Wilt Ignatz Ware

Knight Wilt Ignatz Ware—known to most as Wick—is a man carved by hardship and sharpened by survival. Born in Camp Hope in 69 SE, he grew up in a world where comfort was a luxury and struggle was the currency of life. Now forty-four, his tall, broad frame and sun-leathered skin tell the story of a life lived under harsh skies and harsher truths. His close-cropped dark hair, streaked with gray, and storm-grey eyes give him the look of someone who has seen too much, and remembers every detail.

Wick’s quiet nature is deceptive. He rarely seeks the spotlight, preferring to linger in the background, leaning against walls with a studied patience, rolling a spent bullet casing between his fingers as though tallying the weight of every decision he has ever made. But when he does speak, his words cut like steel: pointed, deliberate, impossible to dismiss. His silence is not shyness—it is scrutiny. He watches, measures, and decides whether someone has earned their place.

For Wick, survival is not a birthright but a trial. He mistrusts those who’ve climbed too high without bleeding for it, finding in them the weakness that comes from comfort. By contrast, his respect lies firmly with those who shape the world with their hands: builders, mechanics, farmers. To him, they are the foundation of any future worth saving.

His loyalty to Camp Hope is unshakable, though not born from sentiment. He does not see it as home, but as duty. One of the last places where people still build instead of tear apart. Wick has made it his responsibility to see it endure, wielding his unique talent as both shield and scalpel. A master of controlled demolition, he can unmake the dangerous with uncanny precision, disarming structures or tech using little more than salvaged scraps and timing that borders on instinct.

Yet for all his strengths, Wick remains a man alone. Trust is a wound he does not let heal. Even among allies, he keeps distance, pushing people away before they can slip from his grasp and leave him hollow. Those who do manage to break past his walls find a loyalty as deep as bedrock, but most are kept at arm’s length, or further.

Enemies know his name—Jaxon and Valiteen Merrick most keenly—but Wick carries his grudges without theatrics, letting time and circumstance settle scores. His alignment leans toward order, toward law, though never out of reverence for gods or ideals. An atheist to the bone, his creed is simple: survival is earned, not granted.

In Camp Hope, among the chaos of fractured factions, Wick’s presence is both a warning and a promise. He is a man of blunt truths, veiled warnings, and hard-earned survival. At six feet two and built from muscle and weather, he stands like a reminder of what the world takes—and what it leaves behind.