Arch-Bald.

Name: T̵̛̺̥͙̐̾̂̔ͬ̔͂̿͂c̨̭͎̍̇ͬi̴̹̳̇ͣ̾̓ͤ͊̾̂v̖͈̀̎̎̄͆͟ Arch-Bald. [pronounced Ark-Balt]
Age: 24-25ish, from what he says.
Species: Human.
Gender: Male.
Appearance:
Ţ̵͉͍͍͚̜̰͔̬ͫͭ́͗̈͡č̓͒ͯ͑ͥͧ̀̚͏̢̹̬͟i͎̟̭̯͚͋͛̾ͦͭ̉͘v͉̦̬̬̍̉͘ is a standing image of cataclysmal structure, crimson demise and any other despicable and mortifying successions of events. It's quite difficult to know what he has lived, what were his former occupations or even imagine how he existed during his younger years, the main reason being that he practically never speaks of them. Although, the few who have listened most surely understand how the man who stands before them is the result of everything that has happened.
T̨͍͈̳̥̰̼͊̎c̵̡͓̗̱̭͕̺̣͍͇͗͞ȋ̍̌҉̛̹̱̗͞v̩̠̳͈̱̈́ͤ̀ͣ͛ͮ̋̀̚͟'s body stands by 1m78 (5'84") and weighs 59 kg (130 lbs). He is fairly skinny for his height, and a frailer body than most. His face is a good metaphor of this weakness - glassy eyes caved deep within his orbits in a dark shadow, purple bags tracing an obvious ring around the lid. A pupil of a beauty comparable to a deceased man's stare during the car accident in which he died gazes somnolently - normally at the ground, please bear the fact that these eyes might drop on your frame. Thick black eyebrows adorn the form of the gaze, seeming petrified as they practically never move. Exsanguine lips are stuck into a straight line, only budging to let the mouth speak or to express one of his rare emotions. Black curled hair has been combed backward and tucked behind his ears, although a few dark fringes fall upon his face nevertheless. The whole frontal side of his hair is of an old white color, contrasting with the darkness of the rest, and combed into a bushy spike. A sharp, angular jawline connects with a thin neck, at the end of which a body which would've been considered as 'a creation of His irony'.
His thin body can be seen by the fact that his long-sleeved white, coal-tattered chemise marries the shape of his arms and chest, and leads to the horrible mental image of a frame of skeletal qualification, bones protruding, skin literally caressing the living ossuary because of the lack of muscle. His hands are concealed within mangled gloves lacking several fingers. On the chemise, a stylistic red heart has been crudely sown on the left part of his chest, descending down to the bottom of his ribcage. At the bottom of the chemise, where it lacks a button, there is the (thankfully) inevitable placement of trousers, of which the color is black - or used to be black, considering the ground and grass stains which have been painted over it throughout the years of work. A plaided red and brown patch was sown on the left knee to cover up a rather large rip. Ț̱̻̊ͬ̑̽̊̽ͫ̀c̵̹̜͍̞̝̞̓̈́̽͌ͭį̶̤̟̹͕͉̘̉͆ͧͤ̓̀v̱̲͙̲͍̂͌͑̂̍̾͠'s thin feet are neatly placed in black boots of seemingly considerable resistance, making the earth crack under his looming steps.

Personality:
T͎̰͊̃̕c̤͉̝̱ͥͨ̒ͬ̕͡i̪̬̝̞͉͕̒͊ͅv͔̘̺͇̟ͧ̉̊̄̿͢'s mind is interestingly - or terrifyingly, depending on the people - nonchalant, despite his rather morbid profession. He seems as dead as those he buries, and uncaring of whatever problem which doesn't concern him for most part, except when a problem concerns a friend or a close one. He lives with what he has at his disposal - a small house, the graveyard, a spade, and the riches buried underground. He thinks as follows, 'who's going to mind if they're dead anyways?'. Many people see him with a dark eye, and it's understandable - people normally don't like those who dig the whole in which their loved ones will rot.

History:
The history of the Arch-Balds leads up to very, very long ago.
But considering T̡̛͓̞̻̘̖̒̔͌̾́̾̆c̶̛̬̗̠͎̞̯̋̊i̞̩̼͙͖̫͖̾̇̉̈́̄́͢v͙ͦ͒̾͋͛͑̆ͥ͡͡'s time-killer and profession, that's not of much importance now, is it.
He was born 24 (or 25-ish, from what he says) years ago in a village so small that its name on the map could only be read by blind people since it was just a continuous line of dots. On a general scale, this village's parties were the biggest in humanity, because it had 100% population gathering (or 98%, whatever) - that is to say around 20 people came every party there was.
When T̶̡̼̘̹͕̗͉̱͋ͧͭ̎̚ͅc̛̩̺͉̘̜̳̣͐̉͗̒ͧ̕͠ǐ̘̩̝̔͟v̨͍̰̬̥̾̇ͨ͊̅ͯ̊ͮ was born, the whole village knew about it after, whether it be the five sisters, the elders, the rather conspicuous twins or all the others. They all saw the baby boy, his pale skin and his practically dead eyes despite his lively attitude. Although this attitude didn't last long - not even until Kindergarten. First year in, he buried another kid alive in the sandbox. This, coincidentally, reflected on what he is presently. The dilemma that there was no primary school close enough of the village led to the Arch-Bald family having to move to another, larger, more prosperous city. In elementary, more of his deceitful, cunning plots had been hatched. Like the plan where he locked up John, a peculiar child bullying him for peculiar reasons, in his own locker. And then proceeding to break the janitor key inside the keyhole. Although these 'pranks' did not seem to make everyone wary - another kid, named Robin, befriended T̛͔̤̼̥͓̪̺̘̎̂̒̀͒͞c̭̯̩̳̼̾ͫ͢͞ḭ̖̻ͫͯ͋v̈́͛̑͏̖͙̝̰͜. Robin also wasn't a kid like another - doted with an excellent sense of deduction, he was able to make links with the unlinkable. Not only that, but his grandfather was a grave digger.
Now, to make things precise, if Robin was actually defined as a 'friend' to T̤̞͈͉͂͊̎̿͡c̙̗͖̳̱̮͔̘ͫ̐͌̆ͥ̀i͂̈̈̍͂͝͏̝͖͇v̴͙̼̼͈̻̰͑ͪ̎̈̓̎, then Robin's grandfather was really close to being his brother.
Robin's grandfather quickly made links with the child, and since the old man regularly came to Robin's house because of a recent divorce, he was able to meet the young one fairly often.
T̴̤̹̽̽ͫ̈͐ͩç͓͈͓̜̥̱̈́͢͢ḭ͔̪̘̫̟̱̯̘͌̌͂ͫ̑̌̇̌ͬ͜͢v̸̢͎̯̽ͫͮ̾̌̏̚͢ took worrying interest in his profession - the one to dig holes for the succumbed. He learned that there had been a long line of 'heritage' between gravediggers, and that there were rituals to follow, such as an apprenticeship from gravedigger to gravedigger. The more he knew, the more interested he became. When Robin's grandfather's life ended when T̪̟ͭ̂͐ͧ͋ͪ̓͞c̷̼̲̘̊ͮ͝i̢̩̺ͯ͛̆ͩͩ͗̄v̬̟͉͔͚̒͆͆̅̒̄͐ͫ was 16, the decision was difficult to come to him. But a year later, he began working as a gravedigger, and when he was 18, he worked professionally.
6-7ish years have passed, and he's still there, in the cemetery. He lives in a small house in the suburbs of the city, or sleeps in the cabin whenever he has something to dig early in the morning. He's there, has been, and shall be, for quite a long time.

Powers:
Arch-Bald has no power, or at least has not revealed any as far as he's concerned.

Job: Grave digger.
Hobbies: Grave robber.
Relations (Family): Has a brother in America, and a sister in Russia. Both parents are dead.
Relations (Spouses): None.
Best Friends: Some other girl who answers to the name of 'Lisianne', and another man named 'Robin'.
Pets: None.
Accent: Nothing obvious.
Distinguishing Features: His hair, as described in the physical description.
Special Abilities: Nothing that any other human isn't capable of doing.
Likes: Having some company.
Dislikes: Having to dig when it's snowing, or has recently snowed, and the earth is as hard as brick.
Fears: Bugs as big as your fist.
Habits: Assisting the funeral.
Personal quotes:
"I'm around dead people aaallll the time, and I'm not crazy yet."

Sample RP post:
A gray sky announced close rain as the clouds rolled onwards. There was no wind, or at least, not yet, and there wouldn't be for quite while still. In the land where the dead rot and the only things standing are the graves, a quiet, soft humming would attract a mouse's ear. Although the sight of which the sound came from would probably not attract anybody, the voice was peculiarly melodious for someone as trashy as the silhouette who sang.
"Who knows what lurks under your feet, I've heard that the dead are all we meet..."
A man with a spade, shoving it at regular intervals into the ground and heaving a chunk of the earth behind him, sang quietly. His dark hair fell upon his face, and his tattered clothes and coat left the shape of his body a mystery.
"A sinister omen guides your life, from here henceforth, filled with strife..."
He slowly, crudely carved the earth as he pleased,the mound of earth behind him growing at the same speed as his oeuvre began to take shape. A deep trench took form in only a couple more strikes. The man breathed out heavily as he stood up and planted the blade of the shovel into the ground next to the hole.
"Little girl, little girl, why are you here? Don't you know that the dead may be near?..."