Alvarez, Nazario

[Guest]

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CASE FILE: Esparian Militant

"Ah, Esparia. Land of fine women, fine cigars, fine spirits... and just about fine everything!"
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FULL NAME:
→ Nazario Carlito Alvarez. Goes by Alvarez to all.

AGE:
→ 45

SEX:
→ Male

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Malos Ciudad, Esparia

RACE:
→ Esparian

DEPARTMENT:
→ Bloodhounds (Squad leader)

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ 3rd July, 1966

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HEIGHT:
→ 7'3/221cm

WEIGHT:
→ 22 stone 11lbs/145kg

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ Generally, you will notice Nazario in a crowd. For starters, he's got a very distinctive head of slowly greying hair - a good majority is still jet black, although Nazario's not too insecure about his aging. Small hazel eyes to compliment this, and a fairly strong Esparian olive-like tan. A nose like a ski slope, a face full of various nicks and scars, a manly moustache/beard combination, a constant grin on his face, oh, and the fact that he's 7 foot 3 inches tall.

If his musclebound frame doesn't really define him in a crowd, then the stupidly loud, deep, booming laugh will. Every word that comes out of his mouth is generally pretty patriotic, and despite the man's massive appearance, he's fairly intelligent and can get to grips with most concepts fairly quickly. When he reads, he wears glasses that are too small for his face.

General attire is usually the typical olive BDU (custom-tailored due, really to size) and a black beret. Off-duty (which is most of the time, as he trains and makes reports in his office/basement at home) he wears khakis or shorts, and a Hawaiian button-up shirt, taking after the good Presidente absolutely and completely, considering the amount of admiration he has for him. He doesn't go as far to don a hat, though. Nope, that grey-white bleaching is all natural, ladies.

Piss Nazario off, and you'll really know about it. The speed and force with which he'll charge at you will make the ground quake beneath your very feet, and it's generally accompanied by a rather ferocious battlecry. His eyes narrow and glimmer with a shimmering red spark, and, I dunno, he'll probably break through a few walls or something on his way over there for effect.

Movements tend to be lumbering and naturally slow, but only out of choice. When Nazario gets agitated or excited, he has been known to run, and the aftershocks have been documented on the other side of the planet. (Trivia: That's why he chooses to walk most of the time, see.)

Around his children, the image most have of Nazario pretty much melts. The pride is blatantly obvious, as is the amount of care he holds for them. He's a very good father, and this much can be seen, as he spoils them every chance he get, and is generally, whilst they're not at school/he isn't working, playing with them on the beach. All three of them seem to love beaches.

He's very larger-than-life with his mannerisms, generally making stupidly un-Bloodhound-like gestures. He's very exuberant, generally, and this will always show in his mannerisms. From the outside, he looks like an old man who's come out on top and is still enjoying life and its various pleasures. The inside, however, is a totally different story...

Generally, Nazario's constantly laughing. If he's not, he's almost always grinning, for one reason or another. The 0.01% of the time he's not, he's either preparing to do one of either, or he's got a rabid, crazed look in his eyes, which suggests that he is indeed about to laugh you to death.

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PERSONALITY:
→ Nazario's typically a very friendly albeit loud man. More often than not, he's usually seen keeping himself to himself, but his laugh is absolutely 100% distinctive, and considering just how friendly and humorous he is, and just how much he does laugh, he does appear to be a rather sonorous person, in general.

Whilst off-duty, Nazario is typically very relaxed and can usually be found in his office, or the makeshift panelled-floor dojo he's set up in the basement of his Malos Ciudad house, complete with punching bag, various ammunition crates, and even a range to test out his weaponry on. His children are forbidden from ever entering.

Around superiors, Nazario is calm and quiet. He's very ordered and regimental, but considering that he commands a prestigious cell of Esparian Bloodhounds, he doesn't really take prisoners, either. He has no respect for idiots or fools, but his friendship knows no bounds, and in the field of battle, he's known to live by the phrase of 'no man gets behind'. Once you're in the squad, you are like family. No exceptions.

Nazario tends to follow the example of his President and Commander, producing an almost amusing follow-the-leader-esque hierarchy. It can also be said that his subordinates are almost inspired by his unnatural and odd ways of doing things, and shows that Nazario is a man who very much makes a big impression on those around him.

Nazario is a constantly-happy man, who, 90% of the time, will either be laughing, have just finished laughing, or getting ready to laugh. Seriously, the amount of chuckling, giggling, spluttering, cackling, and just laughing he does is insane. You'd think the guy's throat would be sore as all shit by not. His booming laughter is accompanied generally by clichéd knee-slaps or a hand holding his chest.

Despite his exuberant appearance, Nazario is intelligent and strategic. He just has a soft spot for explosions and firearms, oft choosing the louder route over the quieter simply for the sake of enjoying himself. Nazario knows what he likes, and won't hesitate to make this blatantly obvious; he also appears to uncannily miss notices pertaining to his activities, perhaps 'no smoking' signs, or 'no diving' signs at swimming pools. He's a very odd person to be around, and seems to be somewhat laid-back whilst off-duty.

No matter what you may think, though, Nazario, beneath the calm exterior, is a hardened fighting machine inside. Loyal and deadly to a T, on the field of battle, he has been said to act like a man possessed, brandishing massive weaponry and cutting down any and all enemies in his path. His squad are his family and he will not leave them behind.

Nazario's also amusingly patriotic, and believes that Esparia is second-to-none when it comes to countries. He bears a special sort of hatred for Gelemorté (and, similarly, Wolfgang Murinyo) but only because he's been brought up to.

Finally, around family and his children. Nazario is an excellent, kind father, and spoils his children at every chance he gets to compensate for not being around as much as he wishes he could, and for the fact that they've never really gotten to know their mother. Deep down, he's guilty, and tries his best to eternally remain the mediator in the pair's petty squabbles; not once has he ever gotten angry with either Jose or Diego. Stern and agitated, perhaps, but outright furious? Never.

In reality, it's really a rare thing to see Nazario furious. He's deadly defensive, and if anything will make him utterly lose control - something, from a young age, he's had to learn to get to grips with considering his size and his own strength - it's trying to attack his family. He'll tear you limb from limb and batter you with anything nearby - and god forbid, should he have a ranged weapon, he'll fire into your motionless body until all that's left is a bloody splatter vaguely reminiscent of a smashed jar of jam.

Nazario's very kind to close friends and, indeed, his brother Juan, who have put the past behind them and now rarely see each other. Nazario's a man who's easy to get on with, and can be humble, laid-back, and at times a good and loyal friend, knowing his bit about the world, but, threaten his children and comrades? He'll beat you into the ground like there's no tomorrow.

LOVE:
→ Dead bulls.
→ Esparia
→ Revolvers
→ Pistols
→ Rifles
→ Machine guns
→ Shotguns
→ General weaponry
→ His sons, José and Diego
→ His brother, Juan, and his odd visits
→ His car, Natasha
→ Fighting
→ The Bloodhounds
→ The beach
→ Sandcastles
→ Grinning at the most inappropriate moments
→ Being loud
→ Suits (but only fine Esparian suits)
→ Drinking (but only fine Esparian spirits)
→ Smoking (but only fine Esparian cigars)
→ Crafts (but only fine Esparian crafts)
→ Patriotism
→ Protein
→ Steaks
→ The heat
→ El Presidente
→ Maracas
→ Arm-wrestling
→ Card games

HATE:
→ Bulls
→ Bulls
→ Bulls.
→ Bulls.
→ BULLS.
→ BULLS!
→ Being called Nazzy. Or Naz. Or, really, Nazario. 'Alvarez' will suffice if you're not his children.
→ La Ciliegia
→ Cerisians
→ Gelemorté
→ Gelemortians
→ Wolfgang Murinyo
→ Fiachra Brennan
→ His crazy ex-wife, Elle
→ Amestris
→ Creta
→ Carraig
→ Aerugo
→ Xing
→ Drachma
→ Beer
→ The cold
→ Most crazy women
→ Weakness
→ Chess
→ Fruit
→ Milk

DEEPEST SECRETS:
→ Lost an arm-wrestling match with Fiachra
→ Secretly fears that his sons will grow up weak
→ He had a really, REALLY bad experience with bulls (hint: the scar around his eye)

IDOLS:
→ Commander Quisimo
→ Vasco Allende

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HISTORY:
→ Nazario Carlito Alvarez was born in 1966, to parents Rodrigo and Maria. He had a fairly stable upbringing, with his father being a low-ranking military man and a steadfast, God-fearing Esparian. A traditionalist through and through, Rodrigo quickly instilled a strong sense of honour into young Nazario, and, four years later, when Juan Carmelo came around, that same sense of honour was instilled in him, too.

Whilst the family were always hard-pushed for money, they retained their integrity throughout rough times, and the Alvarez parents always seemed to be on good terms with each other. Having once been high school sweethearts, as the road seemed only to get tougher and tougher, they had to then send Nazario to school at around the age of six; but they managed. For the entirety of the siblings' childhood, by god, did they manage.

Heavy-set even as a child, Nazario remained immune to bullying and found a fairly stable social standpoint in school with a respectable array of friends, always known throughout as the 'big guy', who was generally a rather docile figure - unless his younger brother was threatened. Nazario had been brought up not thinking, but knowing that blood ran thicker than water - when he needed Juan later, as he inevitably would, the boy would then have something to repay him for.

Nazario's life went past fairly quickly, and before he knew it, he was 18, and it was the middle of the 1980s. So just what did an eighteen year old with no bearings or aspirations on his position do? With no idea where to go next and only a little money from odd jobs over the years saved up in the bank?

He called his parents, of course.

Maria and Rodrigo had always been proud of their son's intellect, and his constant burgeoning passion to know more about the inner mechanisms of things. How objects functioned as they did, how everything together pooled their efforts to make a perfectly balanced system which simply worked; nothing more, nothing less.

So they told him to take engineering courses. So, he did. He worked for a summer, and, finally, when he had enough money, went to a nearby university part-time. It was cheap, and it wasn't much, but it did the job. In summer of 1987, he graduated, an engineering degree under his belt, frame massive, and most passers-by stopping and staring at the 21-year old boy who still had no idea on what to do.

So he called his parents again! Nazario asks them 'now what?'. What should he do now that he's got this impressive, framed, laminate certificate which says he's legally allowed to work in any form of prestigious engineering workplace? So they tell him to look in the classifieds. Get a job. After a few weeks of hunting, he isolates the only thing he can find. Working as an army technician on the front lines.

What Nazario saw there changed him forever.

The front lines truly were the front lines. Esparia, bloody history under its belt, was always clashing with Gelemorte for one reason or another. The typical patriot attitude quickly seeped into the quiet, impressionable man, and, slowly, he found his bearings. He found his maturity, wading-waist deep through stinking, mucky waterlogged fields night and day as he moved from engineering tent to engineering tent, desperately trying to piece together broken equipment, shattered weaponry... and, at times, even acting as reserve for the soldiers. He'd been told to assist the chief engineers in any way possible, and he'd been given a toolbox and a gun.

Nazario had gone to the front lines a wad of cookie dough. A boy. When he came back, he was carved out of stone. What he saw there changed him. Blood, torn flesh, the stench of bodies just laying there in the field, nobody daring to venture into no-man's land. It was worse than he'd ever envisioned it, these horrid, terrible clashes so regular and so... wasteful.

He was only out there for a few months, but he spent more time dodging bullets in the field than he did fixing things up in a tent. The army didn't care whether you had a degree or not; you were stuck in a camp and told to live and let live. The only thing that changed, day-to-day, is which tent you went to when you weren't getting shot at.

Life was so expendable. Every flame could be extinguished with a single round, every soul blown away into the endless black meadows that was Death's field with just a single mortar strike. It all seemed so surreal, and yet horrific at the same time. Nazario had to remind himself just what was happening. He wasn't an engineer. He was a soldier. This was nothing like it was on the TV, or in the movies. Blood you saw even on your jacket after a papercut was nothing compared to the end results of a man's skull being blown open by a single rifle round.

After the most harrowing nine months of Nazario's young life, in April 1988, he quit the service. Just up and left. Nobody seemed to have any problems. He was bitter. He'd make new friends every single day, and then they'd just walk off into the fields and get blown to pieces. It was stupidly futile. No-one you knew out there, none of the naive rookies who always wanted to get back home to their high school sweethearts... lasted. It was the old forcing the young into the field. It was just... the way of the world.

Bitter and content never to see another gun again for the rest of his life, Nazario fled immediately to the first bar he could find. He didn't even look the bartender in the eye, just wiped some of the grime from his face, still wearing dirt-and-blood-caked fatigues, just calling for a mojito.

And who should reply?

The most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Petite, small frame, to contrast his; full face, glistening lips with a grin that could entrance men and tug them in any direction she so wanted. Elena Santos, or Elle, for short.

That night, Nazario spent hours in that bar, staying with Elle way beyond last call. The pair shared many a drink, and the young barmaid and the older now-ex-marine quickly bonded. Before long, Elle's size got to her, and her tolerance for alcohol proved lighter than Nazario had initially given her credit for. The lumbering figure picked her up, and delivered a half-conscious drunken woman back to her small apartment, where she dragged him in, and the night's festivities began.

Immediately, he was snared. And, so, it seemed, she was, too. She'd had her way with many a man, a manipulative woman, to get pretty much whatever she wanted, but, quickly, she fell for Nazario's legitimate, true charm in a country where men held daggers behind smiles and ulterior motives behind false grins.

The pair were in love, truly and completely. After eighteen months together, on New Year's Day 1990, Nazario proposed to Elle, and she accepted. Blissfully unaware of the problems ahead, they stumbled off into the sunlight and quickly arranged their marriage for the spring of that year.

Everything went to plan! Funded by Elena's deceptively rich noble parents (she'd only worked as a barmaid to get 'life experience', something her parents insisted upon), the wedding was a grand event, with both families happy as could be - even Juan, content with his new (albeit shady) military job turned up to give his brother his blessings. The lumbering giant and the petite noblewoman were married! Around September 1990, they headed off to Carraig for a few weeks' honeymoon, where Nazario met his arch-nemesis to this day. The Creig Bull. Fiachra Brennan.

Whilst Nazario himself was a spry young man of 24, Fiachra was barely an adult, having just passed his 18th birthday. Nazario, presuming that, considering he was on holiday, it couldn't hurt to introduce himself to the man, puffed out his chest, and closed up on him. "Nazario Alvarez," He said. "I'd like to test your strength, boy!"

Moments later, the pair were locked against each other for a full five minutes, arm wrestling with force that could - and eventually did - split tables in half. Visitors from all around crowded to see the fifteen-minute long muscular skirmish, and despite the Esparian's repeated painstaking attempts to push the other giant's hand down to the table, eventually, he was overwhelmed, and he lost.

Stumbling away, Elle tugging him back to the room in his ear, Nazario howled (in broken Cretan) that one day, he'd find the man again. And one day, he'd beat him! Curse that Creig giant, Fiachra Brennan. Curse him til the very day he died!

Returning to Esparia a few days later, with a noticeably sore wrist and a slew of various muscular cramps, the bitter Nazario soon decided that if the pair were going to raise a family together, they'd need to both find well-paying jobs. They both agreed that children were something they wanted, but not at least until they'd had their fair fill of life, and were both thirty. Considering that Elle's thirtieth birthday wouldn't come round til the dawn of the next millennium, Nazario knew he had time enough to wait, but he was a patient man; either way, he knew he loved Elle, and he knew that he wanted to spend this time with her, getting to know her - and, god forbid, if anything went wrong, it meant that whatever children they could've had wouldn't be subjected to some form of chaotic domestic life.

Nazario initially signed himself on as an ampitheatre engineer, considering how Esparia loved their entertainment. Perfectly happy, and still having a few stories to tell his wet-nosed youthful work colleagues from his time in the war, he knew that whilst the job was humble, it was more than appropriate. "But, why?" They asked him, over and over again. "Why aren't you out there, fighting in the ring?"

A good question. And in truth? Nazario had never intended himself to be a matador. He never wanted to see blood or death again. No matter how many times Elena insisted that he look back towards going into the field again to work as an engineer - this time, with a promotion promised, courtesy of her father pulling some strings - Nazario told her that he just couldn't. His time as a warrior had taken its toll on him, and he'd felt fear enough for ten men in the short amount of time he'd been there, surrounded by broken, beaten, charred bodies and the empty soulless husks of men traumatised by the pain and sheer horror they'd seen from these endless, futile conflicts. Esparia and Gelemorte were locked in clutch.

The patriotism was still alive deep within him, though. It burned; he wanted to do something for his country, but he just couldn't put himself through that again. He wanted to fight, and yet he didn't. Even his very appearance made him a walking contradiction as a peaceful, quiet man.

One regular day, when the country's top matador was appointed to take on an overwhelming three bulls at once, Nazario went to work, just like everyone else. Things were still pretty hot behind the ring; there were many last-minute adjustments to be made, cameras to be set up, with the snorting and growling that the bulls made, kept and straining against those oppressive pens.

Eventually, they were released. The matador had been informed that strong as these bulls were, the show, as always, was rigged, and that he'd be fine. However, the drugs that they'd pumped the bulls full of... well, there'd been a slight oversight. Instead of making the bulls use more energy and exhaust themselves in just an instant, it gave them titanic endurance, and they charged for far longer than the matador could handle. After a few minutes, the exhausted matador was gored, having knocked out only one of the bulls, and killed almost instantly on live television.

The bulls were rampaging. They charged at walls, and the rubble began to crumble; the stadium was chaos, people in the grandstands jumping over each other, thrillseekers desperately attempting to vault themselves down into the pit and test their own mettle with the bulls, whilst everyone with an ounce of sanity sought to escape, no more, no less.

Nazario was one of the latter, but his conscience spoke to him. Who would contain these bulls if not him? Who had the strength, the sheer animosity and size, to restrain them, to topple them and knock them unconscious, but him? He was the only candidate there, and his youthful colleagues stared at him as he turned on his heel and made his way back towards the gates.

He flung them open, and, immediately, the bulls focused their attention on him. This huge mammoth of a man. They readied themselves, and the stadium fell into silence as attention was all focused on that one man, Nazario Alvarez, in the pit. Thrillseekers clambered back to their seats. Escapees calmed themselves. Engineers sealed the gates.

The bulls charged.

Nazario, standing there, stalwart and unbreakable as ever, took each on with but a single flat palm. He charged back against them, and in an instant, with a single mighty push, overturned the first, and held a triumphant foot on its torso til its writhings forced it into exhaustion and unconsciousness. And as the other turned to him, ready to gore the second human going for the day, he grabbed the damn thing by its very horns, and flipped it onto its back. Two bulls rendered helpless and unconscious by a single man in under a minute. A new record for Esparia, and, indeed, the world.

Through until 1993, Nazario was the world's leading matador. He had no costume, no suit, not even a single piece of red felt with which to tease and taunt. He endured no harm, and emerged triumphant atop his quarry every single time. He was a celebrity in the eyes of the Esparian people, and his brief twelve-month stint as the reigning champion lead off with him returning home on his twenty-seventh birthday.

The fear never left him. The fear of loss, the fear of leaving his wife a widow... and even after his being branded champion and leaving the entertainment business for good, to this day, he still has an irrational fear of bulls, and, really, any loud bovine.

Unemployment struck him in tandem with boredom once more. Now working as a chief accountant at one of the country's most prestigious banks, Elena barely had time for her husband any more, who couldn't occupy himself alone. He desperately wanted to bear children, but, alas, neither was ready and nor were their financial circumstances. They returned to the inevitable gap between every short-term fixture that Nazario found... until, one day, Nazario's younger brother of four years, Juan, popped along for a visit.

The pair got talking, and, Nazario, swore into the strictest confidence, was enthralled by his dashing younger brother's stories of the Esparian Bloodhounds. The tip-top highest echelons of special forces - the most elite in the entire world, or so Juan claimed, barely 23 and already a four-year veteran. He claimed the training was the most difficult thing he'd ever endured... but the work? The work was well worth it.

Nazario immediately dismissed his brother's invitation, but after he left, in a drunken stupor, the mammoth of a man began to consider it. Why not? With this training... he wouldn't see friends die. Now, he could truly ensure that the ones he loved and adored would survive, and if they didn't, it was his fault and his alone. He couldn't blame the world any longer, and just sit here stewing in his own discontent... no, he had to change things for the better.

In December 1993, Nazario Alvarez joined the Esparian Bloodhounds. Honour, integrity, and brotherhood was key between himself and his sibling, the pair joined absolutely and completely not just by blood but now by occupation. Nazario breezed through the training, despite its renowned horror and difficulty, and made even the most complex of sparring encounters look easy. It was true; he was cut out for this job, a hundred percent.

Four years went by without any real consequence, but unbeknownst to the Esparian giant, his brother was stewing in jealousy. Nazario had raced ahead of Juan in the Bloodhounds' rankings, and had already been made second-in-command of the most prestigious cell there was, whilst Juan was still left behind in the lower echelons of the forces. How easy his brother had made it all look. How accustomed to the lifestyle he'd become. How quickly he'd forgotten that he had his own sibling to thank, and nowhere did Juan see any sort of dedication to this, whatsoever.

He was pissed off.

Juan announced that he was leaving for greener pastures in late 1997. He'd discussed it with Quisimo, the long-time commander of the Bloodhounds, and all the paperwork had been organised. One last job, and then Juan was to be packed up and to become an Inquisitor. That was where the real paydirt was at. "Let's see that bastard brother of mine follow up on this act," Juan thought to himself, twisted, malicious and spiteful, taking Nazario's lack of appreciation completely the wrong way.

The one last job was supposed to be easy, but in his anger, everything went to pot. Two of the four squad members were killed straight away, and a stray frag grenade blew off Juan's arm above the elbow, the collapsed his lungs. The last squad member managed to evacuate the fallen commander, and dragged him back to safety, performing emergency CPR and managing to keep him conscious long enough for evacuation to come.

Juan was in a coma for three years. Nazario wept time and time again over his brother's motionless husk, Quisimo having informed him of all the details. He was the one responsible for this. If he'd have just been a little more appreciative of Juan's help... then none of this would've come to pass.

The doctors weren't hopeful, but claimed there was one thing they could do for him. Replacing the arm was child's play, even more so with a comatose subject; but Juan's heart had been fatally damaged, and without automail adjustments and a pacemaker fitted, he wouldn't survive beyond another few years upon his predicted awakening. Elena was furious at first when Nazario announced that they'd have to pay for it, and concluded that children would once more have to wait, but... it was his brother. Blood ran thicker than water. Juan was family to the both of them.

The treatment, thankfully, went as planned, and, sure enough, in early 2001, Juan awakened and immediately reconciled with his brother. Saddened by the fact that he'd been given an honourable discharge, and that all this had come to pass simply because of a stupid, stupid rivalry that had only gestated because of envy itself, Juan announced to his brother that he was indeed now leaving for greener pastures; Creta. There, he would become a mercenary. The land of the brave and the free, no less; perhaps he'd see if he could even find a job in the military there.

And, so, finally, Juan left, a few months later. Elle still wasn't on the best of terms with her brother-in-law, no matter how many times he'd apologised, but she wished him well and was pleasant enough for every one of his later visits.

Nazario's father had always been proud of him, but even more so now that his son had picked up in his younger sibling's footsteps and also gone into a good, patriotic military activity. However, both his father and mother had been bedridden with cancer for some time, now, joined in their illness; in early 2002, Rodrigo Alvarez passed away, and Maria followed eighteen months later. They were buried next to each other in the grandest of Malos Ciudad's cemeteries, no penny spared for the funeral. Life had been full of tragedy so far for Nazario; and as things finally began to look up, Elle announced to her husband in June 2003 that she was pregnant - and with twins, too!

Traditionalist parents to a T, now fully united and happy once more, José and Diego Alvarez were born in March 2004 to a then-happy pair of parents. Nazario loved his children from the moment they came out of his wife's womb; but, unfortunately, fate would have it that Elle didn't really feel the same way. Her temperament became increasingly volatile with every passing week, and weeks before the pair were three years old, they settled on a divorce when she threatened to file domestic abuse charges after almost beating her own head in with a rolling pin. Things hadn't gone too well for her at the workplace, with the bank going bust and Elle subsequently losing her job; but, it was for the best, they decided, that Elle could move on to do what they want, and Nazario would raise his two sons alone.

The remaining six years of Nazario's life have been tough, but by no means impossible. Life has seriously begun to look up for him; he's now squad commander of the Bloodhounds' most prestigious cell, and has a small fortune saved up in the bank. Elle still calls him, drunken, and demands money, every once in a while, and during her more regretful moments, whines about how Nazario's taken her children away, but, for the most part, José and Diego have thus far had a pleasant upbringing, with a young nanny, Carmen, assisting him.

Nazario does most of his training and files most reports at home, and always ensures that he's there on time, every single day, to take his children to and from school. He loves and adores them more than anything else in the world, and that should, by now, with Nazario's black-and-white chequered history, be the only thing that you can really take for granted about the man.

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TRIVIA:
→ Nazario completes the big-guy trio otherwise consisting of Fiachra and Roarke.
→ Nazario is a taurophobe.
→ Nazario pretty much hates Fiachra.
→ Nazario is a massive patriot, if you can't tell already.
→ Nazario is something of a misogynist, but only thanks to his ex-wife.
→ Nazario has slept with women since his divorce with Elle, but has never considered a permanent partner.
→ Nazario once punched the ground in Malos Ciudad out of frustration. Rumour has it they felt it three months later in Vaingloria, and on the way, it toppled three ships as if it were the product of a storm.
→ Nazario can punch through most plaster and concrete-based walls, although the latter tends to really fucking hurt.
→ Nazario's sons, José and Diego, are coming on eight years old.
→ Nazario's staple breakfast typically consists of 2 steaks, a cigar, and a cup of coffee.
→ Nazario's lactose intolerant.
→ Nazario owns a small beach-hut on one of the nearest and longest beach strips to Malos.
→ Nazario also owns a house on the city suburbs (one of the nicer areas) and rents a two-bedroom inner-city apartment that he uses as a last resort.
→ Nazario plays a mean game of poker. Mainly because he's laughing all the time, so you can't really tell whether he's got a good or bad hand.
→ Nazario has uncanny skill with any ranged weapon, although prefers to use 'scorched earth' tactics.
→ Fiachra may be able to crush a man's head with his left hand, but Nazario can wrestle with two Esparian bulls unarmed and come out on top. Who will be the victor?! You decide, next week, MDA WWE ROYAAAL RUUUUMBLE!
→ Some say he only sleeps for three hours... every week.
→ Some say that he once survived for a month in the jungles of Panei by simply sucking the moisture out of a duck.
→ All we know is... he's called Nazario.
→ Speaks fluent Esparian, broken Cretan, knows a few insults in Rouenian (Gelemortian Dialect) and Cerisian.

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ALIAS:
→ Ross

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ Ayden Derocha, Balthazar, Marcus Frostbrook, Zenith Howler, Alastair Carson

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ 82% of statistics are made up.

FACE CLAIM:

Code:

[b]ONE PIECE[/b]/[i]Monkey D. Garp[/i]

CUSTOM RANK:
→ The Matador's Revenge

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[Guest]

APPROVED

Just making it clear and distinct for you to note that shaking Vaingloria should be funny musing if anything, and just a MIGHTY coincidence if it ever truly happened, among those other earth-shaking feat is all, so that those whom read this application aren't under the impression your character can create fissures and sink islands is all.

[Dai]

The member 'Nikolaus' has done the following action : Rank Roll

'Lieutenant Roll' : 10

[Guest]

Niko, only every 1 in 3 of those trivia facts are true, but, either way, hail Esparia.

[Guest]

Yeah, it's fine. Just making it clear for others when they read it. All for your benefit.

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