Refreshing Feed...
Captain Fortinbras Carlyle cuts a pretty memorable picture. He's not overly tall, standing just under six feet in height, nor is he built like a bruiser, weighing in at perhaps 170. Instead, he's clean limbed and lithe; more sleek wolf than raging bull.
He is a good looking specimen; striking in a classical sense. His face is chiseled and aquiline. The planes and angles of his jaw and high-cheekbones lend him an air that is faintly archangelic. His nose is prominent and has been broken once or twice, though one would be hard-pressed to describe it as crooked. His mouth is a severe slash and his lips bloodless, accustomed to a frown of concentration. His eyes, in the best of lights are a glittering blue. Though, more often than not, they're closer to the color of chipped slate. Crows feet are beginning to show at the corners of his eyes where they've been narrowed against the glare of sun and firelight. Framing his face is a full head of hair that is quickly becoming more of a dusky copper than its old arterial red. In a few years more, the shoulder-length tumble will fade to silver; already streaks are showing at his temples.
The Captain dresses well; an indulgence that he's given in to for the better part of his life. He's a clothes-horse in the best sense of the word. Bursian silks, Tyrisian leather, Kerrian silver, crisp linen, and hand-tooled riding boots from the finest cobbler in Cann. He's been called a fop, a dandy, and more than a few unkind words have been bandied about his sexuality, but Fortinbras Carlyle's name will never be mentioned with regard to being under-dressed.
Beneath all that frippery, the Captain's got a body as hard and lean as hewn granite. And like granite, he's earned his share of cracks and seams. He's been whip-stitched together more than a double-handful of times and, while the scars are neat and small, they're there all the same. Worst of all is his left hand, steam burned and flash-cooked in a fateful crash three years prior, it is a mass of scar tissue and only with great difficulty has the Captain regained even a measure of his former dexterity with it. He hides this old injury, the most hideous of his criss-cross of old battle-scars, beneath a soft black leather glove.
All in all, Captain Fort looks like a sky-dog; three parts gentleman adventurer, one part aging archangel, and altogether a man who has lived his life at sky level.
He's the Captain, first and foremost. He is father to his crew, and a staunch protector of the Ardent and all who call her home. Everything else pales in comparison.
Beyond that, Fortinbras Carlyle is nothing too terribly out of the ordinary; a common man who has found himself living in interesting times. He's doing the best he can with what he's got, armed with little more than an heirloom war-harness and an indomitable will. That being said, he's slipped into the role of a leader of men as though it were tailored for him. Under pressure, he speaks with assurance and without fear. Faced with a crisis, he considers all sides with mechanical precision before settling upon a course of action.
And left to his own devices, he tears himself apart with self-criticism and self-doubt.
Fort's not a man to count as an enemy. He's got a good memory and a slow-burning temper that'll match a 24 gun cannonade for payload once it gets going. The odd personal slight is fine; he's thick-skinned and more than willing to jest. Insult his ship or his family and he'll give you passage to a graveyard.
Above all, the Captain's a man of his word, living by a strict sense of personal honor and conducting himself more like a gentleman than many who were born to the title. Bargain with him, he'll do right by you. Follow him, he'll treat you like family. Question him, he'll hide nothing. Cross him, and you'll see why the old sky-dog is still plying the sky at an age when most men are thinking of settling down.
Fortinbras Carlyle is never without his Da's old war-harness: a broad leather belt with a wide silver buckle. Hanging from the scarred harness is a scabbarded rapier and an obviously well-loved heavy bolt-pistol.
The rapier is a schlager bladed weapon, sturdy enough for the skirling flash of cut and thrust warfare which the Ardent oftentimes finds itself in the midst of. Its simple basket hilt and broad, sweeping quillions are nicked in places, recounting more close calls than one might ever hope to remember. The leather of the grip and pommel are faded and worn, denoting a long life in service to Carlyle.
The bolter is a Harlon Arms "Archangel" pattern weapon; a massive .50 caliber, boxy firearm with an eleven inch barrel and an integrated eight round cylinder. Fort's father swore by the old bolter for its accuracy and ease of maintenance, so when old Grayson died, Fort took to carrying it along as a good-luck charm...a good luck charm that'll hurl a three inch magnesium-capped tungsten carbide projectile downrange at 2250 feet per second with enough kinetic energy to knock two good-sized men off their feet and set them firmly on their asses six feet away.
Fortinbras skills run an appreciable gamut. As Captain, he knows enough about everything on the ship to not look like a complete moron in front of the rest of the crew. However, his true skills lie at the negotiating table. He's well spoken and has a tendency to read people pretty well. It's a trait that's gotten the Ardent out of some bad situations before they became truly horrifying.
What else? He's a fair dancer, speaks the four primary trade-languages of Verenkor (though his Bursian is pretty shoddy), is personable enough to have gathered a wealth of old business contacts, can identify whiskey by taste and smell, and has even been known to wax poetic from time to time. However, more to the point, he's got a head for danger, an eye for a set-up, a sound background in sailing from the Tyrisian Naval Academy, and he heals quickly.
But, when it comes right down to it, the Captain's pretty reliant on his crew to do the heavy lifting in their various areas. He's not a mechanic; nor a daredevil pilot; he can't set a bone or perform surgery; he's a fair shot, no champion; he can't tell the laws of physics and reality to sit down and shut up; and at the end of the day, he's only there to keep the ship flying and its crew together. Find a job, give the order, keep flying.
