:: written on parchment that is dirty, torn an crinkled::
"War is nothing without leaders. As so many rush in after the Archers bombardment, I can only watch and hope to whatever God overseeing this keeps me alive for yet another day. Wounds are dirty, hair caked in mud and sweat from my helm, but yet my blade still sharp, my armor polished and my boots in excellent standing. Will I leave this place a bitter man due to my status as a Captain, or will I earn the trust of those who I have killed their men, lovers and fathers?" -signed- D. Hallenson - a crest with a shield, bastard sword and bear under his signature-
These words come from a tall, well disciplined soldier who is respected by his subordinates. Instead of staying in back with the other officers to let his men die, only to die a lonesome death, he fights along side them, commanding and striking his enemies down and advancing to the next stage. His voice is deep enough to break through the shrieks of the wounded, only to tell his men to look forward to a hot meal and a good nights rest, for he is there to stand watch with them.
Colonel Dante Hallenson is a well groomed man. The only thing standing out on his face are the epic sideburns he keeps as a show of independence. His physically fit body shows him being able to wield a shield and sword and have enough strength to be wrapped in Full Plate. A cloak from his father hangs from his shoulders as a memento of things to come once his time as a soldier has ended.
Standing at 6'2", his frame is recognized by those who look down on the battle field as the one who fights for something with a lot more meaning. His blade work is only matched by those who have become masters, yet masters seek him out to learn a little more experience. He is well educated in the ways of military strategy and warfare. The only way to actually know that is to watch him interact with his officers and men. He is kind, gentle, powerful and well mannered, but respected for his accomplishments.
Officers take pride in having a man like Dante on their side, not only because he can lead, but because he can foresee what actions the foe will take next. His status among them is nothing to scoff at either. Numerous decorations stand out on his record, about as much as the scars that cross his body. His Armor polished to the extent that shines in the sun, and yet doesnt give away his rank. His blade sharper than a razor and his helm always in superb condition, no dings, no scratches and always smelling of a man who has seen more battles in his day than a kid in a candy store.
While in the heat of a large battle, Dante rides into the heart of it. All of a sudden, his horses legs are ripped from out from underneath the both of them and sends Dante into a flight of life or death. All he sees before his eyes shut is a fog that seems to engulf the battlefield in its cool grasp.
