.

about: ..it's a simple story, and not one that begs much pity. stojun'to was born somewhere free. yet most of the keeper's life, garlean occupation loomed overhead. already of poor stock and low class, fighting and stealing had been all he could rely on from the get-go. when imperalist war-machines took to the heavens above and armored waves upon waves of conscripts took to the streets, this saved his life and damned his soul all the same.

it became evident quickly that conquest was different than standard war; resistance and guerilla warfare taxed the efforts of the occupier, and their redoubled punishments demanded of the rebels fiercer fighters. jun was happy to slip to either side of that fence, plying their trade wherever there was coin or opportunity. they fought for the invader; they took up the cause of the downtrodden. it was never about ideology. there was no concern for anything other than the battle and the pay; there was belonging in duty and community in huddled in the foxhole, in the trench. and, more than anything, he was good at it.

but that was long ago now ... the war's over, and all he has left is the muscle memory. he roams the world like a lost soul and lingers like a spectre, plying his trade wherever it still can be. with ever-the-more peace spreading through the realm and ever-the-fewer wars to wage, it should be no surprise that, from time-to-time, he finds himself a tool for purposes perhaps less-than noble. even still, he's thankful to be aimed at something. after all, what good is a gun with nothing to shoot at?