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Name: Xenos Mortium
Appearance: Xenos is 38 years of age, standing at almost two meters in height and weighing about ninety eight kilograms. He has fairly tanned skin due to years spent in the sun, constantly wearing down on him, as well as his birthplace of a steel town adding a natural darkness to his complexion. He has silky black hair with a few strands of white contrasting it, which comes down to about his cheekbones, often obscuring his eyes, one of which being light blue, and the other light green. Both of his eyes tend to be lighter towards to middle and darker towards the edges however, and unlike most people who have lived a greater number of years or endured a number of stresses, his eyes remain fresh and bright as if they had not aged past childhood. While generally trying to keep clean shaven, Xenos is often put into situations where he is unable to shave for extended periods of time due to being trapped in the wilderness or in a combat situation of some sort, and as a result it is not uncommon to see him with a five o’clock shadow or perhaps some stubble or even a lighter beard.
He is physically well fit, though his body is starting to show some age, and if one was to see him with clothing removed, the would see the extent of how much punishment he has taken over the years. His body is almost quite literally a roadmap of scars, coming from various blades, bullets, pieces of shrapnel, and burns. Xenos takes great pride in his body however, and makes effort to keep in very good shape, and still has an athlete’s body approaching his forties. He has also developed an affection for tattoos that he developed as an assassin early on, having a geometric pattern covering part of his left hand and forearm, as well as a tribal tattoo around the bicep of the same arm. On his right arm he has a large emblem showing that he was a member of the Dark Seraph, though if possible, he will try to keep this covered. Over the whole of his upper back, Xenos has a complex tattoo of seemingly a number of demons coiled amongst one another, all of them seeming to wrap around a larger one in the back, wings spread out towards his shoulders. Across the lower of his back, there is something written, though in what language or what it says is indiscernible.
His clothing varies from situation to situation, but his usual garb entails loosely fitted khaki military clothing, with black combat boots and a dark brown cloak that reaches his knees draped across his shoulders. Over his chest, whether he’s in a situation that would be deemed safe of not, Xenos will tend to wear a bullet proof vest, mainly as that he’s paranoid, and ever trying to remain ready to enter combat. He wears black leather gloves and dark reflective sunglasses, and on his head he will tend to wear either a khaki officers cap or a black beret with a silver emblem on it. When actually expecting a combat situation however, he wears camouflage to match the environment if possible, with tighter fitting clothing but still the vest and usually the cloak. In casual situations, he’ll gravitate towards dress or cargo pants and either a tight fitted shirt (short or long sleeved) or a semi-formal dress shirt worn in a casual manner.
Personality: Xenos is, simply put, aged and jaded. He is not, by any means, a bright and cheery person. He is generally seen as being stern and almost uptight, generally unfriendly, but holds himself in such a matter as if he is highly experienced in the matter that he is tending to, and as such he tends to garner respect. Years on the battlefield have dulled his emotions, and he has become nearly completely insensitive to violence and the like. Also, he is very much a “no-bullshit” kind of person, and can be seen as a stubborn a*****e. While being this gruff and unfriendly person, Xenos still has a heart within him; those that he lives and fights with he will tend to become quite attached to, and he’ll even break his stern gaze every now and again. The only time he ever seems to be truly happy however, is when he is with Nezume.
This does not stop him from being a smartass though, and he will often make sarcastic and sometimes humorous comments to those around him. However, when people try to joke back with him, it only seems to cause aggravation. However, Xenos is also a broken man and his mind has started to slowly slip away from him. He is paranoid, always keeping a weapon on him and he is always ready to strike out at others. He will sometimes have hallucinations, visual and auditory, as well as whispers across the back of his mind. Sometimes he can be seen staring blankly into space, as if transfixed on something. He used to drink because it helped bring out his emotion and his feelings, to try and feel the most he could out of everything, but he now drinks to try and dull his feelings, and he feels as if he regains his sanity better when under the influence of alcohol.
Belongings: Xenos is in the possession of a number of weapons, but always carries on him two combat knives, one in his boot and one on his shoulder, his CZ-75B and sometimes another pistol, as well as numerous throwing knives that he keeps on straps. He has been known to use most commonly a Franchi SPAS 15, an AKS-74, or a Dragunov. While not part of his usual gear, he will in combat carry a half dozen grenades of various types, as well as a SAS Avon S10 Gasmask and occasionally hidden arm blades.
In his possession as well is a large complex that he managed to acquire, where the Black Templars are based in. This base is surrounded by a electric chain link fence with barbed wire on top, as well as a motion detector security system. It has multiple buildings for many functions, for duty and leisure, as well as housing an armory, an underground fallout bunker, food and supplies to last for months, and a dozen or two vehicles.
Other: As for physical strength, Xenos can bench in the range of about two hundred fifty pounds, and can leg press well over double that. He has been taught extensively in Aikido, Kempo and Taijutsu, as well as the sword arts of Nitojitsu and Ninjaken, making him quite a formidable opponent in close quarters, especially combined with his deadened nerves from years of near constant pain and innumerable wounds. Twenty years of gun fighting has led him to be an accurate shot and a smart shooter, able to keep his cool even in extremely dangerous situations. Essentially, he’s a master in many forms of combat, able to hold his own again any aggressor. However, with his entire live devoted to it, his very being has been altered, and for the worse at that.
History: Xenos Mortium was born in 1968 in Birmingham, England. He was raised in a poor family, and had a rough life. Birmingham was, after all, a steel town, and the whole damn place was just brutal. At the age of fifteen he dropped out of school and joined a gang, starting his descend into the dregs of society. Within a few years though, the utter bloodlust that he acquired could not be satiated by the constraints of the gang wars in his home town, so he disappeared and left for London, where his life would soon change, and for the worse.
He soon started doing hits acting on the behalf of various two-bit thugs, but he caught the attention of a very powerful crime lord in the city. He earned the moniker Morte for his chillingly well done hits and assassinations. With his new name acquired, he soon rose through positions, and became the hand of the crime lord. He could have virtually anything he wanted. However, he wanted too much. He killed the crime lord, leaving his corpse and incriminated evidence against his empire for the London police.
This done, he left to Berlin with a large sum of money stolen from his former boss. He learned what he could of the language, and soon become somewhat of a drifting thief, wandering the world and stealing various artifacts and valuables, returning them to a sponsor in Berlin. It was here that he earned the moniker Xenos. He was the foreigner. He traveled the world, stealing millions of dollars worth of valuables, and taking a number of ‘trophies’ for himself. He also took this time, as that he had so much of it free, to educate himself, as that he never got it as an adolescent.
One time that he made an attempt to steal an ancient sword in Japan, and he was met, to his surprise, by a Japanese swordsman. Xenos drew his blade and they began to fight, but it soon became clear that the Japanese man was toying with him. He tried to withdraw, but was soon met by others, others of equal skill in their own forms of combat. It was then that he joined the Dark Seraph. He was now back in the art of murder, and combined his two names into what he is known by today; Xenos Mortium. To be frank, one would be hard pressed to learn anything from Xenos about his days in the Dark Seraph, other than that they were all masters of what they did, and that it ended horribly.
Xenos almost died, and is only alive because of the efforts of Nezume when she was part of the United States military, but he soon escaped and went into hiding. When she left active duty, he came to her in order to deliver thanks, and they soon fell quite passionately in love. They created the Black Templars together, but soon matters of grave importance overtook her, and she was forced to leave the mercenary group before it was even started. Xenos still holds her as the sole leader however, and awaits a time in which she may return to him.

Name: Kyle (James) Anderson
Focus of Training: Demolitions and Explosive Ordinance
Appearance: Kyle, at 29 years of age, stands at approximately six feet three inches and weighs two hundred and twenty five pounds. Kyle didn't look like the kid he used to when he first joined. Partly because it had been a long time and second because of how he had been living at the base after everyone left. Anderson's hair was longer and didn't glisten like it once did. He was starting to be taken over by a beard, although, at this moment it was only long stubble and his once bright youthful blue eyes were now cold and weathered. Anderson fashions black padded assault pants with a matching black assault top overtop black Under-Armour. The Assualt top was a rather ornate and eloquently made fabric material that covered his upper body with a double stitched Dragon-Skin (T) weave underneath a fiber having increased cut resistance made from a fiber-forming polymer and a hard filler having a Mohs Hardness Value greater than about 3, it could withstand a beating. The filler was included in an amount of about 0.05% to about 20% by weight. In preferred embodiments, the fiber-forming polymer was poly(ethylene terephthalate) or a liquid crystalline polyester comprising monomer units derived from 6-hydroxy-2-naphthoic acid and 4-hydroxybenzoic acid. The preferred fillers in Kyle's vest included tungsten and alumina. Basically, his clothing was bullet and cut resistant. It was more improved than Kevlar or any of it's competitors. Furthermore, tactical pads were worn over top the clothes and he had possession of a balaclava, tactical helmet, and NVG’s. He wears a custom made black shoulder holster with three extra magazine holders on the opposite side when around the base.
Personality: The smartass kid that used to roam the streets of Eterbury was no more. The seriousness of his job in the Rangers bred the lighthearted "war is fun" attitude that he held for all of the operations with the Black Templars. The "fun" was now lacking. His demeanor was much darker than it had been the last time the Templars saw him. He wasn't as immature (even though he didn't think he was then either) and less obnoxious. The pretty boy attitude/appearance had no remnants. A sense of humor still held on by a thread, but otherwise, he was more reserved and let him actions do the talking. He sometimes will try to take over a situation due to the fact he had been working alone for the past year and he was used to being in charge. He is more confidant in himself and very picky when it comes to leaning on others. At this point the only real people he trusts is Xenos Mortium and Carlos Sanchez. To him, those three are the Black Templars until the others prove themselves. The year of 'round the clock work and solo operations made him better and more self-reliant. It didn't go as far as that he didn't know how to work with a team anymore, he just knew what his limitations were. His reflexes were sharper, his instincts were more fine tuned, and (just like Colonel Xenos) he was beginning to understanding the true art of war.
Belongings: Anderson ditched the G36 when he got fed up with the high line of sighting, and the fore grip overheating when fired on full automatic. Also, during one of his solo ops, he couldn't attach his grenade launcher under the barrel in the field because of issues related to the fore grip. He looked for a new primary assault rifle. He messed around with some other German models before switching over to the prestigious FAMAS, although that didn't last long. In fact, he just left it in the field not caring enough about it to at least salvage it. After enough failed experiments, he made the decision to go back to American made weapons. Although he still found German engineering to be very advanced and still had respect for it, it just didn't work with him. He carries a suppressed REC7/M203 with infrared targeting system with Red-Dot Sight. Lastly, as a side arm, he holsters one lone suppressed USP 40. In the likely chance he runs out of ammo (as he only carries a limited amount of 5.56mm and .40 S&W rounds all in a black camel-pak), he has a 18.25” machete with a virtually indestructible blade, charged by high energy ionized plasma, cuts through practically any material except another blade of its kind. If they need to capture someone, he brings tear gas and wears a MSA Millennium Gas Mask. He has nothing concerning personal belongings. He joined the military to have a home and to be cared for and left anything that he could take with him behind. He had a picture of his parents with him for the longest time, however, he lost it around the HQ at some point.
Other: He considers himself an exceptional tactician and will give suggestions for operations. He knows CQC(Close-Quarters Combat) and aikijujitsu.
History: Kyle was born to wealthy parents and was raised like a normal child. He lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and went to a private school there. He received rather high marks. During the course of his childhood, he tried racing, football, surfing and other things but he never stuck with anything. His parents dreamed that he would take over the family business that spawned all their fortune. However, he did not want to take over their company. At that age, he didn’t care about unbreakable condoms. By age 18, he was ready to go off to college. His parents had money saved up to sent him to Harvard but it never happened. Over the summer after his senior year, his parents were brutally murdered and all of their fortune gone.The police found out that some church radical killed them wanting to enforce sex before marriage teaching. Kyle had to sell the company, home and all their assets due to bills, minor debt, and restoration of the severely damaged house(from the murder). The crook, after stabbing them repeatedly, blew apart the foundation and left the house in a heap. The action also did left some money in his pocket. Not enough to go to school though. He knew now that the only way to get an education was if someone gave him a scholarship. He received several but none of it could cover any of the schools he wanted to attend. That is when he enlisted into the Army. He would have liked to go to one of his family member's houses but he had no where else to go. His parents lost contact with their families long before his birth. After Basic Training, he joined the 75th Ranger Regiment and was leading a team within 2 years after his Squad Leader was KIA. He led his Ranger Team through multiple operations for 2 years. He applied to Delta Force once he fulfilled the requirements of 4.5 years of service, at least a rank of E-5, and have a general technical score of 110 or higher. After getting invited to Delta and passing the training, he toured with them for another 4 years. He was Honorably Discharged with medals abroad including a Distinguished Service Cross, and 3 Purple Hearts.

One Purple Heart was received after becoming squad leader. He was still pretty young and inexperienced, however, so was his group. He accidentally led them into an ambush resulting in him getting shot in shoulder, through-and-through. A second Purple Heart was during an operation in Afganistan, He lead his team in to recover intel from a bunker. He got it but on the way out, he was attacked resulting in them missing thier chopper. Basically his whole team received the Purple Heart, he personally was shot in the left arm. He re-established contact and were picked up 2 days later. His last Purple Heart was acheived in a firefight when in Delta in Iraq. One of his men was hit in the middle of a road and he went out with the medic to treat him. He was caught with a bullet right above the right part of his a** and it traveled up his back and ricocheted out off his rib, fracturing it. He was given the Distinguished Service Cross upon his debreifing from his last operation. During that time, they reviewed his file and nominated him for it.
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After a several year partnership with the Black Templars, the BT disbanded. He headed back to San Francisco only to realize his real home was back in Eterbury. He went back to the headquarters and stayed there monitoring Black Templar operatives and their movements. He also spent time tapping into secure lines and gathering intel on black ops targets and sold the information to governments to keep some sort of cash inflow on top of lone wolf operations. He didn't want to lose his edge, therefore, he still operated out of the base...and he has been at HQ ever since.
RP Sample: In the world of contract killers, evolution takes place fairly quickly. The transition from the armed forces to the private sector is not one all can make. What isn’t known is that the private sector has a different list of criteria to be filled. The thing that will take you the farthest in the field isn’t no much having a steady aim or brute strength; it’s the mental fortitude that ensures shelf life. Similar to sports, multitudes of people will have it become a job, but only a handful can make a career out of it. That was the reason I’m still around. The young gun that can hit a dime from 2 miles out might be more valuable for the first couple years, but eventually he’d break. That's where I come in.

The helicopter hovered overhead the drop zone. Anderson was seated nearest to the pilots and the his grim expression was absent. Instead taking it's place was a youthful, determined expression -- one that had not yet been subjected to the dark side of war. He motioned for the ropes to be let down and the team began down the fast ropes. Meanwhile, Kyle took off the headset used to communicate with the pilot. The last one down, he hit the ground and moved over to where his team was located. Anderson started issuing orders as the ropes hit the ground and the chopper flew away.

"Nunez. You take point on this south street and take half the chalk to the front door designation "Alpha". The rest of the chalk will come with me around to where the hot zone is - "Bravo". When you get there, breach on zulu. Got it?" The men resounded, "Yes, sir!" and the operatives began their mission.

Anderson took point around the building and took on a moderate jog around to the target building. One of the only areas on concern was an upcoming intersection they had to cross. As they approached, Kyle slowed and made the "hold" signal. The half chalk slowed up with him and Kyle peaked around the shoddy tan building. It looked clear both ways. Anderson pointed to the handful of people closest to him and motioned them to come with him. The rest of the chalk he was leading formed up on the corner to cover their crossing. Kyle and the few soldiers took off across the road and made it successfully to the other side. They stacked up on the building opposite and got ready to cover the next batch. Kyle looked out the corner of his eye seeing the second half of his chalk moving to the target building.

Just as his eyes came back to his fire sector, a single shot rang out and one of his men fell to the ground. A slew of shouting erupted from the chalk trying to identify where the shooter was. Another shot rang out missing Kyle by inches and allowed them to narrow down their search. Finally the muzzle flash was located. As some suppressive fire was laid down on it, Kyle and a medic rushed out into the intersection to investigate the wound. It was pretty bad. Kyle turned around and yelled out, "Stretcher!" Shots were whizzing by the few soldiers in the center of the street as they loaded the injured Ranger onto the stretcher. Suddenly one of the whizzes made contact and entered Kyle's back. He fell down in pain and he heard his teammates shout, "Tango, six o'clock!"

Anderson remembered being dragged over to the side of the road and being patched up. He could still hold his weapon. It just hurt... a lot. Now that the entire chalk was over on the right side of the intersection, the Corporal crouching next to Anderson yelled, "What do we do now, sir?"

"What are our orders?"
"Should I call in air support?"
"Command is asking about our status, Sarge. What should I report?"

Kyle panicked and his breathing increased...There was nothing you could do. ..you did everything by the book...No one could have done it any better...You did good out there...

Kyle snapped up and kicked the sheets off him. He was sweating profusely and breathing heavily. He ran his hands through his wet hair and glanced to his right where a purple heart was laying on his dresser; the same one received from his dream. Kyle looked away in disgust and got up. Heading to the bathroom, he splashed water on his face several times and looked up in the mirror staring into the hardened eyes that now looked back at him. A door closed nearby and Kyle froze.

He stormed into his room and grabbed his USP 40. Judging from sound, Kyle turned left out of his room and went into the administrative hallway and there stood a lone closed door -- Xenos' Office, although Kyle had taken it over since the departure. Kyle went into a jog and ran up to the door. Lowering his shoulder and burst through the door, he raised his firearm and aimed it at the figure.

Xenos turned around slowly and sat down in his desk, "Welcome back..."

Kyle remained silent, only lowering his weapon.

Xenos continued as he looked around the office, "Been busy, I can tell," he paused waiting to see if Kyle would have anything to say. Of course, that was something Anderson prefer to leave out of the conversation so he continued, "How have you been?"

Kyle cleared his throat before getting out, "Never better..."

Mental fortitude isn't being able to perform actions without regret; it's knowing how to handle those emotions and what to do with the baggage that only becomes heavier throughout your time in the field. It's something Colonel Mortium had to do a long time ago and something I never really understood -- something I never had to understand. My actions over the past year aren't something I'm necessarily proud of, but it forced me to take upon this mental toughness -- the mental toughness I lacked before. Is it something worthwhile? Yes. But the question is: Was it worth the price? Only time will tell...

Name: Ryan Matthew Whelan
Focus of Training: Guerrilla warfare, marksmanship and Krav Maga CQC
Appearance: nearly 55 years of age, Ryan stands 6' 2" and weighs in at 190 lbs. His bright, emerald green eyes are a sign of his Irish heritage, as well as a sharp and noticeable contrast to his face, darkly tanned from his years spent in harsh environments. His black crew cut hair and neatly kept goatee show signs of greying at the tips. Over his right eye is a nasty, jagged scar running directly down the length of his face. His jaw line his stone cut, and his face is wrinkled along the ridges of his forehead and around his mouth, giving away his age. His body is peppered with scars from a number of knives, bullets, and bits of shrapnel; a testament to his countless years spent on the battlefield. When he smiles, a missing front tooth becomes apparent. Tattooed across his back between his shoulder blades in a bold, ornate roman font are the lines:
VIVE LA MORT, VIVE LA GUERRE
VIVE LE SACRÉ MERCENAIRE
Tattooed between the two lines of text is an ace with a white skull in the center.
A newer tattoo now rests across his left bicep, in the same bold roman font:
Black Templars
The Latrocinium
His built is athletic and toned, so he chooses to accent it with his choice of clothing. Ryan typically dresses in a tight-fitting tanktop under a leather jacket, a pair of rugged khaki cargo pants, and black combat boots outside of combat, though his pistol is always kept at his waist in a holster. When on a mission, he commonly just replaces the leather jacket with a ceramic plated black tactical vest with loops for his grenades, slaps a fanny pack on his belt for his ammunition, straps on a set of black elbow and knee pads, throws a pair sunglasses over his eyes and covers his neck and lower face in a digital camouflage shemag. Around his neck, Ryan always wears a wooden rosary.
Personality: Ryan is quick-witted, sharp-tongued, cynical, and professional. He keeps a consistently cool head and can adapt to any situation on the fly. However, he doesn't let his world view bring down the spirits of his brothers in arms. He tends to try and break tension with either a sarcastic remark or by attempting to start up a spell of banter among his comrades. Even in the thick of battle, Ryan likes to make sure his allies aren't letting the pressure get too under their skin, and if it is he'll interject with a bit of humor to ease everyone's nerves.
Belongings: Ryan owns a Colt M1911a1 pistol that he has owned and kept in working order since his teenage years, and always keeps it, along with three 7-round magazines of .45 ACP, on his person. When in the field, he also carries with him a A D20RS HK416 with 2x-9x rifle scope, five 30-round magazines of 5.56x45mmNATO ammunition, Three fragmentation grenades, a stainless steel combat knife, a throat mic w/ two-way radio, and a 50 ft. nylon rope wrapped around a belt loop (just in case). Personal items Ryan tends to keep on hand are zippo lighter for his cigarettes, a metal-cased copy of The King James Bible in the right leg pocket of his cargos that leaves his side just as often as his Colt M1911a1, a flask of whiskey strapped to his belt that's normally already half-empty, and a pack of cigarettes with at least one cigarette that has already been smoked.
Other: Still a devout Catholic, Ryan prays and reads from his King James bible every morning at sunrise.
History: Born in Northern Ireland April 10th 1955, Ryan was raised by a devout Catholic family in a poor, crime infested neighborhood in Belfast. Ryan spent much of his youth in constant conflict with his parents and the law. His lust for trouble was fueled heavily by his abusive father's behavior and his mother's ability to turn a blind eye and drown herself in a bottle. By the time he was 14 years old, Ryan had quit attending school, and instead chose to spend his time with a gang of friends committing petty crimes and generally wreaking havoc throughout town.
At the age of 16, Ryan became involved in a Radical Catholic group waging a loud and bloody street war against a number of Protestant groups. At the age of 20, Ryan had not only managed to climb to the top of the command chain within the organization, but also became one of Northern Ireland's most wanted criminals. This reign was short lived, however, as shortly after Ryan and a crew of twenty men were ambushed by local police forces during an arms deal. Ordering his men to fight off the police force, Ryan managed to escape and go underground. He bribed his way aboard a cargo plane on route for South Africa, where he made a living as a mercenary during the Angolan Bush War under the payroll of the South African government.
When the war ended in 1989, Ryan joined Executive Outcomes, a PMC that formed as a result of the war he'd spent the last fourteen years fighting. While working for Executive Outcomes, he spent much of his time doing standard defense jobs until 1991, after which he began fighting against the Revolutionary United Front in Sierra Leone. In 1998, Executive Outcomes disbanded. Being left to either crawl away and start working freelance again or find another company, Ryan moved to the United States and applied to work for Blackwater. He was accepted, and spent the next 11 years in and out of the Middle East under Blackwater's contract. After nearly getting his head shot off one too many times in 2009, Ryan left Blackwater USA; now known as Xe Services LLC; and set out to find a smaller, more professional company. He was sick and tired of being caught in a squad of gun-totting yanks who each thought they were living in an some action movie scenario where they were the star. On April 3rd, 2010, Ryan found exactly what he was looking for. The Black Templars: The Latrocinium.
RP Sample: Morning approaches Ryan thought. Indeed, dawn was breaking. The morning sun edged its way over the horizon, contriving a crisscrossed pattern of light as it leaked in through the dilapidated plywood roof and onto the floor below. He sat hunched over against the western wall of the shoddy structure his team had decided to use as a makeshift base of operations the evening before. A poor decision, it turned out. Throughout the night, they had been peppered by small-arms and mortar fire. Unable to gain higher ground, they fought desperately for twelve hours to hold the fort. As the sun began to creep higher into the sky, they were still fighting...
"Ryan! Stand to!" Adam screamed as he let loose a burst of AK fire into the distance. The structure they decided to base in was situated just at the edge of a small Iraqi village south of Baghdad. Many of the civilians in the area had fled the moment the first mortar dropped. He wondered if any of them were still alive.
Ryan simply held his index finger up to Adam. "Gimme a moment, mate." He shouted out in an eerily calm tone. He reached into a large pocket on the front side of his combat vest. As he retrieved the object, it's shining red steel jacket glistened like dew in the morning light. He unfastened the latch that held the container closed, and lifted it open. Inside, bolted to the casing, was a King James bible.
Opening the book to a random page, he read quickly and quietly, mouthing the words to himself. The cigarette that hung from his lips fluttered up and down as his lips moved, creating a swirl of dancing smoke with each bouncing motion of the cherry. His lips stopped moving, and he closed the metal-cased book back and set it securely within the front pocket of his vest. Closing his eyes, he reached his hand inside the collar of his black t-shirt and pulled out a beaded wooden rosary. Tucking the cross lightly in the palm of his hand, he lowered his head. After a moment, he whispered to himself "Amen..." and kissed the cross lovingly before tucking it back inside of his shirt.
Ryan kept his head low, snatching the M14 he'd chosen for his mission from the wall to his left. He scurried forward and threw his shoulder into the wall next to Adam, who was peaking outside the window at the force across the field that was attacking. "How many we've got left, mate?" Ryan said, spitting the cigarette in his mouth across the room.
" I think 'bout six more! The rest pulled back, I think! T' get more men!" Adam shouted as a mortar exploded just behind the house.
"Simple..." Ryan said. Easing his way into the window, he knelt down until his head was just barely exposed over the lower edge of the window. Resting the barrel of the M14 on the window sill, Ryan braced the top of the weapon with his left hand. He brought his shoulder to the stock of the weapon and peered out the scope downrange. As he fixated his gaze on the small, but fierce fighting force across the field, he fought to read the atmosphere and distance quickly and effectively. Distance 700 yards....wind 2 quarter value... He adjusted his scope, keeping an eye on his targets through it. He brought the crosshairs over the first target, center mass. "Oi, spot for me, will ya?" He shouted up at Adam as another Mortar exploded 20 yards in front of the house.
Adam shuffled with his gear sack and drew out a pair of binoculars. Looking out from the side of the window, he zoomed in and watched as the enemy force scrambled to load and fire off another mortar shot.
Ryan took a deep breath, keeping his sights on the first target. He exhaled half-way and held his breath. He squeezed the trigger gently, and as the cacophony of sound echoed out from his first shot, his reticule was thrown off by the recoil.
"Hit." Adam said, patting him on the shoulder. Ryan placed another target in his crosshairs, watching as the enemy jumped and fell to a sitting position when he noticed one of his allies had just been taken down. This time he fixed the crosshairs over the targets head. Deep breath. Exhale half way. Hold. Pull the trigger.
"Hit." Adam said again. "Looks like we've got a runner now, though. Push two."
Ryan brought the crosshairs over the target and lead him. Deep breath. Exhale. Hold. Pull.
"Hit."
Breath. Exhale. Hold. Pull.
"Hit."
Breath. Exhale. Hold. Pull.
"Hit."
Breath. Exhale. Hold. Pull.
"Hit."
"Looks like you missed one..."
Breath. Exhale. Hold. Pull.
"Hit. Good job, mate." Adam said with a smirk. "Now let's get the hell out of here."
"Rodger that." Ryan said as he placed a cigarette to his lips and began to light it.
Theme Song(only because I'm jealous that Seamus gets one): The Black Angels - "Young Dead Men"

Name: Damian Maltheus
Focus of Training: Heavy Weapons/Anti Terrorist
Appearance: Damian is fifty-six and stands at a massive 6'3" with muscles that seem to be mostly built up at his legs and mid section. He has wrinkles on his face but since he has so many scars they could be easily mistaken for just that. He wears a black and silver combat vest that reveals all the old scars on his arms. The combat vest looks as worn and battle weathered as its owner with slash marks and bullet holes marring the once elegantly made vest. One of his scars is of a dark brown color on his right arm that looks like a deep wound from many years ago and another deep one in his chest but he refuses to talk about either one. On missions in cold or rainy weather he wears a battered old Russian officer coat, the kind with the fur lining. Damian’s face usually bares a calm expression that is refreshing to look at, he has deep blue eyes and dark brown hair that fit his visage nicely. His hair is short and clean with a graying beard that makes him seem almost fatherly. His combat boots and pants all are silver and black and if you look closely you can see SXIII on the sides of both. The pants look like he used them in every situation possible and even now they still haven’t torn or shredded. The material looks to be normal cotton but when you look very closely you can see that is has been reinforced with tiny slides of what must be steel. This ingenious design of combat pants makes it slightly harder to maneuver in but adds more protection. Damian's boots are padded on the inside and have been purposely worn at both the heel and front of the boot for silent walking.
Personality: Damian is a fairly silent and wonderful man who seems to have a deep caring for those around him. He carries the air of someone who has lost much and seeks to preserve what little he has. English is his worst language which makes conversations with Damian short or odd due to his failure to grasp American expressions. Despite his trouble Damian enjoys playing word games and would not resist making a terrible pun in the middle of a firefight. His wolf Sergei seems to be his closest friend, their relationship seems to be one of brothers despite the obvious communication difficulty. Though he does not say very much he does sometimes explain that Sergei was a longtime friend of his that died and the wolf was all he really has left from his past.
Belongings: Damian carries around on his persona at all times two daggers, one black and one silver, and a personally customized magnum that looks like it belonged to an old mafia boss. On missions he will carry a MG36 LMG which he customized to have less recoil and more aim then the usual LMG by putting on a recoil dampening stock and replacing the muzzle break.. On his back in two ornate sheathes are two silver long swords that were made to rip through flesh rather then clean cut it to cause more pain then necessary and are always with him on missions. In normal life he has just a large duffle bag he carries around. In it are mostly just the bare essentials of life. Shaving cream, a comb he almost never uses, a sewing kit, and a med kit that he uses often. For sentimental reasons he also has a picture of his parents from before he was taken and a pair of broken shackles that remind him of his previous servitude.
Other: Damian owns a wolf named Sergei and speaks fluent Russian and German. His English is good but not as good as the other two languages.
History: Damian was born in a small town in Russia. At a young age he was taken as a slave to a wealthy mob boss and was abused until the age of eleven when they finally found a use for him. One day a revered high ranking member found Damian in a pool of blood in which a man with explosives lay dead. Damian was smiling for the first time in all his years there staring at the man who he had killed, yearning to do it again. The member who found him picked him up immediately and brought him to the boss who had him trained in the art of killing and stealth. His training came to an end at the fine age of eighteen when the real killing began. For years in his life he killed simply to forget the past and to try and take some satisfaction that he was killing someone may have been in the mafia at one point. Eventually he had enough and with the connections he had made over the years stormed the mafia building. Damian might as well have been an animal for he used no other weapons but two daggers which he used to rip the flesh of all the men who fought against him rather then kill them immediately. When he reached the mob boss he threw the first dagger to stop him from firing his Raging Bull and then cut out his eyes and ate them. More had been done to the mob boss but none like to speak of it. But from that day forward he always carried two daggers and a Raging Bull that never left his waist unless he was in combat. From there he moved to Germany and worked with a group of mercenaries for several years learning new combat arts that he wished to learn. At the age of twenty seven the German government offered him a position in a program called SXIII. SXIII or Section Thirteen, was a mercenary organization created for the purpose of serving the German government without fear of being traced back to them. Their missions ranged from assassinations to protection but in the current climate they focused on counter terrorism. He accepted and there he prospered and made good friends, one of which he was like a brother to. Sergei Borchevich was his name, also a native of Russia. They shared similar interests and one was never seen without the other for many years until the first war in Iraq started. SXIII sent them to take out a group of terrorists that they wanted to keep a secret. The terrorists were German and were a top priority of the German government. Just the two of them were sent and they wiped them off the face of the earth, or so it seemed. A month later the terrorist group appeared again and just as before Damian and Sergei was sent with a group of other members of the SXIII to finish them off for good. It turned out they were waiting for them and with Sergei, Damian fought them off and eventually got out of the trap, but Sergei wasn't so lucky. A stray bullet got him right in the head and he died instantly. Damian was so insane with rage he threw every explosive he had into the fray and caused a cave in which he almost didn't escape due to the fact that he dragged Sergei with him. After a few hours Damian accepted the loss of his friend and took his dog tags to remember him by and attended his funeral a week later and mourned alone. When he returned to SXIII he was given a pre domesticated wolf by his employers following his promotion to the rank of Silver Wolf. This rank signified that he was the best of the best and could now be one of the secret body guards of political leaders. But because it was too painful for him to stay there he quit, taking the wolf, which he appropriately named Sergei with him. Ever since then Damian worked alone as a freelance assassin killing and killing until he grew tired and quit that way of life. He eventually retired and lived a life of solitude until he was so bored he nearly took his own life. Using his connections he learned about the Black Templars and decided to join their ranks. Over the years Damian proved be a fine soldier as a Templar fighting in various missions as well as earning a place of esteem among the Templars. When they disbanded the first time Damian went into retirement and acted as a training instructor for special operations companies across the world. This was his life until he received a letter, one inviting him back to the Templars. Damian had considered staying retired but finally reconsidered and packed his bags in order to return home.
RP Sample: For years Damian had stuck to hiding until now he was an older man. His face showed signs of aging in the form of wrinkles and old scars that seemed to be erratic blurbs of paint on a once beautiful canvas of human life. Damian lived in a small hut in a forest outside of a small town of people in Germany. It had to be winter, what else would explain the frost outside of his dwelling. The timelessness before seemed to fade away as the purity of white winter seemed to wash over him. He rested his head in his hands sitting on his bed which seemed to be the only thing with him that was real. But then Sergei licked his hands and he returned to the present reality. He was out of work and was soon to be dead if he did not get wood and food. Sergei motioned at the door with his head and Damian spoke to the dog as if it understood him. "A wise and noble dog wishes me to move, then by all means I must. Lead on my friend, I forget the way to civilization." Sergei opened the wooden door with his paw and trotted into the snow sniffing around. Damian trudged after him and looked like a deranged animal blindly following in the snow. The pair reached the small town and was greeted by strange glances. Sergei open and held a door to what looked like a store and Damian entered taking out a wallet and placing money on the counter. It was then Damian noticed that he had not shaved in months and looked rather beastly. He put another few bills on the counter and took a bag that seemed to be set aside for him. Damian then returned home and lit a fire in the small hut, sitting beside it. He shaved his large beard and burned the hair as it fell. Sergei lay down near the fire and slept in its glow. Damian petted his dog and slept along side him like a father watches over his son.