Name: Emil Crowe
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Physical Description: Emil's short light brown hair is thick and messy, and his eyes are a sort of pale green, accented by the dark bags of an insomniac. He is a tall, lighlty tanned man whose form is mostly hidden beneath a tattered duster. Said duster is pieced together with different, nearly identical bits of brown leather. One of the sleeves have been ripped off just above the elbow, while the other is actually a bit over-sized, just long enough to hide a clenched fist. Both hands wear fingerless, black cloth gloves and the revealed arm wears several scars, the largest of which appear too uniform to have been accidental. Those scars, in fact, all appear to be lined up in rows, like little tick-marks used to keep count of something. His other clothing consists of equally ragged puke-green fatigues, a white-ish wife-beater, brown combat boots, and a thick piece of brown cloth that holds up his pants and houses a simple revolver, as well as a slightly rusted kitchen knife. One of his boots seems to be missing its strings, and instead is kept tied with three short lengths of small, thick chain. Hoisted over his shoulders is a pack, about the same color as his pants, that holds two surprisingly clean machetes and whatever supplies he might come across - Usually small quantities of canned food and bottled water.
Background: Emil has always been, and likely always will be a mercenary. His father was a mercenary, as was his father before him. His family name was fairly well known in the region they mostly operated in, and as a child he'd often hear about how reliable his grandfather had been, and what a shame it was when the old man finally caught a bullet between his eyes. Emil's father however, was not quite as revered. He would only take jobs that fell in line with his set of personal morals, and would never work for anyone whose cause he deemed unjust. While this could be seen as a good quality, most in the area saw his morality as a weakness. In this world, you couldn't pick and choose your work if you wanted to survive. That held true, as most of his life Emil and his father would only just scrape by with his earnings.
For as long as he could remember, Emil practiced fighting with other children and sometimes trained under seasoned combatants in the small settlements his father would visit to find work or claim payment, practicing on dummies made of whatever rubbish he could scrounge together around areas they'd set up camp while on the road. By the time he was sixteen, he convinced his father to let him start helping in his mercenary work by managing to get the drop on him in a spontaneous spar. At age eighteen he began to take his own contracts to bring in more supplies, and somewhere down the line he began to stray from the strong moral path his father followed. Around age twenty, his father died of infection while hunting a bounty. A client both father and son worked for on several ocassions found the body and reported it to Emil when he came around. It hurt, but that's how life goes. It was a wonder that the man hadn't died sooner.
Emil still tried to be a good person off the clock, but he wouldn't pass up any job just because it conflicted with his personal values. He wasn't going to struggle like his father had, and he certainly wasn't going to starve. Needless to say, some of his work left him with regrets. None more than a job he pulled nine years ago, under the employ of slavers. It was during that job that his powers began to develop. He thought he was just going to help a few men sneak in and kidnap a few people to sell as slaves, which was pretty horrible in itself. Still, it was work.
The moment they rolled into that small settlement, all hell broke loose. Shots were fired, blades tore through flesh. Not just men, but women and children. Anyone was fair game to these people. To call it a bloodbath would have been an understatement. This wasn't what Emil had signed on for, this was a slaughter. He didn't want to take part in this, he wouldn't. He refused. Emil turned on his employers, drawing his blades on them. He had managed to take down one or two, but was soon subdued and beaten viciously. There were many weapons, plenty of ammunition remaining, but they wouldn't grant him a quick death. He was a traitor, and deserved a traitor's death. As he lay on the ground, clutching at his sides and coughing blood, his eyes caught sight of something spectacular. There was a bright light shining through the windows of a farmhouse, like some wild surge of electricity. His attention was drawn away from the amazing light, that he actually thought may have been a figment of his imagination as his weak body was hefted up. He now faced the barrel of a shotgun. The slavers were leaving with those few that they had shackled, gunning down any that resisted, wrapping things up. Emil squeezed his eyes shut tight, preparing for what would come next. Boom.
The trigger had been pulled, yet somehow.. Emil was still alive. At least, he thought he was. He hadn't felt his head explode.. Would he have felt it? He opened his eyes slowly.. And they were all gone. The slavers, the other mercenaries, the poor innocent people that had all been murdered and enslaved. All gone, nowhere to be seen. It took a while for him to come to the realization that he had actually fled the scene through teleportation, and much longer to understand how he had done it. As he did though, he swore he would use this new ability to make up for all the wrong he had done just to keep himself fed.
Powers: Short to long range teleportation. This ability will extend to any person or thing he touches, though teleporting with larger objects, or larger quantities of objects/people will exhaust him more quickly - Teleporting longer distances or over-using the ability will also have a tiring effect. Usually a headache and/or nosebleed will indicate when he needs to take a break. When he is badly injured or fatigued, there is a good chance that his teleportation will send him and any passengers someplace unplanned, or just fail to work at all.
