Name: Berhtaz Qualen.
Nickname: "Bert"
Age: Twenty-seven.
Gender: Male.
Weapon(s): Reishi Ax.
Personality: Bert is the epitome of a broken human. From what he refers to as his "shitty" childhood, has sculpted him into a piece of shit. Every event in his life brainlessly let him pass. College let him through with a two point five grade average. His relationships have crumbled from his own efforts. He, for all he tries is a failed author. That is what hurts the most to him, not being published. Numerous rejected short stories, novellas, novels, and like have been rejected. Bert could have took it all, was taking it all in stride. Only one thing, if God could just give him the ability to write coherently. Fuck you, God.
This brokenness of his spans all the facets of his life. For short and simple, Bert is not a nice man. His life failures have made him overly cynical and coarse. He dissects everything and everyone around him. From a flaw in dialogue or a moral flaw, Bert is not afraid to bring up failures and pick apart actions. Everything is just hopelessly and horribly awry. A head case of his level would normally require therapy, luckily he has avoided such hazards, claiming "writing is a better outlet than talking to a shrink". Now if he could get paid for it, then that would be just wonderful.
Bert will often narrate(or his writer will give a inner monologue) the things that are happening around him, just to piss people off. In a way this is part of a deeper joke, in relation to his unpublishable works. Its point: that if he was narrating this story it would not get read. Meaning: everything happening is redundant, and everything and everyone is pointless.
Physical Appearance: A face you've seen on a thousand bodies. Any man and every man. His features are what you'd expect from the average man, possibly a bit more handsome. His nose is button like, but with a sturdy bridge. His eyes are a nice blue, set evenly apart. Jet-black hair graces his crown. Always seen swept back, wet with hair gel. Bert has nice full lips, meant for kissing, and let me assure you, they have before. Eyebrows are thick caterpillars, most would note that they are his least attractive feature (or his douche bag hair cut).
He isn't a big man, but manages to stay in a healthy state. His body is lean with muscle, but doesn't appear to be specifically inclined to an athletic lifestyle. Bert tends to slouch, often walking about with his head hung low. His aura is not a pretty one, with a darker foreboding hanging on his breast.
Clothing: Black sweaters, blue genes, and leathery "dress" shoes/boots. That's it. He isn't very inclined to change his wardrobe, unless of course he finds reason to. He is simple in this respect, choosing to focus on other things in his life rather than outward appearances, though that is not to say he doesn't care about the way he looks. Bert is tentative to the cleanness of his attire, making sure to wash his clothes frequently. He is just a character often seen the same type of clothing.
Bio: I am four and this is my first memory. My mother an father stand in the door way, arguing. I can't make out what their saying, but I think my mother said "he's too young". To which my father only gives muffled tones. I cannot say for certain what problems they face, I am only a boy.
Soon my father comes to me, tells me the way of things. Tells me of Shinigami and Quincy. He says: we have a duty to our people. That is why we came to America. I am just a boy. This life I have fallen into is almost too much for my adolescent mind to comprehend. It is a Monday in New York city, the streets are damp with the new fallen rain. This is the last time I remember being happy. My Quincy training with start tomorrow. My father puts a cross in my hand and tells me to fight. I cry, because I am only a boy.
Blood stains the ground we're on. I am thirteen when I meet my first Shinigami. I don't understand this feud, this rivalry we have with these people in black. I pull my ax from my cross, planting the blade between the Death God's eyes. I don't feel proud, I don't feel good like my father says I should. They look human, these Shinigami. I can't help feel that I am doing an injustice. I can't help feel I'm adding to the problem.
I'm graduating from High school, my sweetheart at my side. We plan to get married in the fall, when we start college. She is beautiful now, her yellow curls glisten in the sun. Her name is Rebecca. What shes doing with a fool like me I'll never know. As I accept my diploma from the superintendent a weight lifts, I know I'm free from my father and his rivalry. I want to put the Quincy behind me now, I'm becoming a man. I tell my family I want to pursue a career in literature. I love to read, I've always loved that. My father wants me to become a doctor. I tell him no.
It's my senior year in college. I meet a girl from a local high school at a party. She is youthful and fun. Tonight she made me feel alive. Word soon reaches Rebecca. She packs her things frantically, tears falling against floor. She accuses me of chasing jail bait. I don't say anything, and I let her leave.
I write my first book. It is untitled. I'm scared to name it, I'm scared that my words will one day come back to haunt. I sent it to numerous publishers, they all sent it back with a denial slip. I cry in my room after every denial. Still I continue to write, they all fail me. I've failed myself. My words crumble in hand.
I get my first book deal, its name is Timothy the Chipmunk. I'm too embarrassed to tell my parents that I am writing children books. I am ashamed for what I've become.
Type of bow: Melee.
Quincy cross description: Bert's cross resembles that of other "new age" quincys, which means that his reishi weapon is not limited to the "old ways" or former bow. His cross is a five pointed star, resembling that of the Vandereichs. His however is not attached to his dress, but to a beaded necklace. Resembling something like a rosary. The cross is set upon some gyro mechanism, allowing Bert to spin it like fan.
Quincy items: N/A
Role-play sample: The words never came, they just didn't. Bert sat behind his desk the entire afternoon, thumbing empty words into his laptop. They didn't come like he thought they would, they didn't come like they should have. He believed sincerely, if he opened himself to the world it would give itself to him like a well-paid whore on her back. They words didn't come, they never came.
Franz Kafka once said: “You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.” Sadly that was not working for him, Bert needed reprieve, he needed a break from staring at the blank screen of his laptop.
The New York streets found him with little comfort, complacent people managing their all but uninteresting lives. Snow fell around him, gathering itself in the pits of the city, until it overflowed into the streets like filth. Then, there was nothing but snow. Nothing and no one. Deserted alleyways led deep into his subconsciousness, he explored these un-mapped territories at his own peril. Though through it all there was nothing he could find that made him feel. That let him know he was alive, something was all he needed.
In the wake of a presence of a hollow, Bert could only muster enough enthusiasm to take stride in the opposite direction. He didn't care about humanity like he should have, like he was raised to. They were all rats in a cage, and once in a while someone let a cat in to thin the population, and that was just fine by him. Few contributed to the human condition anything of great value, even the shinigami brought little in the way of spirit. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only one, the only one to question the positioning of things.
Why were Quincy the way they were, and why were shinigami at the opposite end of the spectrum. It seemed all but a game, dreamed up by some sad little Japanese man. Bert could almost imagine this man, sitting behind his desk, drawing out his fantasies on paper. What a loser, then what did that make him? A joke and a hack. Can't write, and as many of his ex-lovers would say, "can't fuck".
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