The Guardian

This page is a stub. If you've ever used wikipedia you know what that means. Please, if you've read a story with this character in, add a few details here and then remove this tag.

A mask, known for using a samurai sword. He also wore armour later in his career, continuing the samurai aesthetic. At his height, he had a wrought iron domino mask, which held a magical crystal the colour of dried blood against his forehead.

He started out dealing with mundane criminals. He would cut off the fingers of thieves, castrate rapists, and similar symbolic mutilations. Many of them didn't survive. He saw himself as a guardian for the poor and hopeless, people who were already in so much trouble that they didn't believe the police could help them, or were scared to attract attention in districts ruled by gangs.

The Guardian was originally a party mask depending on martial skill, but later in his career acquired a magical crystal which he added to his armour. It grants him a kind of sixth sense, enabling his to feel the malice of killers. It also gives him enhanced strength and speed as long as he is taking revenge for some injustice, and allows him not to be slowed down by any wound until the job is done.

Appearance

From his first mention in chapter 5:

“It ain’t nice to hit a lady,” another voice cut in. It wasn’t a gruff voice, but a pleasant tenor with just a hint of roughness from smoking too much over the years. A Cochrane Heights accent, enunciating every syllable with care. The kind of voice you’d expect from some artiste congratulating his chums after a good show, or dithering at the bar over what variety of imported whisky he might like. It was what outsiders tended to think of as a Hope City accent but the tone and the words didn’t belong in this alleyway.

He was about fifty feet down the alley, and she hadn’t even noticed him. Jimmy had been waiting here ten minutes, and hadn’t seen the guy arrive. The tan leather and stains of a much-patched trenchcoat almost blended into the muck and graffiti on the walls, at least with the rain helping his disguise. From the look of his coat, he could have been any of a dozen bums on the street who’d rather buy cheap vodka than save for food or shelter. But he was quiet, well spoken, and stood confidently with his legs spread and his hands just far enough in front of him that he could defend himself if he needed to. He had a hood pulled up over his head to keep the rain off, and a straggly salt and pepper beard. Jimmy probably saw no further than the rich guy fallen on hard times, but Val had done a course once in the hope of becoming a stylist. The beard said here was a man dabbling in a bit of designer rogue, carefully trimmed each morning to keep just the right disheveled look. The pose didn’t convey the in-your-face aggressiveness of the small time street punks, or the terrified bravado of a bystander hoping that he wouldn’t be challenged. He was calm and self-assured, not making threats because he didn’t need to.

Jimmy [...] saw a high quality silk shirt and blocky, functional armour under the tattered coat. Suddenly there was an ancient samurai sword in the man’s hand, almost as long as he was tall and shining like a mirror under the flickering electric light. It moved so quickly that it seemed to suddenly be raised without any intervening moments in the process of drawing. At the same time both of Jimmy’s daggers clattered into a puddle, accompanied by several of the thug’s fingers.

Chapter 19:

They would certainly never expect that space to contain a tattered tan trenchcoat, a belt with a terror-inspiring array of combat and throwing knives, two full sized katana swords, and a suit of armour formed of glistening blue lacquered wood and steel mesh in an oriental style. The last element of this unusual inventory was a mask, which somehow managed to combine the classical style of the far east with the primitive fearsomeness of some backwards tribe.