Description: Solomon is of a lanky sort. He lacks any real muscle--something of a problem when it comes to defending himself. Which is, unfortunately for him, something he's had to do often, and as a result his body is a tapestry of small scars and broken noses. His arms are long, though agile, and hang loosely down past his waist, capped off in fine hands that he's somehow managed to keep mostly safe despite his frequent tussles. Despite his pretty, pulled-back brown hair that hangs just above the back of his neck he's not a particularly handsome man. He may have been at one point, but after years of beatings and broken bones he's developed something of a permanent scowl, one that only truly leaves him when he's laughing. He walks with a limp, some bygone injury bad enough to keep him almost permanently hobbled were it not for a nearby individual strong enough to follow his directions and assist with the resetting the bone. Now everything about him screams discontent, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Personality: There are people in the world who do things because of a greater sense of purpose, to do good for goodness' sake. And then there's Solomon. While a normal healer might see an injured man as someone who deserves their help, he sees them as an inconvenience. If someone is screaming in pain on the ground after having their leg snapped, that's an inconvenience. Someone is bleeding all over his nice table? An inconvenience. It isn't a drive to do things out of the goodness of his heart that gets him up and moving, but a desire to return to living comfortably, as far from those inconveniences as possible.

He's often loud, spiteful, and angry, and when he isn't he's the type to try and get something out of someone. It's likely good that he learned to set a broken nose at a young age, if his propensity for receiving them is any indication. For the most part he tries to avoid conflict, but has a terrible habit of saying whatever it is that's on his mind. Whatever it is.

Background: Some children grow up wanting to be heroes, and Solomon wasn't any different. Born to a pair of commoners in the Lower Boroughs of Arx, they started him early on the tales of those worth remembering. Trips to the Hall of Heroes were frequent when he was old enough to actually understand the stories being told, and with a little bit of youthful wonder he was convinced that one day he'd be able to become just like them. He wanted to be a Knight, to fight for the weak and defend those that needed defending. And he was certain he was going to do it, too.

But Solomon was a rowdy child, with a loud voice and an inability to keep his opinions to himself. He didn't like it, uncertain of how to actually stop himself from getting into trouble, but his major problem was that the other people around him didn't like it much either. By ten he'd made a reputation as the punching bag his peers would use whenever something didn't go their way. Or, just as likely, whenever Solomon drove them to it. So he fought, and he fought, and he fought. And at no point did he actually get better. For the next few years he spent every day training, fighting, and working to better his lot, but in the end, he just didn't have the body for it.

That made him bitter. He was already an ill-tempered child, but once he realized that his potential to actually do something was fading away faster than he could catch it, he internalized that anger. He never stopped fighting, but he never stopped losing either. If he's anything, he knows how to to take a beating.

By his mid-teens something shifted in him. The mouthiness never stopped, but people started hitting him less as a result of it. Turns out, he has something of a knack for fixing people up. He figured it out early, mostly by force, as he refused to find a Mercy to fix those broken bones or fingers that he'd developed on his own. But it progressively got harder for him to avoid having to help people, as the violence in the Lowers proved to be a perfect testing ground for bandaging, balancing humours, and general practice. Over the next few years he got good at it, extremely good, and now it serves him to trade his practice for booze and passes for those beatings he still somehow manages to accrue.

If there's one thing that drives him more than anything else, it's that for some reason or another the people he helps usually make it. Save for the particularly bad wounds or vital areas being destroyed, his patients pull through. He was never a particularly pious person, embittered by the destruction of his dreams early on, but he's quite proud of the fact that the infected wounds he treats clear up, the broken bones he effectively sets heal properly, and the worst-case scenarios sometimes turn out to be completely fine. If anything, it's his only point of pride, and he's quick to make sure everyone knows about it.