Name: Alastair

Sex: Male

Age: 19

Race: Cambion

Occupation or Trade: Blacksmith

Family: Mother (Deceased)

Marital Status: Single

Possessions/Weapons: Warhammer, leather armor, smith's tools.

Strengths/Skills/Powers: Excellent craftsman, resistance to flame, good with a hammer, almost as good at cooking

Weaknesses/Flaws: Socially awkward, demonic appearance, allergic to/injured by silver

Appearance: This stout, muscular young man with blazing red hair, golden, cat-like eyes and sharp incisors, bears the unmistakable mark of a demonic heritage. He's only about 5'5'' but weighs almost 180 pounds, even if he doesn't quite look it. He usually wears sturdy, practical clothing, and can often be seen wearing his blacksmith's apron, even when not at the forge.

Personality: Understandably, given his heritage, he tends to be a bit on the irritable side, and usually seems happy to be by himself working on some piece of weaponry or armor. He has little tolerance for stupidity (or what he considers stupidity), but is happy to carry on a conversation with someone who can keep up with him. He is gruff, and brash, and doesn't always think things through, but he generally means well. Just don't make fun of his mother in front of him- he doesn't handle that sort of thing well.

History: Alastair never knew his father, and to be honest, that's probably for the best, given that it was his father that gave him his... "unusual" features. His mother- or, at least, the woman who cared for him, raised him, and taught him everything he knows- was a kind-hearted blacksmith named Elena who never showed anything but endless love for her son. Unfortunately, the other people in Alastair's village were not so kind, and Alastair grew up as a pariah- ignored at best, and abused at worst. He lost count of the number of times he had been beaten into the dirt, by both children and adults, only to pick himself up and tend to his wounds at home. In this sense, his inhuman heritage was both blessing and curse- it kept him alive through his suffering, but it ensured he would suffer in the first place.

Understandably, he spent a lot of time at home, learning all sorts of things from his mother. Her trade ensured she was reasonably well off, and paid to ensure her son was educated. She taught him how to cook, and clean, and to fight, knowing that one day she would not be there to take care of him. And, of course, she taught him her craft, something he took to exceptionally well. Despite his relatively young age, he could smith like a master, and by rights, he was ready to go off and do his own business somewhere else. Left unspoken was the fear that no one else would take him in, for fear of the bad fortune he might bring upon them.

But bad fortune didn't require his presence. When the bandits came, the slaughtered everyone that fought back- including, sadly, his own mother, although when he found her body, it had seemed she had put up a hell of a fight. He had been out gathering roots and herbs for dinner, and had simply not been there when the raiders came. Fury overtook him when he saw his mother's beaten and bloody corpse, and he swore to get vengeance and live on in her name.

Unfortunately, vengeance would have to wait- in spite of his heritage, he knew he could no more fight a camp full of raiders than a house-trained dog could kill a pack of feral wolves. More than that, though, he had heard the survivors of the bandit's raids had fled to the nearby Keep. They would need his services, and he knew his mother wouldn't want him to neglect them out of spite or single-minded vengeance, so he went to go offer his services.

Hopefully, this time, they won't be so eager to look a gift horse in the mouth.