[The gym is one of Stildyne's favorite haunts-- not the most fortunate phrasing at present but moderately apt. Mostly he does laps, or something like them on the treadmill. It's where you'll see more of him than normal; he tends to long sleeves, a jacket even if it isn't his uniform jacket. In the gym, in a short-sleeve cotton shirt, whole new panoramas of scarring are visible. It isn't limited to his battered face. In fact, good luck finding much of his body that hasn't taken a beating some time or another. The pattern of frag grenade shrapnel pocks up his side, visible where it splays out onto his left arm.

Stildyne's an imposing beast, somewhere between six and a half and seven feet, somewhere between forty-five and fifty, somewhere between a hominid and an immovable object. But he doesn't move like a trained martial artist. He's what he says he is; a brawler with military training.

And as good as his word, he's on the treadmill.]


[ooc: words words words blah blah blah]