|“||Alea iacta est||”|
Gregor of Ashworth, Gor Sicarius, is a character written and played by Myles. He started out as a levy soldier fighting under the Lord of Ashworth. Later Gregor signed up with a Sellsword Company, spending years fighting for them in Kharid. He returned to Misthalin and Varrock to work as a bodyguard. There he served underneath Maelorn Aerendyl and later Queen Eissander. He was later taken by the Sicarius, rising to the rank of Drudge. Later leaving, Gregor was knighted and landed by King Darian Lansing and Queen Anora Blackwood. He returned once more to the Sicarius Family, with a fever devotion to their ideals. He was Blooded and renamed Gor Sicarius. Following his death and rebirth as a Wight, Gor learned the truth of his birth.
Gregor is not a tall man compared to the other warriors of the different Kingdoms. Standing at a simple 5'11" even, his body is lean and kept trimmed from the fighting.
His skin still holding a darker shade from his days in Kharid. He had dark black hair and a pair of dull grey eyes. Housing numerous scars from the Sicarius.
As a Wight, his skin is a pasty white. His dull grey eyes feel oddly fitting for his new found Undeath. The scar from his death stands out on the front of his throat.
|“||Gregor is dead and in his place Gor has risen. You were brought back for a purpose. You will do more than serve the Family.||”|
The life of a sword for hire leaves little room for proper manners nor the likeliness of enjoying the more finer things in life. A man that thirsts for power in whatever form he can find, he has a practical and ruthless mindset.
Slowly turned by the Sicarius and their methods, Gregor follows the ideals of the Sicarius Family closely. the ruthlessness being fueled now by unwavering loyalty to the Family.
After rising once more from the dead, Gregor drew far more quiet. Coming to terms with what had happened to him and the nothingness he saw in the Void.
It always starts on a farm Edit
Gregor started his life, like many other Sellswords, coming from the extremely poor of the Kingdom of Misthalin. Born in a small chapel inside of Varrock, his Family held from a small farm outside of the City walls. He was the youngest child of 5, his Father, Harold and his Mother, Maria, stopped having children once Gregor was born. Gregor stood out from birth, he was smaller than his other brothers, not has large or as strong as them. He struggled on the farm when he was younger, when they had to help their father in taking care of the harvest and day to day running.
But while his other brothers were quite happy with being born, living and dying on the same plot of land for their entire lives. Gregor had much larger plans. He wished to make something more of himself, he was the best with the wooden sticks him and his brother's used to pretend they were grand knights in a battle. When Gregor was 12, the local Lord came into feud with his Lord neighbor. Gregor and his Family were called up into the Men-At-Arms for the Lord of Ashworth and went off to fight in the local war.
The first sip is always the worst Edit
Also fitting the bill of a sellsword, Gregor in fact killed his first man when he was 12. The Lord of Ashworth had become trapped when his rival forces split and had surrounded them. With the river behind them and an army of 1,000 men in front of them, this might be the only last stand Gregor saw in his young life. Nothing on the farm had prepared Gregor for the scream of dying men, the mud and blood throwing in every which way direction. The sound of the cavalry charging into the lines of shield and spears.
He didn't know how he survived the first charge let alone the entire battle. But it didn't take long for Gregor to have his first taste of true combat when he was faced with a truborn Knight and Gregor only held a spear. With his brothers and fathers most likely dead already, Gregor squared himself up to the Knight, it did not take long for the spear to be thrown out of his hands and the Knight bearing down at him. But in true common fashion, Gregor had one more trick up his sleeve. Pulling a dagger out from seemingly no where, he stabbed deep into the Knight's foot, forcing the man back in pain, in where Gregor launched onto the attack, using the knife and his own rusty metal helm to beat the man's head in.
Spurned on by the young boy's actions, the forces of His Lord rallied and were able to cover a well done retreat where it should of been certain death. The battle later became known as the 'Battle of the Folk'. Gregor took the dead Knight's armor that day, something he still wears to this day.
You can't go home again Edit
After the Battle of the Folk, Gregor spent the next year fighting under the local Lord until the Crown in Misthalin stepped in and forced a peace deal. With most of his Family dead, Gregor traveled back to his Family Farm, a boy no older than 13, dressed in fine steel and hardened from the fighting, to find his family homestead burnt to the ground alongside any memory. Assuming the very worst had happened to his mother and nothing else left for him there, he traveled to Varrock to sign up with a local Sellsword Company that was being hired for an expedition to Al-Kharid. Having been fighting for nearly a year and in the need for more bodies, Gregor was hired assuming he would join the large body count.
All they found was sand and blood Edit
The Black Arms Sellsword Company Gregor found, was nothing more than a group of rapists, criminals and men looking for coin. Something that Gregor fit just right in for, he had enough of listening to the Men-At-Arms while serving the Lord of Ashworth. Each had large eyes and big dreams of charming smiling Knights. They had all found quite fast that war and battle was nothing of that sort. It was only the fastest, the quickest and the most ruthless that survived a battle.
The Company had been hired by a local University Professor to guard his large team as they traveled deep into the South of the Desert looking for some long forgotten City or something to that effect. Gregor cared little for why they were going, only if there was going to be the coin at the end of the day.
Unsuprising, the local Desert Tribes did not take for having having white men from the north digging around their sand and their old holy sights. A part of Gregor wished he knew what he was getting himself into, reaching the south had nearly taken 9 months, faced with backlog and mistakes all along the way. And for another 2 years, the Black Arms fought in the sand like mad men searching for water agasint both the local hostile people and the terrain.
Once they did find the ruins of the old city, Gregor didn't understand why those old and fat professors looked so happy about. All there was, was sand and the blood.
The Kingdom of farms and forgetfulness Edit
After nearly four years of fighting for the Black Arms in the the sand, Gregor was freed from his contract. One of the only surviving members from the that first group of sellsword to head south, Gregor had earned a knowing in those circles about his skills in fighting and being able to survive damn near anything. The boy no older than 17 returned back to Misthalin, a land he barely remembered. Gregor picked up a job of running as a bodyguard and muscle for a local small time crime lord in the slums of Varrock. The work wasn't pretty, but it was much better than pouring sand and snakes out of your boots like in the desert.
A year later, Gregor dropped from his job, the coin not being good enough anymore and decided to put his mind to much larger goals. In all his years of fighting he had realized a few things. The rich would sit in their ivoy towers commanding the power to fight and die for them. And Gregor personally, enjoyed fighting but would like having one of his own ivoy towers to order men to die from. He set his sights on building and deciding he would kill for himself, not for another man no longer.
It starts with one small step Edit
After a night of drinking, Gregor found himself wandering the roads of the Varrock Slums where he came across a young noble being held a knife point by a few lightly armored men. Swiftly cutting them down, Gregor found that he had saved the life of one Maelorn Aerendyl. He return for saving his life, Gregor demanded to be brought up as Maelorn climbed the political ladder in Misthalin. They shook on it. Little did Gregor know how far that ladder would go up.
The Sicarius Edit
With the Sicarius returning to the world and being based inside of Misthalin, it didn't take long for Gregor to hear of their exploits. And most importantly, attract their attention. One quiet evening in the Blue Moon Inn, Gregor was attacked by four Servii of the Sicarius. Being able to fight the four off and stabbing one in the arm, using a chair to bash another one, he was finally taken down when piled by a fair number of them.
Gregor started off with a rather large step when he was thrust into a world of crime and death. In his first few days, he earned favor and fear from the other Servii by beating and mugging them of their weapons and armor. He caught the eye of the Blooded who put him in charge of training and keeping the other Servii in line.
During the Battle of Burthope, he took an arrow to the shoulder, but due to the training he gave to the other Servii, they were able to keep themselves together.
Gregor after the war untook the Drudge Challenge with his two other Drudge-To-Be Brothers. 5 waves of powerful dogs and beings called Reavers. Barely making it out alive, Gregor became one of the most deadly forces in the Sicarius Family; a Drudge. It was soon after then that Child Mosy took him to the side and explained that his birth father would be proud, a one Aegidius Blackwood.
At the time, Gregor didn't think much of it. A part of him wasn't surprised that he was a bastard born shoved to the side. It would explain the actions of the family that raised him and how he was treated.
He was present for the bloody battles between his Family and the undead Daedalus. Becoming one of the last Servii to survive his generation.
Once the Sicarius Family faded once more from view, Gregor returned home to Misthalin. Still knighted, he returned to a life of ivory towers with a newfound ruthless that found himself employed by then King Darain Lansing and Queen Anora Blackwood.
Skilled in combat and willing to do anything, Gregor rose to become the Queen's Champion and personal attack dog for any that spoke ill of the Crown. For his service Gregor was awarded handsomely, with titles of nobility and lands, raising the former dirt poor farm boy to a Baron.
For a number of years, Gregor lived in wealth. Housing a number of estates, farms and a small trading company that dealt mainly in smuggling goods across the Wilderness border for a massive profit.
After being paid by a visit by old friends, Gregor was once more taken back to the life of cloak and daggers. Retaking his role as Drudge, prime enforcers of the Sicarius, he slipped back into his old role with ease.
Following the years of service and beatings, Gregor's personality slowly begun to shift and change. Becoming loyal only to the Sicarius and its leaders. His morals became that of the Family's. As one of the only surviving Servus from his generation, he grew far too bold in his deeds and rash anger. Feeling that this new generation of Servii were treated better than what he had gone through underneath the hard hand of the Preator.
As Drudge, he was charged with keeping order in the ranks of the Servii which saw him taking out that rash anger onto the lesser Servii. Beating many and making an enemy of near every member of the Servii population.
The Abbas, Rai Sicarius, gifted Gregor the chance to finally take the mark and join the Blooded ranks of the Family. To bring three heads of their most hated enemies, the Daedalus. In the following days, a Daedalus company became known in the Varrock area. Leading next side to Elder Ed, Gregor became a wild anaimal in this hunt to become Blooded. Charging forward and pushing back the Daedalus time after time again though in the process earning a number of wounds that would nearly take his life.
Once the dust had settled from the battle, Gregor carried home four heads for the Abbas. Fulfilling his task given to him. In the next days at the next meeting held by the Abbas, Gregor was blooded before the whole of the Family and Servii. Thea Sicarius offered to share her blood with him and marked the "S" into his forearm. In the place Gregor of Ashworth once stood was now Gor Sicarius.
In a bitter act of twisted Fate, soon as Gor was blooded, he was cut down by that he called a friend. Charlie, Head Servus, decided to act on his newfound jealousy and killed Gor in the middle of the street, surrounded by Servii and Blooded alike. With a knife to the back of the throat and his wounds from the Daedalus battle, there was nothing to save Gor from dying. He passed on to the Void a short few moments later, laying in a pool of his own blood.
In a second act of twisted Fate, Thea Sicarius was present. The same woman that had Blooded him. The same woman that had been keeping a tightly guarded secret since the moment she first laid her eyes on him. Acting quickly, the ranking Blooded secured Gor's body and ensured his soul did not leave, teleporting them both off.
Deep within the Dying Lands, Thea carried Gor to a place that only the most unholy of magics could be performed. Gathering those soon to be corpses that will act as the fuel of the powerful ritual, Thea Sicarius brought back Gor from the dead under the orders from Rai Sicarius and her own selfish desire, creating him into much like the Wights that serve within the Sicarius. Draining her of a decent amount of power and killing many to bring him back, it was then that Thea explained the full truth of Gor's birth.
The bastard son of Aegidius Blackwood and Thea Sicarius. A short affair that came around after the death of Aegidius's first wife. When Gregor was born, Aegidius took the baby and told Thea that he had died. Aegidius, not caring for the bastard, passed him onto the first Family he could find and left the child there without so much of a word.
When Gregor first appeared in service of the Sicarius, Thea explained that she thought it was a trick of the eyes. Her child named Gregor had died long ago and that they did look much alike, there was no hard proof until the Blooding. Where when Gregor took his helm off, a small mark that Thea had carved into the top of his head was shown, Thea had the answer she feared.
Entry 1 Edit
I remember the cold. I remember the darkness. I remember far too much of my time in the inbetween.
The only smell was the slowly rising scent of decaying flesh. The only sense of touch came from the howling wind that wanted to bind me into place. It curled and wrapped around me like a blanket. I was aware of everything that had come to past, the stinging of the dagger being shoved into my throat, how the mud caked to my body when I fell to the ground clenching the wound.
Pity turned into anger, anger into wrath, wrath into nothing. Nothing like the nothingness I walked through.
There was only a small ball of light in the valley of shadows. Always in front of me, dragging forward, beckoning me to follow it always. Every time I neared it, every time my fingers could grasp it, it would fall from my hands. Giving me moments of such warmth, of memories of my life before, that each time it left, the march became harsher than before.
What was the point of returning? What was the point of all of this? What did I have left? Everything I had done seemed to weigh on me, making the howling winds tighten around my body, whispering me to stay still, to accept what had happened.
I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, my legs became weary of carrying me. Tucking through the winds, chasing after the light ahead. I wanted this to end, I wanted to forget of my life before, of all the memories. Those winds cleared my head for the first time in years it felt, able to remember every small detail of every memory.
And that’s when I heard it. A voice calling over the wind. A voice coming from the light.
Perhaps there is peace in the nothingness. A peace that I so desperately crave.
Entry 2 Edit
Perhaps the answer had always been simple. Plain, honest.
The reason why I clinged to those memories, those feelings. How I tried so hard to recall the anger, the wrath, the fear. How my blood turned flaming hot, praying for the chance for revenge.
It was the only memories that connected me to Gregor. To the man from before. A man that seemed so foreign to me. With my head full of memories belonging to him, belonging to a man so angry, so thirstful for power in whatever form he could find.
A man. Alive, made of flesh and blood. Who bled red, who felt the sting of pain, who felt the ill of a broken heart and longing eyes. Who felt emptiness as his keep only grew larger, as his plump wives whispered delights in his ear.
Sometimes, those memories break free from the cold icy hands. They break free and for a moment Gregor lives again in hot heated moments of anger. Anger at what? Anger at what he had become? Anger at a Father and Mother who had forsaken him? Anger at a chance lost? Anger at a Paradise he nearly knew? Anger at a witch who had nearly been his?
Why did it matter? Why did any of it mattered anymore? Why do I grasp so strongly to those memories still? Plaguing my thoughts, my dreams. Every time I tried to forget them, it comes roaring back, taunting me to act, taunting me to feel something other than this coldness.
Gregor of Ashworth or Gor Sicarius. Taunting back and forth, locked in a duel. The rashness of Gregor, the coldness of Gor. The anger of Gregor, the steadiness of Gor. I was born again, but what was it that Charlie had said? Your life before is not so easily forgotten?
Both want something the other has, both crave such different extremes that I can feel myself breaking into two. Why does it matter, all I can remember is that nothingness, that light that failed from my grasp every time I reached it.
Was that my Fate? To wander that Shadowland, to have that light fall from my fingers every time I came near it? Was that the fate of Gregor of Ashwroth, a man that Gor Sicarius so desperately wished he didn’t know.
Entry 3 Edit
There is a pause of several lines with large droplets of dried ink, as if the quill was raised to hang above the word to let the ink drip slowly.
I recall the woman from before in only flashes. I was 12 when me and the males were called off for war. A local feud that had spilled over into conflict between the Lord of Ashworth and Lord Ravencorne.
Maria. She was kinder to me than my other brothers. I was always the runt of the litter. Smaller than the others, the long days on the farm took their toll on me as I was unable to keep up with the work.
She would make sweet rolls for the Church service. She always made sure I got mine before everyone else, she knew that the others would beat me for mine. I think a part of me loved her, I think a part of me cried when I returned home to find the burnt down farm.
But those memories belong to Gregor, the memory of those sweet rolls and Maria’s smile belong to a boy that craved a Family, that craved a sense of normalcy. Perhaps they belong to a boy, a bastard who wished for a family that would love him. To a boy who always knew deep down that he didn’t belong there, that his hair color was too dark, his eyes too grey. His body too small.
How many Families have I ruined? How many sons have a I killed? How many Mothers cry at empty grave sites to family members that will never return home? So many faces, so many screams, so many whimpers.
How does a man live with it? How do I live with it?
A man always remembers his first. Sir Harden, the brother to Lord Ashworth. With his white warhorse, his shining armor. He was pulled down, into the mud and blood and guts of the fallen. His throat slashed by a young boy’s dagger and his armor looted.
What did Sir Harden dream of? What did he wish for? Did he plan to kill his Brother when he grew fat and weak? Was he a knight above all others who served only honor and duty? Would he serve his King with honor, keep all his oaths to protect his King, his liege and the common folk.
Entry 4 Edit
But what of my sins? But what of my oath broken?
How many Kings did I serve? How many Lords did I plot against? How many men and women did I, Gregor, kill because he, I, could?
There was a pause in the lines, several large dried droplets of ink that had dried from where he must've kept his quill positioned over.
What of my sins? What of the screams that linger in my head? What of them? How they want to mean something. Gods, how I wished they meant something. That sense, that sense of feeling something beyond this coldness that eats at me like a sickness. How it wraps an unforgiving hand around the whole of me.
I remember Gregor, I remember those lingering thoughts in the far back of his mind, within the hearts of his hearts. How he wished he was stronger, how he wished he didn’t enjoy it. Was that not the cries of all men? How they weaped for peace.
Or was it weakness. Those feelings, these thoughts, this blasted journal. All of this, all of these feelings, all of these memories that I want gone. Do lock them away in a box and never feel them again, to never feel or think of Gregor.
Gregor. His hatred of a Father who gave him up. His hatred for a Family whose only crime was being merciful.
There was another pause, a far longer one, with half of the page filled with dried spots of black ink.
Sometimes I wonder of Gregor. I wonder of Gregor Blackwood-Aren. I wonder of the man he would’ve been. A man that was raised with a stern Father that taught him right and wrong. A man that did what he had to, a man that kept his oaths, a man that kept his honor.
A man that had let go of his anger. A man that realized there was more out there.
A man who felt, who lost, who loved. A man who grew old, who saw the seasons change and his body grow old and fat.
A man who had lived.
Entry 5 Edit
Cold, broken, white.
Dead eyes, dead lips, a dead body. To never age, to never feel pain, to feel little of nothing. The only thing I have to feel are those memories, the memories of Gregor, they linger still on those memories, as if they still belong to me.
If I wish for them to belong to me.
But I still cling to them, I still cling to Gregor. I cling to how he felt when he watched his enemy fall below him. How he felt to feel victory, all he rendered his power over women. In those moments of anger, in those moments of him, I try to act on them. I try to be that, in hopes that it would snap the coldness away, that suddenly I wouldn’t feel this way anymore.
Are the sins of Gregor the same sins of Gor? Are the two one in the same? How Rat’s screams filled my ears, how he cried for mercy. How Bell stared up at me on his knees with a baton pressed to his lips. How Dante’s laughs dwarfed everything else, his cruel laughter filling the entire hall until everything else was banked into nothingness. Was that not to feel something? Was that not what Gregor would’ve found glee in?
Was that Gor? Is this Gor Sicarius? A husk clinging to a head full of memories belonging to Gregor? Hoping that somewhere in it I would find what I was before? What he was before?
If I am he then he is I.
Gods, some days I wished, some days I wished that voice never came from the Light. Some nights I wished I never woke on the cold floor, some mornings I wished I could feel the warmth of the rising sun on my skin. That Gregor had died, that Gor had never risen, that Charlie gloated as he pleased, and Gregor became nothing more than a passing note in history.
What did the dead care for the living?
What future was this? Clinging to an Abbas that belonged to Gregor, clinging to a set of ideals that belonged to Gregor. Clinging and hoping that one day this coldness would leave, that I could feel warmth again.
But Gor was a Sicarius. A Sicarius killed whoever they pleased, did they not? Was Gor Sicarius not a killer, cold and hard as any other? What did the Sicarius care of oaths, what did a Sicarius care of loyalty. What did a Sicarius care of decently after everything we have done for the name of the Abbas.
Of the babes cut from the womb by cold hands and cold steel. Of the children’s throats slit, of the men killed, of the women’s screams.
But it was an oath that kept the Family bounded. A Family that plotted and hated each other as much as the Family that burnt on that farm outside of Varrock.
Entry 6 Edit
Sometimes I recall a dream. A dream that Gregor kept locked away. A dream that after Mosy told him of Aegidius Blackwood that Gregor found him before his death. Who faced his trueborn Father and asked why.
Why? Why did he give him up? Why did he fake Gregor’s death? Why did he never ask upon Gregor? Did he keep an eye on him? Did he care of what Gregor had become? Did he find it funny that Gregor stumbled into the same steps of his own Father in his youth, rising to Drudge swifter than Aegidius.
Did he have a dream locked away where he had loved Gregor like any true son? Did he have an image of the proud Blackwood Family bonded together by blood and strength. By honor and duty.
Did the proud Lord Blackwood think of his lone bastard? Of the son he forsaken? Of the son that was always a mistake. A son that came from a moment of weakness that came from a man whose entire world had just ended.
What torment waited for a Father that refused to love a son. What torment waited for a man that refused to look into the eye of his own seed.
What torment do I deserve?
Banished to the last ring of Hel? Burnt alive, boiled, gagged, raped, killed, stabbed, beaten?
What torment do I deserve?
Forced to undergo everything I have done to others? To feel every wound, to mimic every cry to please whatever deity wishes it so? It would be fitting for what Gregor deserves, after every act that covered his hands.
What torment do I deserve?
This, is this my torment?
Is this the torment Gregor had earned with each body that fell below him, with each scream of mercy that filled his ears. With the slashing of steel and the wet clapping of skin. Which each order he carried out without question, without thought.
To relive every oath broken, to relive every memory locked in my head.
To wander forever onwards, searching for that light to grasp on to and pray that it didn’t fall from my hands this time.
Entry 7 Edit
Some days I remember that forest. I remember those days spent with her. Teasing her of her pointed hat, of how she could wiggle her fingers and summon a firestorm from them.
Those memories belong to Gregor, not to Gor, but deep within the Swamps, in a dark room where no light could reach, Gregor and Gor are the same. Both locked in a cold, dying body. Sharing space, the same passengers of the same life.
Gor is Gregor and Gregor is Gor. They can feel, they can remember, they can mourn. They can wish for death, to be forgotten to time. They can recall a man’s fast beating heart at the sight of a woman who captured every single of his senses.
They can take solace in the ill quiet darkness. That’s all either had now.
That Gregor could’ve been saved. That Gregor could’ve kept an oath. That Gregor could’ve been good. If he let himself to, if he had let go of that greed. If he had stopped and said yes to her. If he had given up a child’s want. If he had admitted to himself she was worth far more than a castle. If he had let go of the Battle of the River Fork, If he had let go of the sands of Khardia, of the blood and sand he found there.
I remember how the sun hit her face, shining down in her eyes. I...I can’t even recall the color of her eyes. No matter how much I search for them, no matter how much I wish I could see them again. She wouldn’t even know who I was, just another hooded man in the masses.
I remember her warmth, her hands sprayed across her. Small fingers drumming across my collarbone, over my chest. Palm resting over my beating heart.
It is not fair of me to remember her, it is not fair of me to wonder if she would’ve saved him, me. If she wanted to save me, if I was deserving of saving, am I deserving of saving?
How do I wash away the blood stained into my skin? Covering every inch that is left of me, crimson, black, no matter the color.
It won’t wash out.
Entry 8 Edit
A man always remembers his first, but does he remember his last?
Will I go back to where I was before, to that Shadowland, forced to relive every moment of that life I had lived. Playing over and over again, forever locked there. Casing after that warmth and having it fall from my hands, every time it being harder to pick up.
I wonder who the last would be. Charlie? Ben? Yiria? A soldier? A boy? A Dadealus?
Yiria would be fitting, would it not. Fitting for what Gregor did to her. The crudness, the screams that filled his ears that only drove him onwards. I would let it happen, however she did it, however she found a way, it would be a mercy to me. Though she would never know it.
What is worse? To be tormented by the decisions you had made or the decisions you never could make. Chances never taken or chances took. A sword drawn or a hand stayed.
I..I find my mind still lingering on her. Now that Gregor has whispered it into my ear, every sense of me is committed to remembering her. To that forest, to the bed in that crossroads inn outside of Lumbridge.
Gods, if I had said yes. If I had went with her.
It’s not Gregor’s anger that I cling to. It’s not his memories of living that I wish to remember. It’s the memory of her, its the thoughts he tried so hard to bury underneath every else. That part of him that wanted to be free.
Entry 9 Edit
Is there still not time? Time yet to change. For Gor to forget Gregor, for Gregor to die as he had done in the mud of the Slums?
Gor has nothing but time, centuries of time. Time enough to forget a head of memories, to forget a past lifetime of sin. To build a new life, to wash away the bad, to replace it with good? To find that unmarked gravestone, to dig up that empty small coffin, to place Gregor in it and bury it once more.
I could go back, I could start again a million miles away.
- Gregor's last name simply shows what region of Misthalin he was born in
- Gregor is ambidextrous