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Description

[the shit behind him is gonna be updated pronto once I know his arcana and shit ✨]

Name: Ptolemy (Ptol)
Age: 26
Pronouns: meme Big Boy
Height: 7’2”

Origin: ??, ???

Arcana: [One single Cool Ranch Dorito]
Spread:

Background:

TL;DR

Ptolemy was born the second child to a small Chinese Family. With the One-Child policy heavily enforced and the taxes and fines devastating, a deal was made with a temple that was willing to sponsor him as a monk - the family would keep him until he was 5 years of age and they would pay the fines levied against them - in exchange they would let him go and never see him again. He was indeed sent off when he was five, and spent the better part of a decade resenting this fact, utilizing the martial skills he was taught at the temple, but failing to internalize the Buddhist wisdoms all around him. When he was 17, he ran away from the temple, disillusioned with his place there and the existence of any heavenly ideals. He found employment in Europe in less than reputable functions - his skills at hand to hand, and later ranged - combat made him effective for very specific types of work. Regret over the reprehensibility of his actions made him abandon that line of work, particularly in the face of murdering someone he made the mistake of befriending. He instead helped them get free and denounced his employment, but he didn’t get out freely - the scar over his eye is the price he paid to silence his past. He moved to America with his newfound friend and began to live a life of relative peace - though it was without any drive.

He had recently been contemplating the teachings of Buddhism again, looking for its presence in his life. When the stranger asked him a question that had been percolating in his mind for the last 3 months, he didn’t hesitate. One month to the day, and his life changed again. This time, he was the one who made the choice.

__________________________

Ptolemy remembers his formative years with great difficulty - his parents are mostly a blur, his brother nearly a mystery. His birth name sticks on his tongue, so foreign as to almost be benign. Zhu Fa. It both means nothing and for a moment, too much a - remnant of a long-faded pain. He doesn’t look back on the memories as a whole with any great emotion, though sometimes, very rarely, he indulges in the bittersweet contemplations of ‘what if’ - what might have been different, if his parents hadn’t made the choices they had. If they had fought to keep him, even a little.

But there is little he can do about the past. All he knows is that when he was 5 years old, he was gently taken. On the crisp evening of his 5th birthday, a car arrived, a dark grey vehicle that smelled of new plastic and leather. There are whispers in the foyer, papers signed and exchanged. His things, meager though they were, were put into a small suitcase, and his parents did not even stand in the room to watch him go. Was it fear that stopped them? Was it mourning for the son they were about to lose? Or was it shame at their cowardice?

He hopes, more than anything, it was at least not indifference. The thought eats him up inside, festering like a dark blot.

He is escorted to the car, and watches his home disappear in the back seat window as they set upon what he did not realize then was a very long journey.

Fa fell asleep in the backseat, and woke up to find they were still driving. Soon after, the driver seemed to notice his charge was awake again and they stopped for a bathroom break and breakfast. Ptolemy doesn’t remember much about the man himself, or if anything particularly interesting happened during the journey - the man took him to the airport, they boarded a plane, and when they landed, another car awaited.

That car took Zhu Fa through crowded and unfamiliar streets, weaving through traffic until traffic gave way to trees, and asphalt gave way to gravel.

And when the car stopped, Fa learned they were at the Shaolon Monastery in Dengfeng. He was ushered quickly through the entrance of the large compound, and that was the beginning of his new life as a disciple of Buddhism.

Ptolemy’s memories of the first few months are scattered and fleeting - the adjustment was great enough that he cannot recall anything specific - it was as if he floated around in a dream, barely able to understand what was happening. Then, one day, four months into his training, it was as if he woke up. His parents were never coming to get him.

His name was taken from him. He no longer was a Zhu, so his name became Shi Fa, as many monks before him had adopted. But he didn’t want their name. He wanted his family. But he suddenly understood that his family didn’t want him.

The realization sparked something rebellious in Fa. A tiny fury that fueled a certain kind of dedication to succeed, and then later, ultimately, to fail. He spent over a decade of his life in those temple walls - learning the teachings of Buddah and the arts of Heaven. But he was resilient to truly learning in many ways. He didn’t want to be there, he didn’t want to accept peace in his heart when all he new was indignant at his circumstance.

Ptolemy regrets that he did not take advantage of the wisdom he was imparted with, but he was the only child in those walls who did not have a home to go back to when training was done. The only child who did not have visitors that came and waved from beyond the gates.

What he did learn was Shaolin Kung Fu. Even from 5 he excelled. It a physical practice to expend his pain into - something that demanded drive and clarity that he had no distractions to prevent him from succeeding at.

Even as he learned, his masters tutted and fretted over him. He answered to Shi Fa, but in his mind he was nameless. They could see he was struggling to let go, but rather than listen to them, he dug in, stubborn and restless. He subsided on fantasies of his family some day visiting, to behold him in shock and awe. Sometimes, he entertained the thought that they would beg him to return, sometimes he imagined they declared his brother worthless by comparison, and he was left behind while Fa went home. Sometimes, he simply denied them, leaving them to wallow at the front gates. His mind was fresh with the stories and teachings he learned every day - all which seemed to follow certain themes - the wicked were punished, the dedicated were rewarded, and suffering would be eased magnanimously by heaven once the trials were succeeded. But he was driven by hatred and pain, and though externally he tended to seem just quiet and focused, some of his teachers saw right through him. They wanted him to change, but though they did not lack empathy, their words were never going to reach him when their choice to dedicate themselves to the monastery had not been made for them.

One such teacher, Shi Yi, took a particular interest in his struggles. Fa was 13 when he first invited the adolescent to his quarters often to discuss his lessons. He even took to making Fa practice calligraphy, much to the younger’s chagrin. Fa resented the practice, but was determined to excel, as in all things - how else could he the prodigal son, wrongly abandoned, rewarded by heaven for overcoming his tribulations and being the perfect student to Buddhism. Recognizing this, Shi Yi stopped teaching him calligraphy and instead began to have him practice guohua, traditional painting. Fa was frustrated and confused, but complied nonetheless, if the old addled man wanted him to paint trees, he would humor him, but he fumed at the thought of time lost when he could have been perfecting his martial training.

He remembers vividly the first day he spent completely with the master - Shi Yi had been called out, and had told him with a welcome smile to continue in his absence. He had painstakingly and delicately painted a little scene with a loquat branch, the berries hanging delicately from the wood. Any time he sensed a tremor in his hand he stopped, before resuming - he relied on all his knowledge of calligraphy, keeping the brush as still and straight as he possibly could.

When Shi Yi returned, the old master clapped his hands and sat down across from Fa again, asking permission before picking up the page.

Fa sat coldly, glum that he had wasted so long sitting in this room instead of training, but his thoughts were momentarily distracted by the drawn sigh that escaped Shi Yi. “It is beautiful.” He sad, almost lamentably before setting the paper aside.

“Is something wrong, Fǎshī?” He asked seriously, inexplicably tense at the disappointment in the master’s voice.

“It is very well made.” Shi Yi said delicately, “Do you perhaps know the difference between gongbi and shuǐ-mò?” He said, straightening and peering down at the young monk-in-training over the bridge of his nose.

Fa resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose, “The tidy hand and the freehand?” He said carefully.

Shi Yi nodded, “And have you practiced either of them before?”

Fa shook his head after a slow pause. Classes were available, and encouraged, but Fa had never had any inclination towards any arts that deviated from the martial.

“I want you to try again.” Said Shi Yi, pulling another wide sheet of paper out from the small table they sat at on the mats, and placing it down, “And this time I want you to try and emulate the freehand style.”

Fa looked down at the page blankly and then back up at Shi Yi, uncertain. “You want me to paint in free style?” He did not add that he wasn’t sure that required any talent - he knew it was considered the gentleman’s art. Even if it was just black squiggles most of the time. Shi Yi nodded, smiling, “Yes, and do not worry about mistakes, just try to capture the spirit of what you are painting.”

Fa looked down so that Shi Yi would not see him roll his eyes. If one could not be concerned with mistakes, what was the point at all? But he started anyways - ever seeking to please.

As he painting, he began to realize that it was harder than he thought. Simplicity was key for the ink wash paintings, and he was starting to find how quickly they spoiled into a black and grey mess when he added too much. The wobbly lines that he normally avoided for calligraphy were necessary here, and he wasn’t sure how to go about creating them.

When he was done, he ruefully cleaned and placed his brush down, turning the wet paper to face Shi Yi, who beheld it, and said, “You grip too rigidly, Shi Fa. I think this shall be your next lesson in seeking enlightenment - to let go.”

Fa nodded numbly, furious that his time would be squandered on ink doodles. Later, much, much later, he would wonder if Shi Yi had been talking about the painting at all.

Shi Fa spent the better part of a year with his daily sessions with Shi Yi. The masters advice was lost on him, though his attempts to fix Fa were admirable, if only noted and appreciated in retrospect.

There last session ended with his gifting Shi Yi a grand painting he had worked several days on - even willingly eschewing training for once - of the temple itself. The master had clapped him on his back, and thanked him. He cryptically left Fa with the proverb, “A small hole not mended in time will become a big hole much more difficult to mend.”

By that point, he respected the master more than he had, but was still so caught up in his own dream that he dismissed the elders words as the silly rantings of a senile old man. He rolled his eyes, smiling to himself, as he bowed and exited.

Things began to deteriorate as he got older. By the time he was 16 he was top of his class - and ruthless at Shaolin, to the point that he was reprimanded for turning practice sessions into actual matches. His self control had begun to fray at the edges. He’s fueled himself on a dream, but reality had been creeping in.

They were never coming back.

Caught up in anger at their true abandonment of him, and at himself for convincing himself of their divinity, he began to wonder if there truly was a just heavenly rule at all.

And then he began to wonder if he deserved it.

Miserable, conflicted, and afraid of making vows to something he’d never really chosen, when he was 17, he left the temple and never came back.

For the better part of a year he wandered, finding his bearings in a world once familiar, now foreign. He found himself in Europe, doing things he knew the teachers would have been appalled to think they had taught him. But he was angry, and hurt, and the shadowy circumstances where he’d found himself employment had been when he’d had no other choices.

He learned how to use knives, and guns, and other things no monk should learn. And he waited for his time to come. For some answer, somehow, some purpose.

The breaking point came when a call came in for him to kill the hacker they’d employed on several jobs. An American, by the name of K Ridley. A man with a nervous constitution - not a fighting bone in his body, more likely to crack a joke than a neck any day. They’d had some strange comradery over the last year - Fa protected K, and K ignored the fact that he was an intimidating, antisocial murderer by constantly chatting at him. He was strange, and at times annoying, and most certainly in the employ of the same ethically challenged employer as Fa, but by no means was he a bad man.

He had saved Fa’s life in several occasions just through ear piece communications and quick thinking alone.

The order gave Fa enough pause that he instead spared K, and helped him escape.
by serving as a distraction. The fight resulted in a slash across his face, and the sudden feeling, long overdue, of restored purpose. He might not have absolved himself of all his sins, but perhaps his life had gone to some better purpose by saving that of an innocent.

K, the dumbass that he was for a young genius, came back anyways, collected the lethargic Fa, and made haste away together. They went to America, smuggled by some of K’s friends, and were roommates for a time before Ptol received the call to Aether.

K convinced Ptol to change his name when he reminded him that neither of his names were his own choosing or chosen by anyone who loved him. While employed together, K had never actually learned his name (his identity was not worth revealing at all) and had given him a different nickname each day they worked together at a half-hearted attempt at guessing it or annoying Ptol into revealing it.

Of all the names, Ptolemy stuck.

Personality:

Ptolemy is a very serious and dedicated individual (in the words of K, he’s a ‘hardass’). He can be single-minded and get tunnel vision when something matters to him. He also has a perfectionist streak, which was only slightly offset by Shi Yi’s attempts to encourage acceptance and looseness. He harbors a great deal of shame and guilt over his actions while away from the monastery, and now tends to act in opposition to that. He is, excepting those years (“And even then”, as K might say), extremely honorable and duty-bound. Ptol is not much of a talker, but in recent months a certain mischievous side has become more abundant - he has a propensity to utelize his straight face and deadpan delivery to fuck with people. Extremely loyal.

Strengths & Weaknesses:

Pretty Fucking Good at the discipline of Shaolin Kung Fu - had some expertise with other weapons for the few years he spent in questionable employ, but in no rush to utilize them.

Can recite a lot of Buddhist teachings but trying to get better at living up to them.

Generally good survival tactics/instinct.

General desire for kindness, both in himself and others. Wants to help those who need it.

Short patience for things he deems worthless (low tolerance for the impractical).

Can be very dismissive of others he deems below him (while also subconsciously repressing sense of self-worth).

Very rigid, adapts well in combat situations but not always others.

Zero interest in false socialization - will never approach a strange in a friendly manner off the bat/play politics.

Combat: Neutralize, of if threat is great enough, kill.

Notes:

- That sure is a weird tattoo. Wonder where he got it.

- that shit up there in the side cards are jus placeholder garbage

Description

[the shit behind him is gonna be updated pronto once I know his arcana and shit ✨]

Name: Ptolemy (Ptol)
Age: 26
Pronouns: meme Big Boy
Height: 7’2”

Origin: ??, ???

Arcana: [One single Cool Ranch Dorito]
Spread:

Background:

TL;DR

Ptolemy was born the second child to a small Chinese Family. With the One-Child policy heavily enforced and the taxes and fines devastating, a deal was made with a temple that was willing to sponsor him as a monk - the family would keep him until he was 5 years of age and they would pay the fines levied against them - in exchange they would let him go and never see him again. He was indeed sent off when he was five, and spent the better part of a decade resenting this fact, utilizing the martial skills he was taught at the temple, but failing to internalize the Buddhist wisdoms all around him. When he was 17, he ran away from the temple, disillusioned with his place there and the existence of any heavenly ideals. He found employment in Europe in less than reputable functions - his skills at hand to hand, and later ranged - combat made him effective for very specific types of work. Regret over the reprehensibility of his actions made him abandon that line of work, particularly in the face of murdering someone he made the mistake of befriending. He instead helped them get free and denounced his employment, but he didn’t get out freely - the scar over his eye is the price he paid to silence his past. He moved to America with his newfound friend and began to live a life of relative peace - though it was without any drive.

He had recently been contemplating the teachings of Buddhism again, looking for its presence in his life. When the stranger asked him a question that had been percolating in his mind for the last 3 months, he didn’t hesitate. One month to the day, and his life changed again. This time, he was the one who made the choice.

__________________________

Ptolemy remembers his formative years with great difficulty - his parents are mostly a blur, his brother nearly a mystery. His birth name sticks on his tongue, so foreign as to almost be benign. Zhu Fa. It both means nothing and for a moment, too much a - remnant of a long-faded pain. He doesn’t look back on the memories as a whole with any great emotion, though sometimes, very rarely, he indulges in the bittersweet contemplations of ‘what if’ - what might have been different, if his parents hadn’t made the choices they had. If they had fought to keep him, even a little.

But there is little he can do about the past. All he knows is that when he was 5 years old, he was gently taken. On the crisp evening of his 5th birthday, a car arrived, a dark grey vehicle that smelled of new plastic and leather. There are whispers in the foyer, papers signed and exchanged. His things, meager though they were, were put into a small suitcase, and his parents did not even stand in the room to watch him go. Was it fear that stopped them? Was it mourning for the son they were about to lose? Or was it shame at their cowardice?

He hopes, more than anything, it was at least not indifference. The thought eats him up inside, festering like a dark blot.

He is escorted to the car, and watches his home disappear in the back seat window as they set upon what he did not realize then was a very long journey.

Fa fell asleep in the backseat, and woke up to find they were still driving. Soon after, the driver seemed to notice his charge was awake again and they stopped for a bathroom break and breakfast. Ptolemy doesn’t remember much about the man himself, or if anything particularly interesting happened during the journey - the man took him to the airport, they boarded a plane, and when they landed, another car awaited.

That car took Zhu Fa through crowded and unfamiliar streets, weaving through traffic until traffic gave way to trees, and asphalt gave way to gravel.

And when the car stopped, Fa learned they were at the Shaolon Monastery in Dengfeng. He was ushered quickly through the entrance of the large compound, and that was the beginning of his new life as a disciple of Buddhism.

Ptolemy’s memories of the first few months are scattered and fleeting - the adjustment was great enough that he cannot recall anything specific - it was as if he floated around in a dream, barely able to understand what was happening. Then, one day, four months into his training, it was as if he woke up. His parents were never coming to get him.

His name was taken from him. He no longer was a Zhu, so his name became Shi Fa, as many monks before him had adopted. But he didn’t want their name. He wanted his family. But he suddenly understood that his family didn’t want him.

The realization sparked something rebellious in Fa. A tiny fury that fueled a certain kind of dedication to succeed, and then later, ultimately, to fail. He spent over a decade of his life in those temple walls - learning the teachings of Buddah and the arts of Heaven. But he was resilient to truly learning in many ways. He didn’t want to be there, he didn’t want to accept peace in his heart when all he new was indignant at his circumstance.

Ptolemy regrets that he did not take advantage of the wisdom he was imparted with, but he was the only child in those walls who did not have a home to go back to when training was done. The only child who did not have visitors that came and waved from beyond the gates.

What he did learn was Shaolin Kung Fu. Even from 5 he excelled. It a physical practice to expend his pain into - something that demanded drive and clarity that he had no distractions to prevent him from succeeding at.

Even as he learned, his masters tutted and fretted over him. He answered to Shi Fa, but in his mind he was nameless. They could see he was struggling to let go, but rather than listen to them, he dug in, stubborn and restless. He subsided on fantasies of his family some day visiting, to behold him in shock and awe. Sometimes, he entertained the thought that they would beg him to return, sometimes he imagined they declared his brother worthless by comparison, and he was left behind while Fa went home. Sometimes, he simply denied them, leaving them to wallow at the front gates. His mind was fresh with the stories and teachings he learned every day - all which seemed to follow certain themes - the wicked were punished, the dedicated were rewarded, and suffering would be eased magnanimously by heaven once the trials were succeeded. But he was driven by hatred and pain, and though externally he tended to seem just quiet and focused, some of his teachers saw right through him. They wanted him to change, but though they did not lack empathy, their words were never going to reach him when their choice to dedicate themselves to the monastery had not been made for them.

One such teacher, Shi Yi, took a particular interest in his struggles. Fa was 13 when he first invited the adolescent to his quarters often to discuss his lessons. He even took to making Fa practice calligraphy, much to the younger’s chagrin. Fa resented the practice, but was determined to excel, as in all things - how else could he the prodigal son, wrongly abandoned, rewarded by heaven for overcoming his tribulations and being the perfect student to Buddhism. Recognizing this, Shi Yi stopped teaching him calligraphy and instead began to have him practice guohua, traditional painting. Fa was frustrated and confused, but complied nonetheless, if the old addled man wanted him to paint trees, he would humor him, but he fumed at the thought of time lost when he could have been perfecting his martial training.

He remembers vividly the first day he spent completely with the master - Shi Yi had been called out, and had told him with a welcome smile to continue in his absence. He had painstakingly and delicately painted a little scene with a loquat branch, the berries hanging delicately from the wood. Any time he sensed a tremor in his hand he stopped, before resuming - he relied on all his knowledge of calligraphy, keeping the brush as still and straight as he possibly could.

When Shi Yi returned, the old master clapped his hands and sat down across from Fa again, asking permission before picking up the page.

Fa sat coldly, glum that he had wasted so long sitting in this room instead of training, but his thoughts were momentarily distracted by the drawn sigh that escaped Shi Yi. “It is beautiful.” He sad, almost lamentably before setting the paper aside.

“Is something wrong, Fǎshī?” He asked seriously, inexplicably tense at the disappointment in the master’s voice.

“It is very well made.” Shi Yi said delicately, “Do you perhaps know the difference between gongbi and shuǐ-mò?” He said, straightening and peering down at the young monk-in-training over the bridge of his nose.

Fa resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose, “The tidy hand and the freehand?” He said carefully.

Shi Yi nodded, “And have you practiced either of them before?”

Fa shook his head after a slow pause. Classes were available, and encouraged, but Fa had never had any inclination towards any arts that deviated from the martial.

“I want you to try again.” Said Shi Yi, pulling another wide sheet of paper out from the small table they sat at on the mats, and placing it down, “And this time I want you to try and emulate the freehand style.”

Fa looked down at the page blankly and then back up at Shi Yi, uncertain. “You want me to paint in free style?” He did not add that he wasn’t sure that required any talent - he knew it was considered the gentleman’s art. Even if it was just black squiggles most of the time. Shi Yi nodded, smiling, “Yes, and do not worry about mistakes, just try to capture the spirit of what you are painting.”

Fa looked down so that Shi Yi would not see him roll his eyes. If one could not be concerned with mistakes, what was the point at all? But he started anyways - ever seeking to please.

As he painting, he began to realize that it was harder than he thought. Simplicity was key for the ink wash paintings, and he was starting to find how quickly they spoiled into a black and grey mess when he added too much. The wobbly lines that he normally avoided for calligraphy were necessary here, and he wasn’t sure how to go about creating them.

When he was done, he ruefully cleaned and placed his brush down, turning the wet paper to face Shi Yi, who beheld it, and said, “You grip too rigidly, Shi Fa. I think this shall be your next lesson in seeking enlightenment - to let go.”

Fa nodded numbly, furious that his time would be squandered on ink doodles. Later, much, much later, he would wonder if Shi Yi had been talking about the painting at all.

Shi Fa spent the better part of a year with his daily sessions with Shi Yi. The masters advice was lost on him, though his attempts to fix Fa were admirable, if only noted and appreciated in retrospect.

There last session ended with his gifting Shi Yi a grand painting he had worked several days on - even willingly eschewing training for once - of the temple itself. The master had clapped him on his back, and thanked him. He cryptically left Fa with the proverb, “A small hole not mended in time will become a big hole much more difficult to mend.”

By that point, he respected the master more than he had, but was still so caught up in his own dream that he dismissed the elders words as the silly rantings of a senile old man. He rolled his eyes, smiling to himself, as he bowed and exited.

Things began to deteriorate as he got older. By the time he was 16 he was top of his class - and ruthless at Shaolin, to the point that he was reprimanded for turning practice sessions into actual matches. His self control had begun to fray at the edges. He’s fueled himself on a dream, but reality had been creeping in.

They were never coming back.

Caught up in anger at their true abandonment of him, and at himself for convincing himself of their divinity, he began to wonder if there truly was a just heavenly rule at all.

And then he began to wonder if he deserved it.

Miserable, conflicted, and afraid of making vows to something he’d never really chosen, when he was 17, he left the temple and never came back.

For the better part of a year he wandered, finding his bearings in a world once familiar, now foreign. He found himself in Europe, doing things he knew the teachers would have been appalled to think they had taught him. But he was angry, and hurt, and the shadowy circumstances where he’d found himself employment had been when he’d had no other choices.

He learned how to use knives, and guns, and other things no monk should learn. And he waited for his time to come. For some answer, somehow, some purpose.

The breaking point came when a call came in for him to kill the hacker they’d employed on several jobs. An American, by the name of K Ridley. A man with a nervous constitution - not a fighting bone in his body, more likely to crack a joke than a neck any day. They’d had some strange comradery over the last year - Fa protected K, and K ignored the fact that he was an intimidating, antisocial murderer by constantly chatting at him. He was strange, and at times annoying, and most certainly in the employ of the same ethically challenged employer as Fa, but by no means was he a bad man.

He had saved Fa’s life in several occasions just through ear piece communications and quick thinking alone.

The order gave Fa enough pause that he instead spared K, and helped him escape.
by serving as a distraction. The fight resulted in a slash across his face, and the sudden feeling, long overdue, of restored purpose. He might not have absolved himself of all his sins, but perhaps his life had gone to some better purpose by saving that of an innocent.

K, the dumbass that he was for a young genius, came back anyways, collected the lethargic Fa, and made haste away together. They went to America, smuggled by some of K’s friends, and were roommates for a time before Ptol received the call to Aether.

K convinced Ptol to change his name when he reminded him that neither of his names were his own choosing or chosen by anyone who loved him. While employed together, K had never actually learned his name (his identity was not worth revealing at all) and had given him a different nickname each day they worked together at a half-hearted attempt at guessing it or annoying Ptol into revealing it.

Of all the names, Ptolemy stuck.

Personality:

Ptolemy is a very serious and dedicated individual (in the words of K, he’s a ‘hardass’). He can be single-minded and get tunnel vision when something matters to him. He also has a perfectionist streak, which was only slightly offset by Shi Yi’s attempts to encourage acceptance and looseness. He harbors a great deal of shame and guilt over his actions while away from the monastery, and now tends to act in opposition to that. He is, excepting those years (“And even then”, as K might say), extremely honorable and duty-bound. Ptol is not much of a talker, but in recent months a certain mischievous side has become more abundant - he has a propensity to utelize his straight face and deadpan delivery to fuck with people. Extremely loyal.

Strengths & Weaknesses:

Pretty Fucking Good at the discipline of Shaolin Kung Fu - had some expertise with other weapons for the few years he spent in questionable employ, but in no rush to utilize them.

Can recite a lot of Buddhist teachings but trying to get better at living up to them.

Generally good survival tactics/instinct.

General desire for kindness, both in himself and others. Wants to help those who need it.

Short patience for things he deems worthless (low tolerance for the impractical).

Can be very dismissive of others he deems below him (while also subconsciously repressing sense of self-worth).

Very rigid, adapts well in combat situations but not always others.

Zero interest in false socialization - will never approach a strange in a friendly manner off the bat/play politics.

Combat: Neutralize, of if threat is great enough, kill.

Notes:

- That sure is a weird tattoo. Wonder where he got it.

- that shit up there in the side cards are jus placeholder garbage