Thomas Dire

Thomas was the son of a working class family of five, living in a small, ramshackle house in an urban area. His father worked as a common labourer spending long hours working his job for low pay. He never really saw him and when he did, he was typically drunk. His blew most of his money on booze, as a coping mechanism for his lifestyle. This left Thomas, his mother and his other siblings with little food and meant the household required rationing in order to get through the days.

His mother was a less-than-reputable woman herself, as well. She didn't hold a job, and barely took care of her kids. She smoked excessively, as well and drank, often more than her husband. Within the family, Thomas was distant to his siblings. He never had a good relationship with any of them, due to their constant squabbling over things like food, money and other such things. The stresses of the household caused Thomas to have a fairly dismal early life. The only way in which he made it through, was through the stories of hunters he heard before. He wanted to help others, to assist those in need. He found the hunters as role-models for himself, powerful heros who laugh in the face of evil.

His time at home left deep, emotional scars. He had no way of developing naturally as a child would. No-one to talk to, no real role-models, besides the hunters in the stories of old. He regularly started fights at school, attempting to be tough and to be feared. He began to replicate how the hunters would act, being stoic and brave, to be fearless and to never give in. He ingrained it into himself that he would have to become stronger, rid himself of emotion. His mother died around this time, when he was 10. This only encouraged him to pursue his fantastical idea of hunting and being a hunter.

He attended school until he was 13, at this point he required to take a part-time job, and then eventually a full-time job. This caused him to quit school, due to the conflicting work hours. It worked well for Thomas, for it allowed for him to develop this job into an eventual apprenticeship. He became a tailors apprentice, working hard, but earning decent pay. He used this job to escape the terrors of home life. He constantly told himself it would get better, and his optimism did pay off.

Eventually, reaching 18, he left home and began work as a full-time tailor. He rented a small apartment, far from his old home and begun seeking a new life. He lived a happy lifestyle, working long hours in a job he enjoyed for high pay. Soon his wealth amassed and he became a staple of the nearby community. He had seemingly left his old life behind, to become something new.

Then disaster struck. The white fang assaulted his nearby community, committing an arson attack towards all those who lived there. The entire street burned down, causing him to lose his shop in the process. He didn't have enough money to rebuild, and asking for a loan was out of the question, due to past troubles with the local bank. He was to give up on his dream, and go for something bigger, larger. He thought back to when he was a kid, to the stories of hunters, to how he looked up to them. That inspired him, truly. He wished to be one of them. To help others.

His father died around this time. His siblings had already gone on to live dead-end lives, so naturally he received the bulk of the inheritance. It was with this money, that he bought the howitzer in which he uses, and the money to study at the academy. This is where he starts.

The dust was brought up under his feet, each step he took making a boot-imprint and coating his lower legs with more dust and soot. The metal clanging upon his book reassured him, the weight, though tremendous, added a sense of security. The sun beamed down from above, searing his skin, blistering and unending. He shielded his eyes with one hand and dusted his trousers with the other. He was close to where he needed to be. He stopped, then surveyed the land around him.

A large rock, cracked and dry. Inside it was a crevice, small enough for some kind of beast to hide in, to escape from the sun. The stench stung his nose. He was no more than a hundred metres way, yet he could smell it from there. It was rotten, decaying. It was also sweet and sickly. The smell you get from 20-day old beef. He dry-heaved contorting his face into a look of disgust. Must finally be the grimm's dwelling.

He placed down his backpack, reaching for his tripod, removing his cannon as well in the motion. He attached it to the barrel, adding stability. He crouched, looking down the sights to the base of the cave. It was essential he got the first shot in. Else the grimm would clear the space in mere seconds flat. It would take three or four shots to kill the thing. But, a single shot to the torso would cripple the beast.

He needed its attention. He fired a round, directly at the top of the large rock. The sound was deafening, shredding through the tranquillity beforehand. Heh, as if this place was tranquil. The collision of the shell breached the stone and showered fragments everywhere.

He heard a roar, coming from inside. He shifted his grip upon the cannon, prepared. He wasn't going to let them down this time.