Name: Ricardo Evaracii dei ladri di Venezia (Ricardo of the thieves of Venice)
Age: 28
Gender: Male
Height: 5'11
Weight: 166lb
Occupation: Assassin
Skills: Push Jumping, Able to Swim, able to speak Italian/Spanish/French, able to Long Jump, Skilled Climber, amazing stamina
Weapons of Choice: Hidden Blade, Spears, Scimitar, Leather Cestus, and Gold.
Physical Description: Sporting a variation of robes, he wears two layers of the classical assassin's wardrobe, the first layer the basic clothing, sage pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. The second layer, consisting of a hooded-long, white coat and red sash. On the shoulders of his second layer, he bore the Creed's symbol proudly to show rank. His sash wasn't worn as tradition said, instead being worn from right shoulder to left hip, tied behind his back, giving a sheath for his scimitar, the blade hanging down toward his left hip, its traditional sheath straps tied vice-versa the sash. On his right hip, he carried two bags, one concealing his gold while the other concealed a duo of smoke bombs.
His boots, from the toe to the top in the front, was armored by two plates of metal, giving both feet protection from any assault to his front, exposing only his right and left side of each foot, a third plate covering the back of each, making his boots a three-metal plated defense, though, from the sides' tie positions, must have meant that he was able to fully armor the leggings. On both hands, his hands were covered by a set of hard-leather cestus gloves, the actual forearm covered by a hardened leather guard. Matching to this leather beating set, he wore a hardened leather body-plate, covering his back and front torso in a slightly sword-resistant guard, the front holding loops for accessory weaponry. On his right arm, covered by leather, he held one of the traditional hidden blades of his ancestor, though, from its look it seemed like it was meant for the left arm, modified by his late grandfather to be used on the right arm. Sadly, it wasn't as upgraded as the ones known to be used by the older families of the order, unable to hold poison or conceal a pistol. Instead, it was hard and longer, giving it a more of a chance to survive a fight with, making it ideal for blocking anything smaller than a b*****d sword.
Normally, when he doesn't sport his hood over his head, one can see his long-in-the-back black hair cut, the front only spiking to above his eyebrows. His face, holding a slight tan from his Arabic ancestory, held a mix with an Irish brawler, giving him slightly more-opened eyes, making his eyes far more likely to catch slight changes. The color of them, a rich blue, seemed to add in more ancestory, lost along the line. Two scars, one from his cheek bone to his chin, the other cutting from his left forehead to the bridge of his nose, were obviously shown to have healed, though only within a year. Oddly, poking from under his robes, a letter seems to be strapped to his chest, the edge of it just barely exposed to others, though it made no discomfort to him.
Personality: Quick to challenge others to duels, he finds honor high placed among society, calling nobles, at times, complete cowards that hide behind the blades of stronger, more brave men. With this fiery passion for honor, he carries the scars of previous battles, both mentally and physically, the only ones he lost weighing heavily on him, mainly when brought up by others. When he talks about or with women, though, he seems to grow far more quiet than he is when boasting a victory, hiding past memories from others around him.
History: Born of a local escort and a rich merchant, Ricardo was raised in the rabble of street life in Venice. His mother saw him as nothing other than a mistake, only feeding him and leaving him to fend for himself most of his entire life. By the age of four, he could hold his own in the fights that children commonly had, easily fighting a kid of eight. This, though, was causing him to grow into a rather dark figure, giving him an almost constant scowl, where he would speak his mind and take whatever he wanted. This all came to a stop when he turned nine.
His mother, after saving up money, had moved them into a home with a man she had been frequently visiting, where he was almost immediately thrust into the life of a young, well-raised child. At first, he tried to continue his bad ways, only to find that nothing seemed to phase his mother, as if she had grown happy in her new life. This, after only a year, changed him to a confident student. His new-found father figure had paid to have him taught the languages of trade. In a year, he had learned the most basic of French and Spanish, his step-dad helping him learn by taking him on trips.
This would continue for almost four years, until, when he was thirteen, his mother passed away, causing his father to almost instantly changed. Ricardo found himself almost always having to look after him, the merchant almost always sick. Yet, in his tired and long days, the man continued teaching Ricardo the languages, eventually to a point that they would spend the whole day speaking a blend. He had learned to speak them as well as his native language. It didn't seem to satisfy him, so he asked his dieing father to teach him how to fight with a sword.
At sixteen, three years later, he got his wish, the merchant finding it needed for him to learn to fight, especially if he was to duel for honor. Thus, for the next two years, he was sent to a school in Firenze, where he trained under the watchful eyes of some of the most infamous fighters, teaching him tactics to counter almost any situation, attack in various styles, and the arts of a new combat known as "dirty fighting." It took him a while, but he caught on, almost natural when it came to dirty fighting, which he thought was due to his early life.
When he returned at eighteen, his father greeted him with a letter in hand. Upon being asked to read it, he learned it was from his late mother, and almost instantly opened it, reading its content carefully. Stunned, he slowly hid the letter in his shirt, tieing it through holes in the fabric. His mother, in all her years, had been working to save him something, something left behind by his late father. It was at the old bank where his new father had been working in his late years as a merchant, teaching money tactics among the bankers.
Upon arriving there, he was met by a man wearing black, white-lined robes, a soft chuckle coming from the man as he kept blocking him. Almost upon an unknown urge, he struck at the man in a wide swing, quickly getting pulled into an armlock, the soft voice of the man simply taunting him. Then, to his surprise, the man let him go, Ricardo turning to see him holding a medium-sized chest in one arm. He had known where it came from, but the man offered it to him. Taking it, he watched the man part, leaping to a roof of the nearby bank almost fluidly. Slowly, he looked to it, turning to return him.
Once inside his room, he placed it upon his bed, opening it. A large cloak-like robe sat within, folded with a large sash on it. He tilted his head as he took it out, pulling the cloak over his clothes and quickly tieing it at his waist, before pausing to turn to a mirror. His features seemed almost perfect to the image, as if he was born to wear these. Slowly, he turned to look at the sash, pulling it out and studying it. Quickly, he focused on the emblem resting in the fabric, the symbol of some triangular shape. A letter was caught within it. Lowering the sash, he took the letter, reading it. It was all pictures, showing locations known throughout Venice, eventually showing some of a man using the environment to his advantage, even one showing, as he had seen the man do earlier, a figure climbing a building by its features.
Time passed, eventually placing him five years later, where, at twenty-three, he was walking the streets, the sash tied in place as he wears it now, a scimitar he had recieved as a gift resting in it with a new blade's shine. He had been searching, all this time, for links to his long-lost father, leaving his mother's husband to perish in his sickness, giving him a rather wealthy stack of coins. Without a home, he had been stealing, learning to climb buildings, and perfecting his swordsmanship. He had lost two duels, both to the same man, over the past years. It was the man he had met at the bank. All the others, a group of twenty men, had given their lives in the duel, far too easily falling. The man, though, had sported him a challenge. It was this man, who, he knew, had the object his father had left for him.
Near the end of the day, as he began to get ready to practice his new-taught talent of swimming, he heard trouble far below in the entrance of the inn. Quickly covering himself, he came down in time to see men running out, a familiar face lieing dead on the floor in a pool of blood. The man he had been searching for had been killed. Running down, he fell to his knees, only to hear the man's soft laugh.
"In the basement, friend...you will find what you seek...farewell...my son..."
The words caught him, the young man unable to speak, simply staring at the shadowed face of the man he had fought all these years. His father had died in his arms, after being together for only a few moments. Moving his hand down his father's arm, he looked at the many stab wounds down his torso, matching the ends of claymores. Mercenaries had killed him in cold blood, no doubt. Moving his hands to his father's he removed the leather gauntlets, instantly knowing they were a set of cestus.
Pulling them on, he bowed his head, speaking for the first time in the years that had passed, his voice cracked from very little to no usage.
"Addio, padre. Si può trovare la felicità nella morte e di incontrarsi con la madre nella vita ultraterrena..."
The guards had arrived, moving him away from his father as they began the process of removing his body. He made no fight, simply watching his father vanish behind the veil of men.
Years passed, this time until his mind faded into the now, five years after the events at the inn. He stood at the grave of his father, just a few miles west of Venice. Within the inn's basement, a chest with a wrist blade, altered for his right arm, obviously a preference his father had held, and another letter. This letter held a document stating that the city of Firenze had held a debt of twenty thousand florins, which he easily put back into investing in a small home in the countryside of Tuscany. It was there he traveled next, where he retrieved armor left by a thief he had paid to steal it for him. Leaving, he locked the door tightly, walking through the crowd of mercenaries that lived in houses nearby. Printed on each roof was the symbol of the Assassin Order. There, his gear would be safe. For now, armed and ready, he had to take his two thousand florins and scimitar and find work with the long-known allies of assassins in Italy. With their help, he would perfect his arts and trace the damned conspiracy that killed his father.
"Prego Dio questi uomini possono essere eseguiti, per la farò trovare ed uccidere quelli che ha ucciso mio padre. E quando lo faccio, troveranno che la mano della mia famiglia non andrà insoddisfatte."
Likes: Dueling, Challenges, Hunting, Spars, Women, Drinking, and to Party.
Dislikes: Cowards, Curious People, Beggars, and Mercenaries.
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