Grand Adventure.

What is your name?
"...The Chopman. That's as much as they sang, before... they went to sleep. They never woke up."
How old are you?
"My soul is dead, died, that's what the priestess said. I have no age, no death... No birth. I'm here, was here, will be here. That's all I know. That's all I want to know. That and how well they pay me for my knives."
Your height, and weight?
"Details, details... I lack them. But I'm far from being the smallest guy in the bar. Far from being any kind of small... I'm a wall, that's what they often say. A wall that afterwards carried around a splatter of vibrant red."
What is your race?
"I feel that I'm human... Only a human could still feel the pain from so many scars. Each one of them, a different pain... Only a human could feel all this."
What do you look like?
"From the picture... The mercenary killers' picture of me, the one I took from the widow's grounded satchel... My face is squared, each edge sculpted, scarred by a different experience in life. Burn marks adorn parts of my face. My eyes are black in color... nothing special there. My nose appears just as rough and rigid as my face, overall. My ears... nothing special there too. I once believed I had no age... if this is true, I wondered many times before. Nothing has been solid an evidence. I've yet to die... My hair is the color of the soil mixed with that of the sun's rays. I never really noticed it very well before, but they jut upwards, making my head look no less than a hairy porcupine. Some strands fall out front, hang over my face, like fishing rods bent with prey in hold. Not many people see this, except for the mercenary killers. I wear my mask whenever my cleavers need a drink. Whenever I'm not alone. Not safe. A mask of leather and iron is what I wear. Iron bars tilted on their sides, welded onto a single vertical strip on top of the equator of my face. They only see my eyes. Two rows of iron fangs adorn the mask, where my mouth hides beneath. The mask makes me a 'nightmare'. It's what makes them sing. I wear a fire-proof body suit of black material... Something I'm not familiar with on itself. But the suit, it's the only thing I've ever worn. One of the few people I've ever been thankful to, was the textile man that showed me how to get that smell and color of blood out of my suit, and fix my suit. I've been skipping out on doing it lately. Not the fixing. The sheathes are everywhere... Where my knives and cleavers rest. The body suit doesn't stick... I call it a suit, but it's actually a pair of a clothing and a legging, all black. Still a body suit to me. I needed to get footwear on my own, since I lost my old shoes. Something with big lips chewed and ate them up, I remembered. I have boots on now. Boots that can turn the stones I step on into gravel."
What are your weapons?
"Fourteen knives, each one different from the rest. I use them anyway I like, for whatever I like doing, but it's a pain in the neck to have to pick them back up afterwards... I just replace those are lost with what I find, what I take. Though, they call me Chopman now mainly because of the two cleavers I use. They come from back when I lived with another name... 'Butcher'. Original, huh? Good thing it was given to me."
Do you know the way of magic?
"I worked with many magic users when they still called me 'Butcher'. But I didn't know any. Instead, those people wanted me as a pesticide against other magic users. The group I served did something to my body, to my mind, to my soul. To my being. Magic don't work on me, but now it's starting to depend on time... Sometimes they do, sometimes they don't. Healing magic, though, never works. Same thing can be said for drugs and poison, but is this relevant to the question?"
What is your view of the world?
"Don't ask me how I feel about how the king rules the country I'm in and I won't ask you where my knives are. I don't know... It's just... All I know is kill. Even now, after 'that group' is dead and long gone, I still kill. I don't talk to other people unless talked to, and if people don't go flashing their swords and arrows at me, I don't take out my knives and cleavers. Simple, really. I have no views about my world except that what I do in it is what feeds me... I don't know about other people, but I think the world is like yourself, or myself, in this case... I'm here, the world is here. I was here, the world was here. I'll be here, the world'll be here. People don't need to go around and poke their noses into something that doesn't involve them, that's how I see it. And the last four sentences should give you an idea of another trait of mine."
How have you made your way to where you are now?
"On a day in the solstice, decades ago. I remember a wooden cart I usually played with. I remember other children, three more in specific, that often played with me. Where was I? Who was I? After that, what I remember is red. But there's also black. There's also white. I remember heat from fire balls. The cold from iron tearing into my chest. I was the giant of a man known as the 'Butcher' that works with the cult 'Der Schutzwald', a group of magic users from the forest that believe their religion to be the righteous one. I killed, killed, killed. Chopped, chopped, chopped. They sang of the 'Butcher' and his cleavers. But those days didn't last very long. 'Der Schutzwald' was wiped out by a whole army after a long, bloody battle within their campaign to spread power and religion. I got away, somehow. I wear a new mask now, but kept the cleavers. After the stories of 'Der Schutzwald' died down, I lived somewhat free again. I worked as a mercenary, continuing what I do best; killing, chopping. I go after the people that other people need dead. I'm after one right now."