Aviator
the ghost of pimping past
*Full Name: Sir Macklin Lowe (formerly Manuel Alvaro Tate-Lopez)
Alias:
- the Poison Orchid: His estate contains extensive conservatories, and as a skilled biologist and geneticist, he creates a variety of poisons from the plants, along with some nicer, more recreational substances.
- Brass Knuckles Baby: He’s a martial artist skilled in what would today be closest to Muay Thai, kickboxing, and Krav Maga. As such, his weapon of choice to wear into combat is spiked gloves. Oh, and the spikes are coated in those aforementioned poisons!
- Macintosh: A play off his name, Macklin. Ironically, he hates apples.
- the Wolf of War: He is a tactical genius on the battlefield, and he has seven pet canines.
- Rowan’s Red Right Hand: This knight has killed a lot of men who flouted the King’s law. Those bandits scheduled to hang tomorrow morning? There’s a decent chance they were captured by Lowe’s men.
*Role: the Horn
*Age: 28 years
*Place of Birth: Empyra; after being exiled from his homeland at age seventeen, he changed his name to better fit into the King’s Army in Zenith.
*Face-claim: Milo Manheim
*Height & Weight: 6’1” & 199 lbs.
*Eye & Hair colour: (dreamy) greenish-blue eyes and black hair. The blue eyes, however, are not the ones he was born with; a scientist with a thorough understanding of biology and genetics, Macklin has tinkered with his own genome to get rid of the naturally violet eyes he inherited from his mother. Like his name, they are yet another vestige of his old life that he’s cast off.
Written description of appearance: With a white mother and Hispanic father, Macklin (or Sir Lowe, as he is quick to correct those who overstep) is white-presenting Latino, yet he speaks with the posh accent of one who was raised in Empyra’s high society. With high cheekbones, a narrow face, and unlined skin, he is often mistaken for younger than his years. His dark curls are sometimes wrestled into submission with a comb or slicked back for a more professional, sophisticated demeanor, but when damp with sweat or rainwater they fall into his eyes and won’t be convinced otherwise. Paired with a halfhearted effort at a beard that’s more like a roguish bit of scruff, Macklin resembles a wonderful mistake. It’s too bad he’s too focused on his career goals to ever let it come to that.
His eyebrows are long and dark and expressive, and one of them has a damnable habit of creeping upward right before he unleashes a snide remark that will make the recipient shrivel into their grave prematurely. His mouth is narrow, and his upper lip is set in the distinct shape of a cupid’s bow. He has a long and slightly crooked nose, as if it’s been broken a couple of times but mended by expert physicians. His complexion is healthy and golden except on the battlefield, when exertion lends him a ruby flush. Macklin has brilliant peacock-blue, hooded eyes that are often steely with determination, and sometimes bloodshot from working long hours. When not gloved for combat or in the lab, his fingers are always adorned with gaudy rings, as he revels in wearing his wealth on his person. He’s tall compared to the average man, yet still a little bit undersized for a knight. For those who are curious, he is right-handed.
A rigorous training regimen with lots of martial arts keeps Macklin corded with muscle. He’s built like a horse, having steadily bulked up since joining the King’s Army at age seventeen. Now, before you’ve even seen him fight, he’s the kind of guy that the prudent mugger would think twice about before confronting in a dark alley. His tailored wardrobe carefully emphasizes his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He maximizes fashion and function, wearing a lot of black and other dark hues like navy, umber, and charcoal. In battle, he often prefers to wear light leather armor that hinders his speed minimally. Macklin sports several tattoos on his ankle, hand, neck, bicep, and chest. The sloping muscles of his back are punctuated with long, twisting scars that are raised, yet have faded over time; they’re souvenirs from talking back to his professors as an Empyran student and engaging in schoolyard scuffles. He also has a thicker, more jagged scar that snakes across his left flank from ribs to hip, where he once took a sword defending a duke’s daughter from kidnappers. The wound almost killed him upon receipt, and occasionally it still hurts to this day, making his posture a little stiff.
*Personality: Macklin Lowe is so exactly what you would expect of an Empryan that it’s a little bit scary. He is a perfectionist who holds himself and others to high, borderline impossible standards. He has a justified reputation for being a hard-ass, and new recruits to the King’s Army are oftentimes scared to train under him, because he is a demanding, unrelenting mentor who believes that there’s always room for improvement. His smiles are few and far between, as are his compliments. He is an absolute stickler for the code of chivalry that comes with being a knight, believing that personal conduct is just as important as martial ability. His general demeanor can be described as unflappable and unfailingly polite. He’s very calm and poker-faced, valuing professionalism above all. On the flipside, he is so distanced from his emotions that he probably would not know one if it hit him in the face (or at least, he appears to be).
He’s a little bit lacking in empathy, believing that if you can’t solve the puzzle, can’t win the battle, you’re just a loser. When he fails, he does not make excuses, and neither does he accept them from others. He is intense and intimidating and very serious. He speaks very directly and does not mince his words to spare feelings. If he encounters a fellow knight acting against the chivalry code, he is quick to confront and correct them. For this and some other reasons--like his experiments frequently being misconstrued as witchcraft--Macklin is fairly unpopular among his peers. Despite his rigid morals and obsession with perfection, he is a Kingsman through and through. Even if he personally disagrees with an order given to him, he will see it done. He truly adores King Rowan and Queen Sharvi to the point that he’s a bit of a simp for them, and understands that he is an instrument of their will. He is damnably capable, and tasks that they entrust to him are followed through. Macklin is a process-oriented individual who is always striving to complete his goals most efficiently. While he truly enjoys contemplation and strategizing, at the end of the day, he is a man of action who gets restless if he’s stagnant for too long.
He pretends that the jousting tournaments and fanfare of knighthood is a frivolity beneath him, but secretly, he enjoys the thrill of competition and the attention. Nonetheless, he always treats his opponents with respect, even if they’re rude to him. Perhaps surprisingly with one of such noble intentions, Macklin is a little bit shallow where his image is concerned. He changed his name and eye color to distance better fit into Zenith’s high society. Despite being a highly decorated officer, he is constantly striving for further achievements because they form a crucial part of his self-worth. Except for the few years where he was held an unimportant rank in the King’s Army, he’s always had the good fortune to have money, and a lot of it. But more important than the wealth itself, to him, is the status associated with it. One glimpse at his heavily ringed hands makes it obvious that he likes to show off his possessions. Macklin doesn’t have a lot of friends. Ordinarily, he’s a little bit detached and aloof and only talks when something needs communicating, but this isn’t accidental. He’s no braggart, yet he doesn’t merely think he’s better than most other people, smarter, tougher, more competent. He knows it, but he quietly chooses to keep this observation to himself. As a result, he’s rather dismissive of most attempts to converse with him, unless the subject is academic or theoretical in nature.
Like many Empyrans, Macklin is an intellectual. He loves learning for the sake of learning and has an insatiable hunger for knowledge. Much of his success as a knight comes not from his ample martial ability, but from tactical ingenuity. He is a strategist who likes to solve problems with the least amount of waste. When leading troops on the battlefield, he always does his homework on his enemy, and he never confronts a force head-on when he could attack it from an angle instead. Furthermore, Macklin is a gifted scientist with deeply ingrained passions for biology, genetics, and pharmacology. While he doesn’t have much time for fun, his favorite hobby is crossbreeding plants in the extensive conservatories among his estate with the goal of inventing various elixirs. This peculiar interest is another reason that many of his peers on the knights’ guild don’t trust him; they don’t understand the scientific nature of his investigations and believe him to be doing the devil’s work with curses and rituals. As a result of this hobby, most of his personal weaponry is enhanced with rare poisons, some of them lethal, and others merely excruciatingly painful. A boundless devotee to King Rowan and Queen Sharvi, he is also endeavoring to create a treatment for her illness, and hopefully, a cure.
*Likes: Scientific inquiry, plants, rainy mornings, the solar system, equations, cardio workouts, getting stuff done, making a plan, strategy games, table tennis, sharpening/polishing his spiked gloves, investing, puzzles, the King and Queen, upholding the law, chivalry, competition, jousting tournaments and dueling, flaunting his wealth, gaudy yet tasteful rings (ruby is his favorite stone), martial arts, that satisfying crunch! of an enemy’s bone, fishing, the color brown, salty foods like nuts and olives, seafood (particularly cod and sea urchin), iced coffee, raw eggs and milk, stimulants and hallucinogens (he makes some hard drugs in that conservatory to power through long hours), tobacco, dogs and foxes, optical illusions, deadpan humor, incense, being outdoors, feeling pleasantly sore the morning after a tough workout, stretching, winter, well-done tattoos
Dislikes: Interruptions, small talk, most people, sunny days, fortune-telling, astrology, organized religion, art, dancing, being addressed by his real name, closed-mindedness, being on a boat, spicy food, unseasoned or raw veggies, apples, turkey, meat cooked more than rare, cannabis, alcohol, gambling, brothels, human trafficking, criminals, cats (they’re evil, and he’s allergic), the ticking of a clock, being flirted with, public displays of affection, vacations (he cannot take his mind off work), court functions, politicking, Umbra, trumpet music, cooking, household chores, stripes and polka dots (tacky), hunting for sport, thinking about Nami, his parents, hugs
*Fears: Failure, imperfection, harm befalling the King and Queen, being ordered to kill innocents, sleeping too long, uncontrolled fires, being forever alone, being tried as a “witch,” cats, the Covenant’s influence, dying meaninglessly, public speaking, loud sudden noises, getting old
Habits: Walks *industriously* fast even if he’s got nowhere particular to be, bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep (between security detail, training new recruits, working out, and creating a treatment for the queen, it’s not uncommon for him to pull twenty-hour days), using his “dream pipe” (opioids) to sleep and sometimes for more but he never takes so much that he's indisposed, pack of luxury cigars a day, fiddling with his rings when he has a decision to make, verrrrry picky eater and he dissects food before eating it, wants to pet every dog and talks to them as if they can understand him, has the most extra joint-cracking routine you’ve ever seen, “That’s an order.”
Hobbies: Working out, organizing patrols, kickboxing, crossbreeding plants and making substances from them, being a dogfather to his six dogs and one fox (two toys, two terriers, one barbet, one coonhound), fishing, reading nonfiction and following current events, investing, table tennis
*Strengths: Strategizing, time management, diplomacy, crunching numbers, killing men with his bare hands, killing men with a battleaxe when the occasion calls for it, organizing a team, achieving goals, practicing what he preaches, absorbing complex information, applying learning to daily life, using a terrain advantageously, proficient medical ability, can take opium like a tank and still function, very acute hearing
*Weaknesses: Having to fight from horseback or at a distance (unarmed or close-quarters combat is where he excels), does not allow himself to feel emotions, making friends (most of the other knights do not like him), alcohol and weed kick his ass, workaholic who’s frequently exhausted, bad liar, oblivious to flirting, unsympathetic; he believes in a logical solution to everything, chases prestige and status, alters or hides the parts of himself he does not like, tone-deaf and no sense of rhythm, commands > charisma, gets seasick
*History:
Macklin Lowe was not always the upstanding, goody-two-shoes saint he is now. In fact, in his early life, he was quite the opposite. In fact, his birth name was not even Macklin Lowe; rather, he was born Manuel Alvaro Tate-Lopez, born to an interracial couple with a white mother from Umbra and a Latino father from the Canyon. His mother, Meilani, born to a long line of ice fishermen, distinguished herself as a marine biologist within her city before accepting a more promising career in Empyra. Alonso, his father, despite having received only a few years of formal education in the Canyon, descended from the region’s original settlers and was a cultural expert. He was accepted into an Empyran university on the basis of his extensive historical and cultural knowledge. It was at this university that Manuel’s parents met, sharing several core classes despite their different areas of academic expertise. Meilani and Alonso were relatively old for first-time parents when they’d had their first and only son, being ages thirty-eight and thirty-four, respectively, but not for lack of trying. After two miscarriages, Manuel was their final attempt at having a child, and they regarded it as a miracle when he was born alive and healthy. By this time, Alonso’s career was suffering and going nowhere. He worked long hours as a tour guide in a museum for minimal pay. Meilani, however, was making bank investigating the various forms of wildlife that inhabited the uniquely floating city of Empyra, receiving several scientific awards for her groundbreaking experiments that earned her prestige within the community. Within a few years, the couple was lavishly wealthy thanks to her contributions.
Manuel was born in the middle of August, during a particularly hot and sticky and grueling summer morning. Meilani was frequently traveling for press conferences, so it was up to his father to raise him for nine months of the year while juggling a job with shifts that were upwards of ten hours. In Alonso’s defense, he tried. He really did. He smoked like a chimney, but it was his only vice. However, there is only so much that can be done for an Empyran brat born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Much to the envy of his classmates, Manuel achieved good grades effortlessly, and to add insult to injury, he pretended not to care. He was more interested in sports than academics, bouncing around between all the major ones during their various seasons. Based on his mother’s considerable wealth and status within the community that she wasn’t even in half the time, he was used to getting his way. Everyone wanted to be Meilani Tate’s friend.
As such, Manuel, a boy who had everything he could want within the palm of his hand and took it for granted, had become a ruffian by the time he hit puberty. He shoplifted and vandalized stores with his friends, and when he had a problem with someone at school—be it a student or professor—he let them know. With his considerable allowance for doing nothing, he bought contraband alcohol from illicit groups in Empyra. Feeling unloved and unreached by his parents, Manuel frequently acted out for attention. He was no stranger to corporal punishment, having been flogged in the Courtyard or forced to hold stress positions for prolonged periods of time. He still sports the numerous scars to this day.
When Manuel’s band of delinquents came of high-school age, the professors cracked down on disciplining improper behavior. His friend was one day escorted to the principal’s office for merely wearing a hat to class, which was against the dress code. Manuel’s parents gave him hell when they started getting fined for their son’s transgressions. As the situation demanded, the boys in his rebellious crowd of self-dubbed “toughs” had to find an alternative outlet to express their inner anger and settle disputes. One day, completely as a joke whilst slightly tipsy, one of Manuel’s friends, Jasper, suggested the idea of a fight club. A sporting ring where bets could be placed and the boys solved interpersonal grievances on their own, without adult intervention making all involved parties suffer.
And so an underground flghting ring was exactly what was invented to keep pesky adults from getting in the schoolboys’ way. Not only was it used as a mechanism for solving disputes, but it soon became a source of income for the lucky, and a source of financial ruin for others, but it was an avenue of entertainment for all. They operated it outside of school hours, and Manuel, being a boy with limitless reservoirs of anger, was one of the main players. At this time, he was taller than most of his classmates, but he wasn’t particularly muscular. In fact, quite the opposite; a picky eater who typically discarded the stuff the housemaids cooked for him, he was rather skinny. As an amateur gladiatorial ring, no real methodology was used to assign opponents other than who had beef with whom and whom the boys could goad into the circle. Manuel had razor-sharp reflexes, remarkable hand-eye coordination, and the ability to shake off a punch with a short glare. Somewhat to his surprise (though he’d never admit that), he found that he was quite good at the bastardized kickboxing sport his classmates had established. They came to know their invention as bā zhī zhīshù, meaning “the art of eight limbs,” as it incorporated the use of elbows and knees as well as punches and kicks, along with clinches.
It was through his friend Jasper, the boy who had come up with the idea of the fight club, that Manuel met Nami. At the time, Nami was Jasper’s new girlfriend, and he wanted to wear her as an armpiece to one of their illicit gambling matchups, despite the unspoken rule that forbade girls from attending. She was terribly pretty, with almond eyes and full lips and a voice like sweet lemonade, and without meaning to, Manuel put on a show to impress her with his matchup that night. Nami could not take her eyes off his careless swagger. In the weeks to come, she would leave Jasper, stating that “things just weren’t working out,” as her nebulous reasoning. Secretly, she and Manuel started seeing each other.
By the end of his junior year, Manuel started to notice that his effortless grades were slipping from what they once were. A series of B’s and even some C’s on his most recent bout of exams knocked him from the top ten percent of students at Empyra Academy. He was rapidly nearing the completion of his education, and something had to be done if he wanted to pursue his goal of being a councilman, a very competitive position. He withdrew from the fighting ring to devote time to his studies, and to Nami, the girl whom he was increasingly falling for.
Manuel took steps to ensure that his parents did not learn of Nami’s existence, which was easy enough with his mother frequently on business trips and his father working long hours. He invited her over at discreet times. However, one of the housemaids must have tattled to his parents, because they expressed their disapproval of the relationship. Nami was from a lower echelon, working-class family who could not afford tutors. As such, her grades were somewhat lacking, and after graduation, she was likely to become a servant. She was no suitable match for one with Manuel’s promising future and illustrious lineage. They demanded that this flirtation with Nami be over by the time he reached university.
Unwilling to abandon the girl with whom he was deeply in love, Manuel concocted a plan. What if he could prove his parents wrong? What if both he and Nami graduated at the top of their class? Of course, this plan would need to be enacted, fast, because his grades had slipped futher while dating Nami, and hers were nowhere near so pristine. Running out of options and time, Manuel decided that the only way for them to remain together was if they cheated on the annual exam. Nami wouldn’t be convinced; cheating was a serious offense with dangerous consequences if caught. She steadfastly told him no, and that if they were meant to be together, they would find a way. Fed up with her blind optimism, Manuel played a card that he would regret for the rest of his life. He asked her if she trusted him, and if so, would she marry him upon graduation. He spontaneously, ringlessly proposed to Nami, who was moved to tears and helpless to refuse him. They consummated their engagement, and she resigned herself to follow her fiancé’s plan in the two weeks leading up to final exams.
Manuel tapped the connections who used to sell him liquor underaged to see if they could do anything about obtaining an answer sheet for the exams. It cost him a pretty penny, but they said they could, and got one to him on the eve of finals. Overcome with relief, he and Nami spent the night fantasizing about their wedding together. Everything he had ever wanted—a long life with his girl, a seat on Empyra’s council—was so close within reach. On exam day, the first six hours passed hitchlessly. Manuel and Nami took adjacent seats so that she could glance over and copy the answers he’d committed to memory. They each occasionally botched one of the questions to allay suspicion.
Unbeknownst to Manuel until it was too late, he’d overlooked one very important variable. His brash behavior at the fighting ring had earned him an enemy in the shape of a former friend. Word of Manuel’s inquiry into an answer sheet had trickled down to Jasper, who shared the same mutual friends. Having finished his first test a little before time was called, he approached the proctor of the exam and disclosed Manuel’s possession of an answer key. Wrapped up in silken daydreams with Nami, he hadn’t disposed of it that morning, and a bribed maid easily turned it up in his nightstand before the day’s exams were complete. Manuel was rising from his seat to turn in his final exam when his professor confronted him with the irrefutable evidence of cheating that had been dredged up from his parents’ house.
Stricken as he watched his future disappear before him, Manuel could only stare. He would likely go to prison for cheating. He and Nami would never be together, and he would never become a councilman. Disaster replayed in a dark loop in his mind as Nami pushed out her chair, approached the professor, and confessed that the answer key had been hers. That she had masterminded the cheating.
Being from two very different social classes, naturally, the punishments were unequal. Manuel’s mother was a personal friend of Empyra’s governor at the time, and sending her son to prison would not do. He was let off easily: temporarily exiled from Empyra until his compulsory four-year service in the King’s Army was over. He was given strict instructions to catch the train to Zenith that evening and not let his face be seen in Empyra come morning light. Meanwhile, Nami was sentenced to twenty lashes in the Courtyard and the results of her exams to be disqualified. Several days after his departure, Manuel learned from a letter from his father that Nami’s wounds had become infected, and with her family’s inability to afford medical care, she’d succumbed to them.
Devastated, something broke within Manuel. He resented his family for not intervening to save his now-dead fiancée’s life, which would have been easily within their power. Wanting to sever all ties with them, he discarded the name they had bestowed upon him at birth and enlisted in the King’s Army under a name of his own invention: Macklin Lowe. A name that decidedly more aligned with the culture of Zenith, he did not wish to be associated with the city that had sent Nami to slaughter.
The King’s Army was rebirth for Manuel, now Macklin. In a life that was suddenly empty of purpose or dreams or love, he clung to the daily challenges that he was given, completing them with the grit he’d learned in the boxing ring. A competitor bred for success since birth, he had physical and intellectual advantages over just about all of his cohorts. Hours of relentless exercise put muscle on him, and he astounded his instructors with his ability to put down any opponent he was matched against. A visible change occurred in Macklin during this period. He completely lost the chip on his shoulder that he’d worn before meeting Nami. He no longer cheated to get ahead, and he didn’t lose his temper when things didn’t go his way. For all intents and purposes, he cleaned up his act, throwing himself heart and soul into protecting his new city from threats. When his sentence of exile was lifted and he was permitted to return to Empyra, he declined, electing to remain within the army. There was nothing there left for him.
A year and a half later, Macklin would receive a promotion and medal of valor. He was posted as part of the guard for a duke’s daughter. During her daily riding session in the forest, the patrol ran into a heavily armed ensemble that outnumbered them two-to-one. They moved in on the duke’s daughter, clearly meaning to leave her alive for ransom. The assailants quickly depleted Macklin’s party, and those that didn’t fall were too occupied fighting to come to the noblewoman’s aid. Seeing that he was playing a losing game, Macklin abandoned the standard-issue sword that had been given to him, and with his bare fists and mind-bending speed, he and his remaining companion turned the tide against the noblewoman’s attackers. He took a sword in the side for his efforts, and bleeding heavily, he and the other guard, a talented bowman, rode down the kidnappers and dispatched them, freeing the duke’s daughter. With more of his blood on him than in him, Macklin promptly fell off his horse and passed out.
He expected to die there, and was groggy and confused from a strong cocktail of painkillers when he awoke in the castle infirmary. Ribbons of fire shot down his side when he moved, but the wound was stitched up. It took Macklin the better part of a month to convalesce, but when he was fit to return to work, he was unexpectedly knighted, the lofty title of Sir Lowe bestowed upon him. As a chevalier, he consistently continued to distinguish himself in every military campaign he participated in, demonstrating a knack for strategy. Macklin quickly gained a reputation for being able to subdue larger forces through shrewd placement of troops and using terrain advantageously.
His responsibilities increased, and this teenage boy who no one had heard of when he enlisted was invited to court functions of increasing importance. With his impressive list of accomplishments and impeccable dedication to the code, he soon became a personal friend of King Rowan and Queen Sharvi. They granted him an estate and riches beyond his wildest dreams. The part of Macklin that was an Empyran at birth compelled him to pursue science in his leisure time, and he created grand conservatories, spending his wealth on rare flowers with the potential for medicinal properties. He enhanced all of his blades and spiked gloves with poisons. Five years have passed since his appointment, but Macklin remains one of the youngest knights in King Rowan’s assemblage. His loyalty to the kingdom is tested every day, yet never wavers. He looks at King Rowan as a savior who has united the eleven cities and is the beating heart of Solas.
Ever since the falling-out that led to Nami’s death and Macklin’s exile from Empyra, he has never contacted his parents. Fortunately, none of his campaigns (as of yet) have required him to return to the birth city for which he holds such resentment.
Manuel was born in the middle of August, during a particularly hot and sticky and grueling summer morning. Meilani was frequently traveling for press conferences, so it was up to his father to raise him for nine months of the year while juggling a job with shifts that were upwards of ten hours. In Alonso’s defense, he tried. He really did. He smoked like a chimney, but it was his only vice. However, there is only so much that can be done for an Empyran brat born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Much to the envy of his classmates, Manuel achieved good grades effortlessly, and to add insult to injury, he pretended not to care. He was more interested in sports than academics, bouncing around between all the major ones during their various seasons. Based on his mother’s considerable wealth and status within the community that she wasn’t even in half the time, he was used to getting his way. Everyone wanted to be Meilani Tate’s friend.
As such, Manuel, a boy who had everything he could want within the palm of his hand and took it for granted, had become a ruffian by the time he hit puberty. He shoplifted and vandalized stores with his friends, and when he had a problem with someone at school—be it a student or professor—he let them know. With his considerable allowance for doing nothing, he bought contraband alcohol from illicit groups in Empyra. Feeling unloved and unreached by his parents, Manuel frequently acted out for attention. He was no stranger to corporal punishment, having been flogged in the Courtyard or forced to hold stress positions for prolonged periods of time. He still sports the numerous scars to this day.
When Manuel’s band of delinquents came of high-school age, the professors cracked down on disciplining improper behavior. His friend was one day escorted to the principal’s office for merely wearing a hat to class, which was against the dress code. Manuel’s parents gave him hell when they started getting fined for their son’s transgressions. As the situation demanded, the boys in his rebellious crowd of self-dubbed “toughs” had to find an alternative outlet to express their inner anger and settle disputes. One day, completely as a joke whilst slightly tipsy, one of Manuel’s friends, Jasper, suggested the idea of a fight club. A sporting ring where bets could be placed and the boys solved interpersonal grievances on their own, without adult intervention making all involved parties suffer.
And so an underground flghting ring was exactly what was invented to keep pesky adults from getting in the schoolboys’ way. Not only was it used as a mechanism for solving disputes, but it soon became a source of income for the lucky, and a source of financial ruin for others, but it was an avenue of entertainment for all. They operated it outside of school hours, and Manuel, being a boy with limitless reservoirs of anger, was one of the main players. At this time, he was taller than most of his classmates, but he wasn’t particularly muscular. In fact, quite the opposite; a picky eater who typically discarded the stuff the housemaids cooked for him, he was rather skinny. As an amateur gladiatorial ring, no real methodology was used to assign opponents other than who had beef with whom and whom the boys could goad into the circle. Manuel had razor-sharp reflexes, remarkable hand-eye coordination, and the ability to shake off a punch with a short glare. Somewhat to his surprise (though he’d never admit that), he found that he was quite good at the bastardized kickboxing sport his classmates had established. They came to know their invention as bā zhī zhīshù, meaning “the art of eight limbs,” as it incorporated the use of elbows and knees as well as punches and kicks, along with clinches.
It was through his friend Jasper, the boy who had come up with the idea of the fight club, that Manuel met Nami. At the time, Nami was Jasper’s new girlfriend, and he wanted to wear her as an armpiece to one of their illicit gambling matchups, despite the unspoken rule that forbade girls from attending. She was terribly pretty, with almond eyes and full lips and a voice like sweet lemonade, and without meaning to, Manuel put on a show to impress her with his matchup that night. Nami could not take her eyes off his careless swagger. In the weeks to come, she would leave Jasper, stating that “things just weren’t working out,” as her nebulous reasoning. Secretly, she and Manuel started seeing each other.
By the end of his junior year, Manuel started to notice that his effortless grades were slipping from what they once were. A series of B’s and even some C’s on his most recent bout of exams knocked him from the top ten percent of students at Empyra Academy. He was rapidly nearing the completion of his education, and something had to be done if he wanted to pursue his goal of being a councilman, a very competitive position. He withdrew from the fighting ring to devote time to his studies, and to Nami, the girl whom he was increasingly falling for.
Manuel took steps to ensure that his parents did not learn of Nami’s existence, which was easy enough with his mother frequently on business trips and his father working long hours. He invited her over at discreet times. However, one of the housemaids must have tattled to his parents, because they expressed their disapproval of the relationship. Nami was from a lower echelon, working-class family who could not afford tutors. As such, her grades were somewhat lacking, and after graduation, she was likely to become a servant. She was no suitable match for one with Manuel’s promising future and illustrious lineage. They demanded that this flirtation with Nami be over by the time he reached university.
Unwilling to abandon the girl with whom he was deeply in love, Manuel concocted a plan. What if he could prove his parents wrong? What if both he and Nami graduated at the top of their class? Of course, this plan would need to be enacted, fast, because his grades had slipped futher while dating Nami, and hers were nowhere near so pristine. Running out of options and time, Manuel decided that the only way for them to remain together was if they cheated on the annual exam. Nami wouldn’t be convinced; cheating was a serious offense with dangerous consequences if caught. She steadfastly told him no, and that if they were meant to be together, they would find a way. Fed up with her blind optimism, Manuel played a card that he would regret for the rest of his life. He asked her if she trusted him, and if so, would she marry him upon graduation. He spontaneously, ringlessly proposed to Nami, who was moved to tears and helpless to refuse him. They consummated their engagement, and she resigned herself to follow her fiancé’s plan in the two weeks leading up to final exams.
Manuel tapped the connections who used to sell him liquor underaged to see if they could do anything about obtaining an answer sheet for the exams. It cost him a pretty penny, but they said they could, and got one to him on the eve of finals. Overcome with relief, he and Nami spent the night fantasizing about their wedding together. Everything he had ever wanted—a long life with his girl, a seat on Empyra’s council—was so close within reach. On exam day, the first six hours passed hitchlessly. Manuel and Nami took adjacent seats so that she could glance over and copy the answers he’d committed to memory. They each occasionally botched one of the questions to allay suspicion.
Unbeknownst to Manuel until it was too late, he’d overlooked one very important variable. His brash behavior at the fighting ring had earned him an enemy in the shape of a former friend. Word of Manuel’s inquiry into an answer sheet had trickled down to Jasper, who shared the same mutual friends. Having finished his first test a little before time was called, he approached the proctor of the exam and disclosed Manuel’s possession of an answer key. Wrapped up in silken daydreams with Nami, he hadn’t disposed of it that morning, and a bribed maid easily turned it up in his nightstand before the day’s exams were complete. Manuel was rising from his seat to turn in his final exam when his professor confronted him with the irrefutable evidence of cheating that had been dredged up from his parents’ house.
Stricken as he watched his future disappear before him, Manuel could only stare. He would likely go to prison for cheating. He and Nami would never be together, and he would never become a councilman. Disaster replayed in a dark loop in his mind as Nami pushed out her chair, approached the professor, and confessed that the answer key had been hers. That she had masterminded the cheating.
Being from two very different social classes, naturally, the punishments were unequal. Manuel’s mother was a personal friend of Empyra’s governor at the time, and sending her son to prison would not do. He was let off easily: temporarily exiled from Empyra until his compulsory four-year service in the King’s Army was over. He was given strict instructions to catch the train to Zenith that evening and not let his face be seen in Empyra come morning light. Meanwhile, Nami was sentenced to twenty lashes in the Courtyard and the results of her exams to be disqualified. Several days after his departure, Manuel learned from a letter from his father that Nami’s wounds had become infected, and with her family’s inability to afford medical care, she’d succumbed to them.
Devastated, something broke within Manuel. He resented his family for not intervening to save his now-dead fiancée’s life, which would have been easily within their power. Wanting to sever all ties with them, he discarded the name they had bestowed upon him at birth and enlisted in the King’s Army under a name of his own invention: Macklin Lowe. A name that decidedly more aligned with the culture of Zenith, he did not wish to be associated with the city that had sent Nami to slaughter.
The King’s Army was rebirth for Manuel, now Macklin. In a life that was suddenly empty of purpose or dreams or love, he clung to the daily challenges that he was given, completing them with the grit he’d learned in the boxing ring. A competitor bred for success since birth, he had physical and intellectual advantages over just about all of his cohorts. Hours of relentless exercise put muscle on him, and he astounded his instructors with his ability to put down any opponent he was matched against. A visible change occurred in Macklin during this period. He completely lost the chip on his shoulder that he’d worn before meeting Nami. He no longer cheated to get ahead, and he didn’t lose his temper when things didn’t go his way. For all intents and purposes, he cleaned up his act, throwing himself heart and soul into protecting his new city from threats. When his sentence of exile was lifted and he was permitted to return to Empyra, he declined, electing to remain within the army. There was nothing there left for him.
A year and a half later, Macklin would receive a promotion and medal of valor. He was posted as part of the guard for a duke’s daughter. During her daily riding session in the forest, the patrol ran into a heavily armed ensemble that outnumbered them two-to-one. They moved in on the duke’s daughter, clearly meaning to leave her alive for ransom. The assailants quickly depleted Macklin’s party, and those that didn’t fall were too occupied fighting to come to the noblewoman’s aid. Seeing that he was playing a losing game, Macklin abandoned the standard-issue sword that had been given to him, and with his bare fists and mind-bending speed, he and his remaining companion turned the tide against the noblewoman’s attackers. He took a sword in the side for his efforts, and bleeding heavily, he and the other guard, a talented bowman, rode down the kidnappers and dispatched them, freeing the duke’s daughter. With more of his blood on him than in him, Macklin promptly fell off his horse and passed out.
He expected to die there, and was groggy and confused from a strong cocktail of painkillers when he awoke in the castle infirmary. Ribbons of fire shot down his side when he moved, but the wound was stitched up. It took Macklin the better part of a month to convalesce, but when he was fit to return to work, he was unexpectedly knighted, the lofty title of Sir Lowe bestowed upon him. As a chevalier, he consistently continued to distinguish himself in every military campaign he participated in, demonstrating a knack for strategy. Macklin quickly gained a reputation for being able to subdue larger forces through shrewd placement of troops and using terrain advantageously.
His responsibilities increased, and this teenage boy who no one had heard of when he enlisted was invited to court functions of increasing importance. With his impressive list of accomplishments and impeccable dedication to the code, he soon became a personal friend of King Rowan and Queen Sharvi. They granted him an estate and riches beyond his wildest dreams. The part of Macklin that was an Empyran at birth compelled him to pursue science in his leisure time, and he created grand conservatories, spending his wealth on rare flowers with the potential for medicinal properties. He enhanced all of his blades and spiked gloves with poisons. Five years have passed since his appointment, but Macklin remains one of the youngest knights in King Rowan’s assemblage. His loyalty to the kingdom is tested every day, yet never wavers. He looks at King Rowan as a savior who has united the eleven cities and is the beating heart of Solas.
Ever since the falling-out that led to Nami’s death and Macklin’s exile from Empyra, he has never contacted his parents. Fortunately, none of his campaigns (as of yet) have required him to return to the birth city for which he holds such resentment.
*Reputation: Within the city of Zenith, Sir Lowe is well-known amongst circles of nobility and the military. However, he likes to keep his public profile low, holing up in his estate and tending to his dogs and plants in his little free time, so middle-class and lower echelons may have never heard of him (especially since “Macklin Lowe” has only been a person for ten-eleven years). Likewise, prominent government figures and nobility of other well-to-do cities have probably heard of him. Not so industrialized cities like Umbra and the Canyon—or those detached from the kingdom like the Canals—will not recognize his name. Whether Lowe’s reputation is “good” depends on whether one supports the king, as he is a staunch enforcer of Rowan’s will. Lowe has devised the assault and subsequent sinking of two ships flying for the Carmine Corsairs, so there is likely a high price on his pretty head among the organized pirates of Antares. His forces have also “restored order” (i.e. killed some disobedient mfs to make an example) in Siroc during an uprising, so can’t imagine he’s very popular there, either. If his godless pursuit of science were to be discovered by the Covenant, there is the possibility that they may take offense to a heretic working in the close employ of the King.
*Why did they board The Leviathan? If asked his reason aboard the ship, Macklin’s reply (albeit he is a very transparent liar) will be that there is a target that needs to be eliminated with the utmost discretion in the destination city, and that the King has entrusted him with this task. However, his actual reason for boarding the Leviathan is that he is working on a cure for Queen Sharvi’s illness, and his research suggests that there may be a super rare flower—the elusive white widow dahlia—that only grows in Siroc under the light of the full moon. As her condition worsens, King Rowan’s measures have become increasingly desperate. However, Macklin suggested the venture and volunteered for it, as Queen Sharvi is one of his favorite people. It took a little bit of convincing to send Rowan’s Red Right Hand out of his reach to a city where the criminal underworld most likely has a bounty on him, but he trusts Lowe as one of his most capable operatives.
How did they get on board? Why, the illustrious Sir Lowe has a King’s letter, of course.
Faction: None; he is a Kingsman to his core. In fact, all of the factions have their individual reasons to hate him (see “Reputation”).
Status: Kingsman; a knight, tactician, and scientist in Rowan’s employ.
Opinion on royalty: Mm, tough question. Macklin came from new-money high-society parents in Empyra, abandoned the life, and is now a nobleman on his own merit. While he is obligated to defend all of Rowan’s allies, his personal opinion of royalty is not particularly high. The royal caste of Empyra did not intervene to save Nami’s life when they easily could have. Macklin is pretty reclusive from his noble peers, many of whom distrust him on behalf of the witchcraft that must be implicit to his scientific experiments. He believes that a person’s worth should be determined on merit, not from birth (so he’s not a proponent of egalitarian society, either; he thinks the hierarchy needs restructuring).
Opinion on piracy: Fighting pirates keeps him in business, so as long as they exist, he’s taking names and making money. Sir Lowe doesn’t boast or celebrate (that would be unbecoming for a knight of his standing), but every time a pirate he’s caught is hanged, he spectates the executions with a quiet sense of accomplishment. And maybe a bag of peanuts.
Playlist:
- This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arm’s Race—Fall Out Boy
- Mad Hatter—Melanie Martinez
- Coming Down—Halsey
- Started—Iggy Azalea
- Amsterdam—Imagine Dragons
- Wolf—Yeah Yeah Yeahs
- Ocean Breathes Salty—Modest Mouse
- Drumming Song—Florence & the Machine
- Sinister Kid—The Black Keys
- Oblivion—Labrinth
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