of scars within the metal; light reflecting as though upon single hairs. Joey didn't wear much, simple leather boots, worn cloth greaves; even ditching his own helm for a keener line of sight amidst battle on occasion. Weapons: The Father of Swords: The gargantuan piece of art, more a cleaver then any sword would claim, The Father of Swords was a blade of legendary proportions with a honed edge that proved more sculpted then ground down; convex by nature but marred by the constant clashing of opposing weapons. The titan sized blade seemed designed to rend its victim, tearing deep before the sheer weight would carry the blade deeper; more often straight through creatures and items of lesser stature. Eight feet in total length, a foot and a half in width, and four inches in thickness; if it was not for the mortifyingly keen, serrated edge, one would have taken it for a weapon of bludgeoning intent. . To further it's unsightly appearance, the Blade was held in a single hand signifying Joey as one of the few who possesses the ability to Monkey Grip. ( Just RP, don't worry, there's no special treatment going on ) Composure: Despite his rugged, slumdog appearance as a whole, Joey always proved sharp and effective (To those he figured earned any respect ), labeling him as some one of value. Upon the battlefield, Joey was both inpsiring and daunting; depending on what side you found yourself during the conflict. Fearless, reckless, and strangely effective; it washed hope over those who trembled in the face of severe, and hopeless oppression. Tattoos/Piercings: Two silvery snake bite piercings were tucked into his lower lip, simple polished rings of surgical steel. Within his nose were both a Bridge piercing of silvery studs, and a runic nose stud tucked into the side of his right nostril in the shape of a crescent moon. Joey was lathered in robust pitch coloured ink; swirling about in what looked to be many tattoos tied together by a shaded wind. His right arm was decorated to look as though his skin had been torn away, and a suit of fanciful plate was depicted as a second skin. His entire back was worn with a wolf, howling to a cresent moon atop a stoney, steep hill. There were many more; all you'd have to do is look/ask. OOC Junk: Age: Appears in his late twenties Home Town: Kalaram Profession Before the Outbreak: Cartographer / Merchant / Tattoo Artist Languages: Common, Elven, and Drow Reds: I like to think I can Roleplay out of any situation, though don't expect me to be interested in scat, blood, extreme torture, or children. Greens: The usual, the unusual, the fun and bizarre. Whites!: ~Genuine Roleplay~!, wholesom characters, character development, plotting, schemes, realism, adventure. Songs: Steel Panther. ( Just about any song of theirs ) We're all here to have fun~! I won't bite your head off OOCly, Maybe ICly if you're a dickbag. |
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| Player: | Forgotten_Martyr |
| Gender (Visually): | Male |
| Race (Visually): | Human |