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He was the kind of man who was hated, and feared by everyone.
The kind who had no sense of honor. Someone who fights not for glory or victory or any specific cause. The kind of person who fights only for the feel of coin in his hand. One of those rare few men who has the look of death in their eyes, one of the rare few go go out seeking death, but death never comes their way.
And so they wait. And gamble their lives. Taking risks that would have most heroes quaking in fear. Undertaking missions that would surely kill them.

And yet somehow they survive, only to feel more troubled, more desperate.

He was one of these people. Each day, he went on a journey. And each day he returned in anguish. For he returned. And that was exactly what he had hoped to avoid.
He was cold and harsh, but the people loved him. And yet the people hated him. And yet they needed him. It was as though he was invincible, as though nothing and nobody could harm him. And if they did, they would wake up dead the next day. But he was terrifying. He was dead himself. There was no light in his eyes. And if you needed further proof, all you would have to do was look at his wings.
He never hid them away. Each client would be able to see every last taint and blemish of his heart. He didn't care. He wasn't afraid. Why should one who wants nothing more to die care about the opinions of a few people whose lives he could snuff out in a flash? There was no reason. So he held his wings proudly. Which only led the people to fear him even more.
They were completely out of proportion to his body. He could simply fold them over his head, like a tent, and it would keep him dry in the stormiest weather. He kept them folded to his sides in public, but they were too big to not be noticed. They were crimson, in direct contrast to his pale skin and blue hair. They had no feathers to speak of, nor were they like delicate insect wings. Instead, his wings were gaunt and leathery. Skin stretched over muscle and bone. Some said they were like bat wings, others like that of a dragon. They weren't awe inspiring. They were disfigured and ugly, feared just like the rest of him. For accompanying their size, their look, each tear and blemish in them, was a smell. A sickly sweet odour. The smell of death. He carried death in his heart. He courted her shamelessly. But death rejected him at every turn, making him all the more determined.

Had it not been for the fear he stirred in everyone's hearts, had it not been for the despair that radiated from him, he would have been quite beautiful. He was of average height, average build. Lightly muscled and covered with pale skin. His hair was perhaps as strange as his wings. It was only shoulder length, ending in a tear shaped drop under his left ear, but a long, thin sickle of a ponytail hung down in front of his right ear, ending just above his hip. He had a slender face, and his eyes were the color of a bloodstone, brilliant red, but dull. He was a young man, but he appeared so old. So tired. Chasing death was not easy on a body, even if death all but ignored you.
He was often seen in tight clothing. He wore black, black sleeveless, black pants, hight black calf boots. These were often overlaid with layers upon layers of cobalt blue belts. Down his arms, across his exposed stomach, around his legs, his hips. There were even two looped about his neck, forming a sort of pendant. Draped over all of this were his wings. The claws at the wing joint curling slightly over his shoulders, the wings themselves tucked so that the tips nearly brushed the floor. Now and again, scars would be visible on those pale arms. Sometimes across the pale stomach. Even across his neck and face. He had a true mercenary's air, which further instilled fear into everyone's hearts.

He accepted anyone who came begging to his door for a mission, as long as they had the money to pay. Mercenary life was dull to him, it was always steal this trinket, assassinate that noble, protect some person's life. All the same, he never wanted his clients to pull out at the last minute. So each time he was hired, he forced them to sign a contract in blood. It was enough to terrify most nobles, but they craved his power and signed. If they were foolish enough to pull out or to waste his time or change their minds at the last minute, he hunted them down himself. He was cold, cruel and heartless.
But wait, that wasn't completely true. His wings proved that. What he had was only a shadow of a heart. And it was enough for the people to call him a name that made him smile.

Shardell.

It meant 'fragmented heart' in the ancient language. It made him laugh. It was a perfectly suited name for him. It was a dark name, an evil name.
A black name, fitting for a black heart. It made people fear, gave him power. And he liked that. He wasn't evil, but neither was he good. He was a mercenary, one who walked the thin line between the two words. He had been this way ever since he first knew how to think. Always alone. Always craving, yearning for death.

He was one of those people who didn't believe in anything. He believed in no gods. He laughed at the idea of the ocean. Laughed at the idea of the great Whale.
And Malpercio? What a joke...
He had no belief in Fate either. He had no destiny, no place. He was content with that. He was content to fight for whoever could pay him the most. He planned to live this way until the very end, when death finally realized what she was missing, and allowed him to fall into her sweet abyss...

But as always, life goes on and people change. In the very back of his mind, he'd always known it to be inevitable, he just never believed he'd want someone or something more than death.

And he knew he would never be the same when the storm eyed wanderer found him. Knew he would never return to this life. He slipped free from Death's embrace, just as she finally wished to embrace him.
His contract was signed in blood. Now he could never look back.