Name: William Owen, aka: Dog
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Appearance: Around 6', 6'1". Sturdy shoulders, broad back. He has normal brown hair that is kept back in a short nub of a ponytail. His eyes are brown, but since his expression is often hooded, some mistake them for black. His nose is slightly crooked, as if broken a long time ago and not fully set right. A scar runs from the corner of his left eye and disappears behind his full brown beard. A second, less noticeable scar traces the same path parallel to its larger counterpart, but starts a half inch below the other's beginning. The sister scars give him a gaunt, dangerous look, as does the fact that his mouth rarely smiles, but the corner of his right eye shows very faint traces of laugh lines that attest that he was not always wholly solemn. He generally wears a grey-green long sleeve shirt and black trousers with sturdy boots. A small rag is always tied around his belt loop and dirty with many hand-wipings. A small knife is always tucked inside his boot. When acting in soldier capacity, he wears a hard leather breastplate over his shirt, but no helmet, and straps a sword to his side.
Personality: Withdrawn. William talks very little and smiles even less. He is highly trusted within his company, and it is only his unwillingness to open his mouth to order others around that keeps him from a very heady promotion. Younger cadets always fear him at first, an emotion they never fully grow out of, but also eventually learn that "Dog", as he is affectionately called, is always on hand to silently demonstrate the best way to shine a boot or clean a sword, often minutes before the captain comes around for inspection. He is precise in his duties, neat with his living space, and strong. Around his dogs, he relaxes slightly. In the kennels, eyeing a new mongrel who has completed a task unexpectedly well or sitting on a stool, his fingers kneading through the fur of an old hound, both souls lost in contemplation... these are the only times one might catch a glimmer of a smile on his face. He talks to them as well, opening his mouth for quiet, terse commands, or murmuring stories that no human ear can fully make out. He trusts them and watches out for them as he does no other human.
History: No one really remembers where William came from. Even to the adults more than old enough to remember whatever family ties he may have had, he was simply always there, quiet and thoughtful. Some might faintly remember his mother dying over a decade prior, but most had already forgotten. He never married, never, as far as anyone could tell, ever shown interest in a lass in town. They remember him joining as a soldier, as many young men did, working his ways up the ranks, slowly because his commanders rarely paid any attention, and when they did, he would ignore them in turn, contentedly blocking himself off from gain. Still, when a specific mission required a steady hand or a level head or was particularly dicey, the commanders would often pass over high-ranked men and request his presence in the adventure. When he was still only a teenager, he began to help out the local Dog Keeper in his spare time. The Keeper was happy to let him, appreciating the gentle way the boy had with the mutts. He was fearless enough to work with any dog, later causing the scars on his face. The Dog Keeper is still alive, but much of his duty has unofficially passed over to William Owen, the man many townsfolk simply call Dog.
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Appearance: Around 6', 6'1". Sturdy shoulders, broad back. He has normal brown hair that is kept back in a short nub of a ponytail. His eyes are brown, but since his expression is often hooded, some mistake them for black. His nose is slightly crooked, as if broken a long time ago and not fully set right. A scar runs from the corner of his left eye and disappears behind his full brown beard. A second, less noticeable scar traces the same path parallel to its larger counterpart, but starts a half inch below the other's beginning. The sister scars give him a gaunt, dangerous look, as does the fact that his mouth rarely smiles, but the corner of his right eye shows very faint traces of laugh lines that attest that he was not always wholly solemn. He generally wears a grey-green long sleeve shirt and black trousers with sturdy boots. A small rag is always tied around his belt loop and dirty with many hand-wipings. A small knife is always tucked inside his boot. When acting in soldier capacity, he wears a hard leather breastplate over his shirt, but no helmet, and straps a sword to his side.
Personality: Withdrawn. William talks very little and smiles even less. He is highly trusted within his company, and it is only his unwillingness to open his mouth to order others around that keeps him from a very heady promotion. Younger cadets always fear him at first, an emotion they never fully grow out of, but also eventually learn that "Dog", as he is affectionately called, is always on hand to silently demonstrate the best way to shine a boot or clean a sword, often minutes before the captain comes around for inspection. He is precise in his duties, neat with his living space, and strong. Around his dogs, he relaxes slightly. In the kennels, eyeing a new mongrel who has completed a task unexpectedly well or sitting on a stool, his fingers kneading through the fur of an old hound, both souls lost in contemplation... these are the only times one might catch a glimmer of a smile on his face. He talks to them as well, opening his mouth for quiet, terse commands, or murmuring stories that no human ear can fully make out. He trusts them and watches out for them as he does no other human.
History: No one really remembers where William came from. Even to the adults more than old enough to remember whatever family ties he may have had, he was simply always there, quiet and thoughtful. Some might faintly remember his mother dying over a decade prior, but most had already forgotten. He never married, never, as far as anyone could tell, ever shown interest in a lass in town. They remember him joining as a soldier, as many young men did, working his ways up the ranks, slowly because his commanders rarely paid any attention, and when they did, he would ignore them in turn, contentedly blocking himself off from gain. Still, when a specific mission required a steady hand or a level head or was particularly dicey, the commanders would often pass over high-ranked men and request his presence in the adventure. When he was still only a teenager, he began to help out the local Dog Keeper in his spare time. The Keeper was happy to let him, appreciating the gentle way the boy had with the mutts. He was fearless enough to work with any dog, later causing the scars on his face. The Dog Keeper is still alive, but much of his duty has unofficially passed over to William Owen, the man many townsfolk simply call Dog.
