valk_tiller@brokenworld.chaosdeathfish.com
Valk Tiller is better dressed than most Surface Dwellers. On the downside he talks like an oik, acts like a thug and smells like a week-old curry. Apparently he's the representative of the Tillermen, presumably because they couldn't find anyone else who fit in the smart suit.
Clan:Tillermen
Gregory Tiller knocked once on the door before pushing his head around the corner.
“Valk, you in lad?” He looked gloomily around the suite. Palacial as the rooms of the inner City were, Valk had still managed to leave it looking like some sort garbage bomb had exploded within. If the younger Tillerman was in here then he was buried under one of the piles of miscellaneous knicknacks that were strewn about the chamber.
He gave loud sigh and began to neaten things up a little. The boy had probably run off with his friends on another adventure; he used to be so responsible when he first arrived, always helping in the fields, always around when you needed a lookout. Ever since the Kings had fallen he'd been a different man. Such a shame.
A scrap of paper, perched on top of a pile of holey socks caught his eye and he picked it up and squinted at the awful handwriting.
'Deer Gregory,
Have run away to joyn the Sirkus. Thank you for all you have given me. Have a good lyfe.
Yors,
Valk'
With the colonies settling down after the War, life became a bit boring for Valk. Those who knew him could see that he was becoming restless, so it was no suprise to many that when the Circus dissapeared Valk did as well. In the run up to his departure a number of Relics of the Church of the Founders and Experimental Weapons from the Legion dissapeared, these could never be conclusivly linked to Valk Tillermen.