Layers upon layers of battered armor encases the Skarmory, a shell of flimsy brass that he cherishes more than his barren skin beneath it. Sparse plates jut from the nape of his helm and single billowing quill has been embedded into it as a basic plume. But aside from that, and the faint change of glint that radiates from his dull alloy, he is no different then the rest of his armored ilk.

 Intrepid and brash, he prides himself in all of his quarrels and deeds. The imprudent knight claims everything but his independence, and the sullen reputation he's swiftly come to bear has only ever proved it's use as another paltry excuse to march once again. Strife is what drives the warrior through his days, and the intangible worth at the end of the battlefield is all he strives for.

 With the scrutiny of a soldier, he watches everything and everyone that crosses his wake. An open palm is as likely to greet someone, than it is to bear a dagger. And though often shrouded by his overbearing demeanor, he is nonetheless cautious of anything that may reside in his Immediacy. A paranoia long instilled by years of murmured conspiracies and the struggles he's long committed to.

  Far  from softspoken, The Skarmory is all too eager to voice his disdain the instant the opportunity presents itself to be scorned. He has an almost infantile mentality, valuing his uncouth ways above the nobility his Quarter demands. And with an attitude like that, there's no way he could possibly be aiming for any sort of gain nor status, as his loutish temperament keeps him from achieving anything beyond the paltry grasp of a lackey.
 
 He is a person defined by his hypocrisies, his constant misdeeds that are only acknowledged by a passing grunt of a furrowed glower. A lowly trait he's well aware of, but one he oblivious commits to without a sliver of heed nor judgement. He will try to deceive he will command anyone if there's a chance they'll heed his sway, nonetheless his interests stay dedicated to the cause his comrades support.

 There's an instinctive brutality to his words, actions, and straight down to the way he carries himself in the public's ever-present eyes. An insufferable lout, a pestering ruffian - yet somehow a person so eager and willing to follow the order of his cloth. A code he will follow to an absolute tee, the sort of compliance that almost goes uncontested. Weren't it not for the rarest circumstances where he couldn't attest to his given demands.

 Surely there must be more to his blunt disposition than satiating a brutish itch. But by look of his jib; perhaps that contempt is all that he's ever known.

 A clutch of four – who could have guessed?

 Who else could of presumed that they'd all hatch, and that the dreadful ferals of Fiphele didn't immediately prey the batch?

 Well, not even their Mother could of predicted they'd all thrive through the unyielding winter. But as spring dawned on the frigid lands and earth finally thawed, the lone Warrior had been left with a a lot all clambering and squealing for her attention.

 The threat of Ferals had always been prominent, a sullen fact of life the hardened dwellers of Fiphele had become accustomed to. Thus the mother ranked among the local militia, fending the lands from the beasts who dwell all too close to their forested borders. Never had did it occur to the adventurer that she may one day bear offspring of her own, and yet so suddenly. The father completely void from the affair, and with her predisposition unwilling as to let another so much as hold her children - she took it upon her lonesome to care them however she could.

 And among these chicks was the one soon to be named Oscar, nary a quill different than his three chattering siblings. Soon moons would pass, their plumes hardening with growth, and they were all raised through the only ways a fighter would know.

 The muddied aftertaste of grime and autumn mulch still lingers in his tongue, stricken into a noxious haze that gnarled his mind with it's repugnance. The instilled notion of motherly adoration expunged from him in the wheeze that fell his little lungs. To fathom the idea that anyone he adored would so easily ravage him afflicting him with a sickness that wasn't of his bowels but his ideals. It was stemmed from a mere sparring match – a trade of blows for his eventual betterment. Though it had been only for the child's sake, the Mother did not relent and the juvenile had been lashed the full brunt of her might.

 There hadn't been a reason to for her to ease upon the child - if he was ever to be faced with an foe then they too would surely unleashed their unbridled ire upon him. But the sight of his wallowing wasn't what halted their wing – to even her surprise he somehow managed to clamber after his initial writhing. Rather what stopped her was the harrowed gaze that spurred where his otherwise blissful visage would've lied. Dread, futility - that single strike elicited more than just a bodily sting, It brought upon a dozen intolerable concepts and etched it deep below his hide.

 All of which conveyed by a single, feeble look. A beak agape, eyes quivering, and the only sound to whir from his heaving chords was incomprehensible shrill. She sought to remedy him with her embrace, trying what she could to quell the shivers that took him. But it proved fruitless, he was plunged all too deep into disparity. Even as he listened to her countless apologies and reaffirmations in that night he spent beneath her wing, his fleeting whim could will a conveying nod.

 In a construed way, he was somewhat glad to have been the first in line. In the days that followed suite, he'd spend his time gawking the rest of his siblings. Watching as they each individually tussled with their caretaker, stopping before anything more harsh than a measly shove could trouble them. She stayed easy on the rest, whether or not she should have been in the first place isn't something he's willing to debate, but he at-least the common wit to see the caution she'd suddenly begun to exercise. Something his developing wit only assumed was her new method.

 Many winters would pass their rickety stead, their squabbling silence only ever broken by rare absences of their sole keeper. And as they progressed their coming years, so did independence finally furrow among them. They were adamant to explore and traverse the gravel paths of their humble nation. Under the stringent ruling they were set to leave and meander near. All of them, except for a distancing Oscar.

 He hadn't forgotten the day, and neither has his Mother. The thought he'd inevitably to face the savagery she'd displayed in that single affair is what warranted his fearing heed, something he'd come to acquaint himself as much has his family.. And he wanted rid of it, if it means his young self could rest without anxiety impeding his sleep. So he requested with as much sincerity a child could muster that be be trained, that if she was unwilling – which she rightfully was, that he'd be tossed into the same military exercises she's often spoken of. It was for his own good he claimed, repeating the words that laced her unforgotten apologies. Much as it fought against her better whim, she couldn't have possibly denied the child his earnest cry.

 So it was that he trianed over the breadth of many moons until his familial tutor had nothing less to pass unto him. By then he'd become insistent, obsessive with the idea of honing himself so long as those dreaded thoughts still shined over his competence. His alloy quills were beginning to harden, on the route to molt themselves into the steel his armor would someday don. He was more than a fledgling, grown point where he was only a couple winters from becoming the man he is. Thinking that he accomplished all that he could in his age, and again to her immediate dissent, he had inducted himself into the rigorous tuition that the local forces would willingly permit him.

 After months of bickering duels and adverse drills, his training gradually became nothing else than a waiting affair. He ad settled upon something, was absolutely adamant on having only his peak self be there to retrieve it and steadily grew impatient with everyday that went. Yet for all the years that veered him past, only after a fiendish encounter where a band of vacuous ferals had intruded all too close to his family's paltry home did it finally occur what horrid notion had been passed onto him. An incessant craving, wanting the claim bliss of battle only a savage would desire. The aggressive need to forgo one's perpetuity and worriment for the freedom of solely relying upon one's guttural whim.

 The very first things he'd ever slain, and the constant hostility he'd come to develop made him no better than their vacuous fury. He couldn't a reason for reason for his sudden ferocity, he didn't know what germinated it to begin with - nor could his thoughts fathom anything within him to care. The Skarmory only acted, and that was the sole extent of his concern.

 By then his deed had spread, such a wicked decimation wouldn't go unnoticed in the quaint settlement Days went and came, his paranoia muddling the faintest gust to a derisive murmur. He simply lingered in the dilapidated boundaries of his home until finally his reclusive stupor was broken on the final morning. Soon lad through his day by the motherly wing that made him. Everything meal was a feast, every measly trinket that caught his eye had been purchased for him. For what reason he couldn't discern, he was pampered and pandered to his every whim, something he'd knew too well they couldn't feasibly afford.

 Yet it all easily averted his bewildered gleam. As night dawned after the passage of reticent words, he was issued by her wing to return to his home as she parted to speak with someone on his behalf But what awaited him weren't the siblings that were inexplicably absent, rather a single pokemon standing before the weathered door.

 He detested it, forced into an ultimatum by the hand by one he trusted more than any that'd cross his path. He'd become violent, compulsively, but his demeanor had brought more than local ire but the abhorred interest of The White Dawn themselves. Whatever their reasoning for seeking him, he's at-least lived well enough to hear the quelled whispering of their doings. A military, a group of dubious researchers, the corrupt – whomever they were supposed to be they'd found their way and wanted him.

 And Oscar couldn't have possibly refused. As it would come to his attention from a parchment bequeathed to him over a year later, is that his mother had been offered a sum that would keep the remainder of his family afloat. There was hardly a decision to be made, a choice that would've wracked even his mother's infallible will. There was no better place that could handle him than among their ranks, and she in her wit wasn't going to let him devolve into an unlawful ruffian.

 Aside from his maturity, the completion his rickety mail and an infallible reason to act as he always has. Nothing has ever changed of the Skarmory.

 But if there's any solace for him to gain, then he may only find it in knowing he's surrounded by the likes of his disreputable ilk.

►Tl;DR:  He was born into a clutch of four to a single mother. And being a former member of the militia, she sought to train them. But in an incident she was too brutal on the fledgling, she unintentionally set him on a course to grow into an aggressive man. His willingness, harsh nature and resolve eventually garnered the interest of the White Dawn following an incident fending off local Ferals. Much to her reluctance, she gave into the demands of them at the promise that their family be kept afloat. He'd since been thrust into their ranks, coming to understand the fullness of his Mother's decision a long year afterwards.