MERCIER, lark

[Lark Mercier]

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• DEAD OR ALIVE •

LARK MERCIER

"In order to know your enemy,
you must become your enemy."

[style=text-align: left; font-size: 10px; font-family: verdana; padding-top: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-bottom: 10px;]NAME • Lark Mercier
NICKNAME • --
AGE • Twenty-One
GENDER • Male
SEXUALITY • Straight
OCCUPATION • Unemployed; working off of what he got from the war
CLASS • Middle Class
FACE CLAIM • Arthur Sales

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"Hand upon a deadman's gun, and you're looking down the sights,"

[style=text-align: left; font-size: 10px; font-family: verdana; padding-top: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-bottom: 10px;]APPEARANCE •

Standing at a rather massive height of 6'1 with scars littering most of his body, Lark can be quite the intimidating figure indeed. His eyes are a frighteningly pale green, giving them a rather lifeless appearance, and his jaw is very profound and distinct, making the dark, brooding individual seem somewhat regal. His posture is phenomenal, obviously that of years upon years of training, and his body is stiff, never moving freely, in any sort of relaxed, wild manner. Lark has few freckles and short, brunette hair, and partnered with a very toned body, of which often catches women's attention. As far as attire goes, Lark dresses somewhat formally, though he's slowly learning to blend in with others. He's used to wear his uniform, and because of this, can, at times, get confused forgetting he isn't wearing it.

EYE COLOR • Steel, pale green eyes
HEIGHT • 6'1
WEIGHT • Approx. 171lbs
BUILD • Leanly muscled; fit, though not overly broad
SCARS? • Hundreds; his most prominent being a scar from a gunshot wound to his left thigh, and yet another to his right shoulder.
UNIQUE CHARACTERISTIC • He has a very stern, rough, and stone-faced appearance, and thus, can come across as frighteningly intimidating.

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"Your heart is worn, and the seams are torn,"

[style=text-align: left; font-size: 10px; font-family: verdana; padding-top: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-bottom: 10px;]PERSONALITY •

Emotionless, unfeeling, stern, lacking in social skills, mysterious, brooding; these are all terms in which can be used to describe the rather complicated young man that is Lark, each and every one entirely accurate, though with little depth, and hardly comprehended to the level needed, in order to understand him. Due to his countless years in the field, Lark's emotions have slowly become numbed, and though at times he longs to feel, hopes to feel, he is simply not capable of it. In the army, emotion was weakness; if you were seen shedding a tear, you would be labeled as vulnerable, weak. And, let me tell you--Lark is certainly no weakling. And so, he learned to slowly drown out his emotions with logic, as well as a perfect balance between rationality and instinct.

Now, understand that Lark does, indeed feel; he, however, has become nearly incapable at showing others this. He feels remorse and guilt just like every other man, but has been trained not to show such threatening emotions, and therefore simply... doesn't. Because of this trait, this great will to be unbreakable, people often believe Lark to be heartless and merciless; entirely unaware of other's feelings, and inconsiderate to a level of utmost atrocity. He's been called a monster for his near inability to show compassion, and though it does eat away at the man's composure, he generally ignores such comments, pretending as if he never heard them.

He's been called a monster more times then some may be able to imagine, and despite the fact the comment stings each and every time, he shows no reaction. Whatsoever.

When Lark does come into situations where he must display an amount of emotion, where he's placed into a social or public situation for example, he's little different. Although he will engage in conversation, the man is startlingly polite and reserved, only speaking when spoken to, and keeping his distance. He's generally very introverted, and at times, due to his massive lack of social skills, has no idea how to react, should certain events take place. He's gullible when it comes to the tempting of women, seeing as he's never had the chance to engage in any sort of relationship involving females.

Though Lark can certainly be an introvert, when the time calls for it, he has a fierce backbone, and the leadership skills to bat. He will take charge out of what seems to be nowhere, and as his training taught him, he will put the lives of his comrades above his own. He's not afraid to step up and take action in serious situations, and when he does, it often shocks the people around him into silence.

On another note, Lark is undeniably humble. His skills are ones of which most men would die for, and yet, he keeps himself controlled and compose, choosing not to brag about the things he has learned from the war. His combat skills are flawless, with firearms, hand-to-hand, and even knives, and Lark is incredibly intelligent and calculating, and therefore very resourceful when in battle. He often comes across as if he's more intelligent then he should be, as if he holds a wisdom beyond his years, and to be entirely truthful--he does.

Finally, one of the biggest aspect of his personality; Lark has Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Because of the horrific events he was exposed to during the war, lark has changed completely. He suffers from nightmares, flashbacks, trouble sleeping, and as well, becomes seriously distressed when presented with a trigger of his. This is what has mostly turned Lark into the detached, unemotional man he is today, though not many know that. Now, Lark has several triggers, some he's not aware of, and some he is. The one's he is aware of, so far, include things such as screaming, explosions, the smell of gunpowder and diesel fuel, rapid-fire gunshots, smoke, and an accelerated heartbeat. He does his best to control himself when he feels panic start to consume him, and as a method of control, will often take deep breaths, close his eyes, and in extreme situations, write how he's feeling in a journal of which he guards with his life.

Mysterious, detached, yet discreetly seeking the ability to relax once more, Lark is an interesting man, indeed.

LIKES •

the title held with being a soldier; Although it truly is what messed up Lark to his current degree, he's undeniably proud about being able to label himself as a soldier, even if he's no longer on the battle field. He believes it's a very prized title, and despite the fact the war took everything from him, he enjoys being able to tell others he fought for his country, and came back alive. Forever changed, but alive. To Lark, that's what matters.

being respected; From the moment Lark steps into a room, he makes quick, educated judgments on each and every person on the premises. When someone shows him respect, be it someone older or younger then himself, this puts him at ease. He gives out respect sparingly, though when he knows someone is able to trust him, it renews his faith in being human.

the few good memories he has; Often times, Lark forgets about the good memories he has within the depths of his mind, stored away and nearly forgotten. When he does remember, when two children playing remind him of his brother and himself, then a feeling of contentment does wash over Lark, even if it's only short-lived. He's hardly ever at ease with himself, so when this does happen, he appreciates it greatly.

DISLIKES •

his triggers; If anything can make him lose it, and feel vulnerable, it's the effects of his post-traumatic stress syndrome. He can hardly keep his rationality together when faced with a wailing, agonizing scream, or even the slightest whiff of diesel fuel. Immediately, his entire body goes rigid, and panic slowly begins to creep through his entire core.

being thought of as a monster; Unlike some soldiers that rejoice in slaughtering their opponents, Lark feels horribly about doing so, even if it's for a good cause. And, so as I'm sure you can imagine, he doesn't appreciate people calling him a monster in any way, shape, or form; and, that includes judging him, as well.

his inability to feel; As stated in his personality, Lark has a very difficult time displaying his emotions. He feels them, very faintly, though finds it excruciatingly difficult to actually display them to another being. He's not sure if it's because he's nervous to do so, or if he's just incapable, but either way it grates on his nerves.

WEAKNESSES •

his triggers; Again, as stated earlier, they're literally the thing that makes him feel most vulnerable.

combat-related way of thinking; Due to his time in the war, Lark often finds himself thinking as he would if he were a soldier, when he walks into a room. He'll dub people and a friend or foe, based on their reactions with him, and will often get aggressive as soon as he feels threatened.

detached; Again, Lark can hardly feel. He longs to be compassionate, but something within him seems so hesitant to, and nearly every time he attempts such a thing, it stops him dead in his tracks. There has been times where Lark has seen someone die, and while everyone around said person are weeping, he's staring, stone-faced, unable to show an ounce of a reaction.

STRENGTHS •

combat; Lark is flawless when it comes to his combat skills, be it with a gun, knife, or using his bare hands. Seeing as he's quick-thinking and resourceful, coming up with several escape routes at once is never difficult, and he easily finds ways to use his location to his advantage.

keeping composed; As long as he's not being faced with one of his triggers, Lark is a very composed individual. He can be harassed, shoved, smack-talked, and he will just stand, stalk still, out of not wanting to harm anyone. This only lasts to a certain point, of course, though he's generally skilled in keeping himself together, thanks to his training.

FEARS •

losing everything again; Lark lost everything and everyone, once. And, he's terrified that it could possible happen again.

his memory; It may be sad, though Lark is definitely afraid of the things he's seen. He shies away from jumping into the back of his head and rustling through his memories, out of complete and utter fear he'll see something he desperately doesn't wish to.

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"And they've given you a reason to fight."

[style=text-align: left; font-size: 10px; font-family: verdana; padding-top: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-bottom: 10px;]FAMILY •
Mother; Evelyn Mercier [deceased]
Father; Walter Mercier [deceased]
Brother; William Mercier [deceased]
PETS • Remus; a grizzly bear cub, who's not quite a year old yet
HISTORY •

“Be brave, men. Be brave.” The general’s authoritative voice echoed throughout the smaller valley, causing Lark’s eyes to dart immediately towards his brother, who, in return, offered him what seemed to be a vaguely encouraging ghost of a smile. He could feel the excitement thrumming from the horse beneath him in waves, and Lark tensed, knowing well William was just as nervous as he. His hands shook, perspiration gathering between his fingers and palms, and as the young man turned to face the small base ahead of them, his heartbeat began to accelerate, pounding loudly within his ears.
“Draw your swords!” The general bellowed once more, and in what seemed to be perfect unison, the entire army unsheathed their swords, holding them upright, in perfect line with their shoulders. Lark exhaled yet another faltering, shaky breath, and once again shot his brother a worried glance, though this time, did not find meet his gaze. William was staring firmly before him, eyes narrowed, determined. And yet, his arm shook, so much so that even Lark took notice, and he was an entire bloody row away. He tried to get his brother’s attention, but his attempts were soon dubbed as useless, as he was entirely unable to grasp onto his attention. Lark’s horse chomped eagerly at the bit, nostrils flaring, legs itching to run; as if he knew what was to come.
“To war!” Immediately, each and every man pressed their heels firmly into their mount, sending each line of anxious horses lunging forwards, eager to eat away the ground beneath them. They all held perfect posture and stayed in line, as they made their way closer to the unsuspecting camp, swords drawn, lips parting in order to release cries of aggression and malice. The thundering of countless hooves graced Lark’s ears, and as he soared closer to the enemy, he drowned out the rest of the world, his father’s stern words replaying at a ghastly whisper within his mind. “Don’t disappoint me.”


Lark was born into what would have been the perfect, ideal family; a loving, tender mother and a particularly stern, yet playful, father who, just three years before, had both given birth to William, Lark’s older brother. To this day, the young man often ponders about the joys the four could have had together, if only they had all made it past the war. He’d envision seeing his mother and father holding hands on the porch, laughing, as Will and he would tumble about on the grass, rough-housing like children do so often. They’d then return to their parents after they tired of such activities, only to wrap their short arms around their parent’s waist, burying their heads into the cloth hugging their stomachs. Such thoughts can bring Lark sadness, though often, if he’s alone, a soft smile will curve his lips; such possibilities of what could have been can do that, to a person.

Unfortunately for Lark, loss started young.

His mother, Evelyn, died giving birth to him. It wasn’t the baby’s fault—it never is—though, Lark’s father, from the moment he looked at the child, immediately blamed him for the loss of his love. In a way, Lark really did lose his father that fateful day, before he was even old enough to realize the change. William used to tell him about it, how, after Evelyn died, his father took such a dramatic shift in his personality. He went from a playful, gentle man to an emotionless wreck, never giving Lark the time of day. And yet, he would still spare a smile for William here and there, but Lark was never graced with such a thing. He never told Lark he loved him, never once hugged the boy; while, in the meantime, he treated William like the perfect son, clapping him on the back every time he walked past, and engaging in play-fights with him, just as Lark so longed to. He never really had that connection that fathers and sons should have; instead, William had it all. And, he was aware of this, and you can bet he brought it up with his father. Will knew it wasn’t fair, how he treated the two differently, and yet, he couldn’t put a stop to it. No matter how the two did, Will was always the star, and Lark? He was only told what he could work on, what he could do better.

Never, once, was he praised for doing something well. Ever.

Now, soon Lark did get used to this lack of affection; he lost his will to be seen as something to be proud of in his father’s eyes, and eventually, stopped trying to please the man with everything he had. He focused instead on friends, school, sports, and his brother, William. He was the only person he had to rely on, and since the two had been little, they had a bond that most could hardly understand. Lark went to Will with all of his problems, and vice-versa. The two protected one another at school, and when one fell, the other was there to catch him; they were inseparable.

Even in war.

Lark was just 13, Will 16, when the two were apprehended and shipped off to Europe, for training. Lark had always been a rather tall, muscled male for his age, and even when he was only 13, they figured he had several more years on him. Desperately not wanting to dishonour his gruff father, and also in needing to ensure his brother’s safety, he agreed to the age they gusseted him to be, and off the two went. Unlike serving at Fort Stockton, where most men were stationed, they were hauled overseas, for days, until finally reaching land. The hundreds of young men they had gathered were welcomed with open arms, and for a few, glorious days, both Lark and William figured that, perhaps, the war wouldn’t be so bad.

They were wrong.

After months of gruelling, exhausting training, the boys were finally dubbed as true soldiers; armed, mounted upon horses they hardly knew, and set for battle. They fought anyone that entered the group’s path, and in doing so, Lark faced many losses, as did Will. Soon enough, after plenty of their friends had been slaughtered in the cruelty that is war, Lark and William made a pact; they wouldn’t care for anyone, wouldn’t let them into their hearts, out of wanting to keep one another from being safe. When the two returned home, they wanted to return in good spirits, for their father’s sake; not dreading the lives lost, especially since many of the men of whom had perished were very dear to the both of them. Little did the two know at the time, that not both of them would return home.

Years passed, and it was when Lark had just turned twenty, that the two were running from trench to trench, seeking to find a safe place to duck down into shelter, the enemy firing merciless bullets at them from what seemed to be miles away. The two had managed to stick together, to grow together, and like they promised so many years ago, neither had formed any sort of friendships with the other soldiers. It was also this very day, as Will and Lark traveled side-by-side, guns at the ready, that Will was hit, square in the chest. He gave a wavering cry before stumbling backwards, his eyes wide with the shock of such powerful, blinding agony. Immediately, Lark ducked under his brother’s arm and dragged him to a nearby group of trees, not allowing himself to think of the possibilities of what was currently happening. He laid his brother down, softly, carefully, and watched as the male writhed in pain, clawing at his chest as if to try and dig his way to the wound. Lark murmured soft words to the man in comfort, but as soon as William went to respond, a thick, bloody lather spewing from his lips, shock slowly began to creep into his entire body. His brother was dying, and yet, Lark could hardly muster any courage to say anything. He just sat there, his heart pounding in his ears, as the life of his brother slowly faded away, right before his eyes.

He didn’t cry. To this day, Lark hasn’t cried.

No, instead the boy grew angry. With the only human who ever cared for him dead, he raced recklessly towards enemy lines, spraying bullets before him in a flurry of madness and emotional agony. It was at this time, as his comrades screamed at him to hold back, in which Lark was shot twice; once right to the shoulder, and the other to his leg. He fell, slumping to the ground in a state of absolute shock, before beginning to drag himself away from the scene, seeking comfort and safety. The boy crawled for what seemed to be hours, before pausing, safely tucked into some nearby brush. He forced himself to a sitting position, and ignoring the fact his shoulder could barely work in the correct or needed fashion, began to bandage himself up. It was also around this time, as the man wrapped gauze sloppily around the fleshy leg wound, that something nearby caught his eye, just out of the view of the enemy.

A bear cub.

Immediately, the man had leaned forwards holding a hand out towards the animal. It, in response, tucked it’s head into what seemed to be the corpse of it’s mother’s side, and made little, terrified crying sounds; sounds that were able to jerk Lark into feeling pity for the little animal, his caring instincts immediately taking hold of his mind. The man, knowing well the bear was to be seen any time soon and shot if he were to wander out into the meadow, forced himself to his feet, only to grasp onto the little animal, and cradle him gently against his neck. At first, the bear struggled against Lark’s grip, like any wild animal would, but after a few, mere minutes, the tiny bear seemed to take comfort in Lark’s secure grasp, and nestled into his neck, frightened, though less panicked. Within minutes, as Lark continued his crawling towards his own camp, a fellow soldier found Lark, and began to lead him to safety. No matter how hard he tried to get Lark to leave the animal behind, he refused. Entirely.

Lark felt that, if his brother had to die, the least he could do was keep another innocent from meeting the same fate.

Needless to say, Lark was considered unable to fight, and seeing as bloodless had done it’s fair share of damage, he was set to be shipped back home. Bound and holding tightly onto his new, muddied little friend, the man boarded a ship home, and within a few short weeks, he arrived once more, a changed man. The war made so many men proud to be living, but Lark wasn’t the same. He couldn’t feel proud of killing others, let alone letting his brother die before him without uttering a word.

When the young man, now bearing a sling and a bound thigh, entered his home, his dad was perched on the couch, reading the newspaper. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge Lark’s return; not even after so many years had gone by. The man stood in the doorway and dropped his bags roughly onto the floor, his cub peeking from the bag on his back, curious as to their current circumstances. His eyes seared into the form of his father, narrowed, full with malice. He was hoping for a hello, but unfortunately, he wasn’t even graced with that.

“It should have been you.” Was all the man said, still refusing to meet the boy’s eyes.

Lark lost it.

Months later, and with his father having died from influenza, Lark is attempting to make a living for himself. With him and his cub, Remus, he’s as content as he can be, considering he has not a single family member left. Remus has quickly become the man’s life, and he won’t make a single decisions before thinking about his little friend, first.

But, still, Lark hasn’t cried.

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"And you're not going to take what they've got to give,"

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PAHA, nothanks.<3

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"And you're not going to let them take your will to live"

[style=text-align: left; font-size: 10px; font-family: verdana; padding-top: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-bottom: 10px;]IF FOUND, PLEASE NOTIFY GREY IMMEDIATELY. THEY HAVE BEEN SEARCHING APPROX. 3647382648732.532 YEARS FOR THIS INDIVIDUAL. PLEASE MEET AT THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE, AND RECITE "I'MNOTWRITINGIT" IN ORDER TO RECEIVE YOUR REWARD.

this table was created by grey, and is to be used nowhere else.

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[GREYtheFLAILER]

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