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Old Aug 17th, 2016, 12:07 PM
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Dark Souls

Post completed characters here.

Player
Character
Description
ArionNaomi
Sister Mary Pax
Gun-Toting Sister of the Faith
Avner
Declan O'Toole
Ethereal Irish Fiddler
Frostburn
Mercy Logan Marlowe
Mindful Spellslinger
GeoAvanti
Morgan Harris
Gruff Furry Woodsman
Sassafrass
Ichigo Ichiban
Twilight Samurai
Xber
Sese Redja Nekubo
Last Wolf of Nubia
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Old Aug 17th, 2016, 01:17 PM
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The Last Wolf of Ezo
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Name: Icihigo Ichiban, or so he claims.
Age: He won't say. Or maybe doesn't know
Gender: Hairily Male
Nationality: Japanese Expatriate
Religion: Mixture of all pre-Meiji Japanese religions
Description: Ichigo is tall for a Japanese man living in America. Unlike many of his countrymen, he towers over many Westerners at 6'5". With a grim face flanked by hair on all sides, Ichigo's dark visage is called many things, dark among them. Many of them are cruel and unusual, though his skintone itself is no darker than the average day-laboring Chinese. His hair is firm, a black mask that wraps around his head and grows unkeptly, from his nostrils down to his adam's apple, prominent on his neck. Perhaps what stands out most about Ichigo is his namesake pink left cheek, a birth mark marring what is otherwise a fantastically chiseled face. The birthmark is an oval, the color of a strawberry, which is where the name comes from: "Ichigo" means "strawberry" in his mother tongue. His eyes are dark, with bags underneath them, with a dark brown center. His brows are prominent, and his nose powerful at the center of his face. His mouth is almost always shut, and a small scar rests on his cheekbone near the birthmark. His hair is long, worn in a bun on the back of his head. He claims this is a samurai's haircut, but his countrymen disavow that. No self-respecting samurai would wear his hair in such a way,

They assume he is self-respecting.

Depending on the day, Ichigo can be seen about San Francisco's Japantown in his blue gi, a navy color bearing a tomoe on the back center of his clothing, and white pants, or in traditional Western-style clothing befitting his employment under his former employer. He looks out of place in this, but he wears it when he has to. But at all times, he carries his sword by his side, on his side hip. The hilt's embroidery is now a brown, off-color, and becomes frayed, but this katana is hundreds of years old, seen through the notches along the blade. He has drawn it exactly five times while on the soil of the United States, and each time it tasted blood. He prefers the gi, but he does not go into details as to why. He does what is necessary.

There is no language barrier that keeps him from being grim. His English is not perfect, nor his accent, but Ichigo is a grim person altogether. He often smells of rice wine and whiskey, a hearty combination when combined with Chinatown chow mien and and whatever that manly fish smell is. Ichigo is bitter, quick to anger, but slow to do anything else. He is stoic, until he is angered, and he bears that stoicism as a badge of honor. His arms are often crossed, his eyes staring onward and outward. He speaks bluntly, rarely in poetry, but with knowledge and panache. He is not unkind but few would grant him that title. He dislikes those who put on airs, dislikes religious intolerance, and hates anyone who is racist against him. He also hates Russians and Koreans. A man of deep faith, he can often be heard praying sutras to various Buddhas, as he freely combines what he learned while a member of the Shinsengumi. His preference is for the Amithaba Buddha and on the Shinto side, Hachiman, Fujin, and Bishamonten. Sometimes, he prays to Inari for his rice wine to be better. A good drink is hard to find in a place as desolate as America.
Background: Ichigo's background is anything but certain. Several things are known about him: he was 14 when he joined the Shinsengumi. He was 15 when the last Tokugawa was forced from power and Mutsuhito, the Meiji Emperor, took control of the country. At 17, he left the country. Those ages do not fluctuate, but the years do. Since 1872, he served the Emperor Norton directly. Since the Emperor's death in 1880, he has traveled the world on an unknown pay for an unknown benefactor. Those are the facts.

Everything hereafter is hearsay.
 
Supernatural Ties: Absolutely a Hunter, with ties to Vampire and Geist. Contrary to his nickname, he is not a werewolf.
Tone: Darker, grimmer, more tragic is good. Ichigo is designed to be somewhat tragic, though without going full anime.
Bonds: Emperor Norton is his most profound connection. He might have family in Sendai left. The Frenchmen, Pierre LeRoux, is a contact he employs sometimes, particularly in relation to Norton; the man is not sore about Ichigo leaving his service. Finally, the only companion he has kept up with over the years is Saitou Hajime, who sends him coded messages as Fujita Goro, a member of the Imperial police now who fought against the Imperial-loyalist rebellion in Satsuma. He has not divulged his true identity, and those who know it, beyond Pierre, are dead. Perhaps.
Motivations: Little motivates Ichigo, and that is his greatest flaw. It is only loyalty to an idea that keeps him going, and the two men who represent that: his father, and his liege, Norton I. They remind him that no matter the cost, the price of one's fate is always whatever one is willing to pay. Honor, loyalty, duty: these are myths. But what one makes of one's self, through their own hand: that is true power. No blood can give that you to. Otherwise, Sotarou Otsuka would not have drowned that day in Sendai. Skill in battle does not a man make. Okita Soji died of consumption, not in glorious battle like their commanders. Pierre LeRoux pays for the services of others in gaining him a profit: he relies on others. Self-reliance is not necessary, but in building one's destiny, it is essential.
Avatar: Tatsuya Nakadai, circa Hara-Kiri
Misc.: A hundred times, this. And this. And this. And this. And this. And this.
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Old Aug 17th, 2016, 07:35 PM
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Old fashioned with Scotch
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All along the Watchtower
Name: Mercy Logan Marlowe; 雷风 (Lιi Fēng)
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Occupation: Ethnologue, Archaeologist, Explorer;
Nationality: Scottish (by way of Hong Kong);
Birth date: 20 August 1858;
Religion: Ha. Haha. Ahahahaha;
Description: Mercy is a wee Scottish-Chinese lass. Black of hair, slender and short, she's lithe and quick on her feet. Normally she'd be wearing the most efficient clothing available: leather waistcoat, black trousers and leggings, and a pair of wellies. On the rare formal occasion she will wear a buttoned jacket that looks like a Royal Navy officer's uniform and the black and red tartan over it. At a glace, the clothing is entirely Western, but upon closer inspection the brass buttons on the waistcoat have the Chinese logo of Marlowe's, the Noble House of Hong Kong. The belt buckle - possibly the most expensive item in her possession - is the Scottish Unicorn opposite the Chinese dragon, the symbol of Marlowe & Co., Ltd. But, most appropriately, it also represents her heritage.

One of most striking feature is the revolver at her waist. One might not assume this wisp of a woman could use that weapon, but with a Navy officer turned opium smuggler for a father, Mercy learned soon enough how to wield a revolver and other firearms. Turns out, the girl has a talent for it and she quickly mastered the quick draw. Currently, she favours the .45 Smith & Wesson Schofield.

Mercy is caught between two worlds. She was born in Hong Kong and is half Chinese, but she reveres her Scottish father and his world. While she was shielded from hate and discrimination for most of her childhood, thanks to her father's influence and the extended family that was Marlowe's, there was no hiding who she was. Even at a cursory glance, no one would mistake her for a wee lass from Paisley. She clearly looked Chinese, but bribes to the local government and the influence of the Noble House ensured that, for all intents and purposes, she was legally Scottish. At least in Hong Kong. That position would be harder to defend in the old country. To his credit, Ross Marlowe did believe that his daughter would one day see a more tolerant age in the Empire. He, however, would not live to see that day.

The most Scottish thing about Mercy is her accent. Due to her education (the finest money could bribe buy in Hong Kong), she is sometimes confused for English by those with no ear for accents - and this infuriates her the most. And, in fact, the angrier she gets, or the more excited she gets, the more Scottish she sounds.

Background:
 


 

Supernatural Ties: She is a Warlock of the Free Circle (at this stage, still referred to as the Nameless Order).
Tone: Mercy is a brilliant mind. Just shy of being called a genius. But under no circumstances is she the stereotypical absent-minded bookworm. She is grounded and serious. Attentive. While she is prone to pursue several thoughts at once, she does so quietly and in her mind. It's usually in writing that her chaotic mind unleashes itself.
Furthermore, she is quintessentially Scottish, but she is also Chinese. While she grew up in a proper Scottish Presbyterian home, she doesn't take religion seriously, she scoffs at Oriental spirituality or Western dogma, and she puts her faith in Science. But she acknowledges the two cultures that she was born to, and she holds them dear.
She's liable to use quotes more often than her original thoughts, at least in spoken language. Latin, Greek or anything she's read recently. She is an avid reader.
Bonds: Whether she likes it or not, she is a Marlowe. And secretly, she wishes to become Tai-pan of the Noble House.
Motivations: She is driven to discover. A consummate explorer. While this may come into conflict with her more domestic ambitions, she is driven to find that which no one has found before. Her research into the Watchtowers and Atlantis comprise her supernatural curriculum, but she also seeks knowledge in ethnology and the study of Eastern and, more recently, Mesoamerican cultures, particularly the Maya.
In her heart of hearts, she wants to make her father proud. She does not believe in an afterlife, but she does believe that doing what her father, Ross Marlowe, would have approved of is enough to mean she has earned his favour, even in death.
Misc.: Themesong: All along the Watchtower
Avatar: Lucy Liu. Because Eurasian characters with freckles are hard to find, and I didn't want to cast Emma Stone. Also, Lucy Liu is awesome.
Attached Files
File Type: pdf Mercy Marlowe.pdf (2.66 MB, 83 views)

Last edited by Frostburn; Aug 23rd, 2016 at 02:56 AM.
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Old Aug 17th, 2016, 07:40 PM
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Ye Olde Application of Character
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Legal Name: Princess Anastasia Norton
Church Name: Sister Mary Pax
Age: 25
Gender: Female
Nationality: White American
Religion: Cathoic

Description: What is a nun beneath her habit? Many wonder, few ever find out. And some pray they never do. On the outside, Sister Mary Pax appears like any other nun of her order; austere, saintly and clad in the traditional black and white habit of a Nun of the Holy Catholic Church. The heavy cotton habit hides much more of her than her worldly appearance. It hides her Purpose.

Once, ten years ago in fact, she would have been seen running around the church garden with a number of young women being fostered at the convent in San Francisco, golden haired and care free. She may have once enjoyed bright colors and the beauty of life. But something happened. She saw something that shook her world and sent her diving into the warm embrace of her faith. She never told her father or mother what made her seek the life of a nun, to forego all worldly possessions and pleasures, she couldn't tell them. They wouldn't understand. Once you stare into the eyes of Satan, you either join him or you strive to drive him from the world. And so the next time she saw her patents, it was in a habit to say goodbye to her earthly family and to join the family of God.

Fanatically religious to a fault and paranoid, Sister Mary Pax's drive to rid the world of sin caught the attention of a group of Catholic priests. Her determination secured her a place in their holy covenant eventually, the first woman to join their ranks. With them she learned to wage holy warfare against the forces of darkness. She always tries to better herself, prove herself worthy to the leaders of the group, prove that a woman can be just as good at their job as a man, but she still earns a quarter what the men do in salary and enjoys no formal title in the group save the playful moniker: Sister Mary Guns, the crazy nun. It became well known that when she was on the warpath, she was crazier than a mad Injun.

The hunters she works with attributed her Craziness and paranoia to the event that made her want to hunt the darkness. After all, it's not perfectly sane to go monster hunting with naught but a few stakes, holy water, a rosary, and a revolver with silver bullets.

Background: Growing up, Princess knew her mother and father were not properly wed. Her earliest memories were of sleeping on a dirty cot in her father's apartment while her mother was away doing "business" in the evening. She knew papa hadn't meant to become a father, or wanted to, but he was still a decent father to her. However, his job drew him to the pub nightly as he "talked politics" with the other Californians. And soon neither had the time for Princess. Thank god they both had wits to see it and instead of neglecting her, they took her to the convent to be raised right.

The nuns took her in and housed Princess with the other girls they were watching. However they refused to call her Princess, instead calling her by her middle name, Anastasia or Anna for short. She missed her parents horribly as she lived at the convent, but she couldn't say she was unhappy. She received three meals a day, and though she would have argued the point then, received an excellent education, and most importantly, a home. True, the nuns were strict, making the girls work when they weren't studying and standing over them while they recited their prayers and rosaries, but it wasn't as bad as the orphanages.

In time, Princess even began to like it there. She saw her mother on Wednesday evenings for about an hour and her father on Saturday mornings. He still called her Princess, despite what the nuns recommended and told her she would be Empress of the United States one day. She would laugh and call him silly. She never seriously thought about it.

This tradition continued until her fifteenth birthday. She had snuck from her room late one night with another girl to run about the garden after curfew. They giggled and pretended that they were wild Indians from the plains. It was all in good fun until her friend, a younger girl by five years named Rachel, ran into something strange. At first they thought it was a strangely lifelike sculpture, a beautiful man with haunting eyes. He didn't blink or move or breathe. Then, like lightning, his arms wrapped around the young girl in a tight hold that no amount of kicking and screaming could break. The girl screamed. Princess screamed and then the man lowered his mouth to Rachel's neck and sickly began to drink her blood.

Princess had heard of demons, but she never expected one in the garden. But the fact was, though the garden was part of the church, it wasn't holy ground. The Sisters of the convent always told them to run from sin and if you ever see a demon or a witch, run from it too. Princess didn't listen. She grabbed the nearest thing that she could use to beat the demon away. A branch, sharply pointed on one end from where it had broken away from one of the trees in the garden. With a shrill scream, she plunged the sharp end of the stick into the attackers back. With a cry he dropped Rachel and rounded on Princess. The man's eyes were soulless and in the instant between when they locked eyes and when the man collapsed unmoving, she felt like she was looking into the eyes of Lucifer. Then the demon crumpled over Rachel's motionless body, equally motionless. It was too late for her friend.

And then the reality of what she had done hit her. Her hands started shaking and she gazed down at the thing she had just killed. And then she screamed until Father Bartholomew and the Sisters of the convent game running out with the fostered girls in toe, all still in their night gowns - or night shirt in the case of the Father. The Sister took her away sobbing and screaming to one of the chambers of the church where they gave her tea and prayed over her until she had calmed down to some form of rationality. They called her brave and courageous. She felt like none of those things. She felt afraid and grief stricken. Rachel was dead. The demon was dead. She should have been faster. Or she should have run for the church, she wasn't sure which sounded better to her right then.

That night she asked not to see either of her parents for a while, disturbed as she was by what happened in the garden. It reminded her of another event in a garden, except instead of cutting off an ear as the disciple Peter had, she had taken a life. Yes it had been a demon, but was judgement not the domain of God Almighty alone? She felt wrong and dirty. No amount of rosary prayers could soothe her soul.

For weeks she avoided everyone. Spoke to no one. She was called a hero, a saint, by the other foster girls. It was two full months before she could bring herself to speak to anyone. And when she did, it was to the Mother Superior. And it was to ask to take her vows. At first the Mother Superior and sisters tried to talk her out of it. They said she was young, she should consider getting married and having children before the life of service to the church. But nothing could sway her. Another week later and she was meeting her parents for the last time, this time clad in black and white. Her mother cried and her father looked somber.

"If this is the best way to keep my Princess safe, then so be it," he said as he hugged her one final time. "You'll get an Empress yet, my girl."

Princess didn't cry but she left the room and went straight for the Chapel to take her vows to the church.

For five years she continued to serve under her new, and slightly ironic name, Sister Mary Pax. It was ironic because even in her quiet and simple life, she had no Pax. She had no peace. She was restless, and it did not go unnoticed. One day, just before her twentieth birthday, Father Bartholomew called her to his office. "What troubles you, Sister Mary Pax?" he asked softly.

"I can't stop thinking about that night, Father. I need to move, to do something. I can't just sit here while the most foul of Satan's legions roam our city. I do not feel at peace. I feel Rachel's soul burdening mine, calling for vengeance, but I feel powerless."

The Father nodded, his expression grave. "There... may be something you can do. I can write a letter of recommendation for you, but I want you to know that they have never accepted a woman into their fold. Not even a pious one. However they may make an exception for you, not even twenty and you've already survived on your own against the darkness."

"But I'm not alone, Father. Not so long as I have the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost with me, no weapon of man or hell can stand against me."

Father Bartholomew smiled knowingly, "And that is why I'm going recommend you to the Libero Sanctum."

"I'm sorry, Father, the what?"

"The Libero Sanctum. You'll see."

And so he bade her to wait. And wait she did, for four months. The wait had been long enough that she had almost forgotten about the unknown group Father Bartholomew recommended. Sister Mary Pax was inspecting ancient hymnals for new deterioration when a priest she hadn't met before came into the sanctuary asking for her. He looked at her with surprise. She didn't look tough or powerful or experienced, but she came recommended.

"Father Bartholomew says you've staked a vampire, what was it? Five years ago? What were you? Twelve?"

"Fifteen, sir. I don't think I have the pleasure of your acquaintance?" She replied politely.

"She, I apologize. Father Matthew Raymond."

She looked him up and down, he couldn't have been more than twenty five, quite young for a priest. Then she remembered father Bartholomew's recommendation and she nodded politely at him. "Libero Sanctum, the Free Sanctum wasn't it? I'm not familiar with your group sir."

He walked around one of the pews and came to stand before her, looking her in the eye. "Most never hear about us and many more never want to meet us. We are the hunters. We find and carry out God's justice. The forces of darkness fear us. And you are to join our ranks? No woman ever has. Most couldn't take care of a Vampire like you did as barely a child. It won't be easy. Training will be rigorous. Our biggest asset is being unassuming. And let me just say, if you turn out to be half as good as Father Bartholomew thinks you'll be, no witch or beast of hell will see you coming."

Sister Mary Pax returned his look with one of awe and determination. "I won't let you down, Father." That night she packed her meager possessions and was on a coach with Father Matthew to a church in Ogden, Utah a small rail road town under the leadership of Father Lawrence Scanlan. This was the hidden training facility for the Pacific region hunters and it was where Sister Mary Pax spent the next three years training to slay the forces of darkness.

Father Matthew had been quite serious when he said the training was hard work. The men didn't slow down when hem of her habit caught at her feet or when any other female related issues hampered her ability to keep up. She eventually traded her comfortable slippers for the boots favored by the men, hemmed her skirts a few inches shorter than proper (they would have showed off her ankles if not for the boots she wore) and wore loose trousers under her habit. She had had to re-engineer that too so that it had slit in the seam concealed from a casual glance. In truth, Vampires and other strange creatures rarely stood still when a lady told them to stop in the name of God, and so she would need to run after those creatures.

She beat the odds and the expectations by graduating her training in Utah and soon was sent home to San Francisco to operate with the hunters in the area. She exceeded expectations. Though as good as she was, her stipend from the church was a quarter what the men earned. As such, her equipment was always older, though she kept it all in good condition.

January 8, 1880... it was a normal day and Sister Mary Pax was cleaning the front steps of Old St. Mary's Church at Dupont and California when a familiar figure came marching down the road. It was her father. She stopped her work to watch him pass, wondering if he would recognize her. He stopped suddenly and she wondered if he had seen her. She found herself a little excited and descended a few steps about to call out to him. And the he fell. She dropped her broom and ran down the stairs even as a police man ran to the fallen "monarch". It was the last time she saw her father alive. She sat with him, praying as the police man went to find a carriage to take Joshua Norton to the hospital. Despite her prayers and faith, he died on the side walk. As the carriage carried him away and the crowd disbursed, she whispered to the now quiet street, "Hail Empress Anastasia Norton..." she shed a silent tear and climbed the steps back up to the church.

Supernatural Ties: She has witnessed an attack by a Vampire and has since become a Hunter, but this by no means is representative of her knowledge of the supernatural. She has a rather black and white view piling supernaturals either into the category of Witch or Demon, though she's probably never actually seen a real demon to her knowledge.
Tone: She's a bit crazy, a religious zealot, but I'd like to see her learn that not all supernaturals are bad. I could actually see her going Geist at some point in the narrative, probably further down line.
Bonds: The church, her family, her gun. I think it would be interesting if Rachel was resurrected by something (vampire, demon, Geist, what have you...) that would shatter her reality pretty intensely, probably more so than her father "coming back from the dead".
Motivations: Her long term goal is pretty ostentatious at this point. She wants to rid the world of the forces of darkness (fat chance), her short term goals by comparison seem rather petty: fair representation in the Libero Sanctum, equal stipends, better hunting equipment, to find out why a man she had watched die is sending her letters... more sure to come.
Misc.: Listening to Spotify as we speak for musical inspiration. Music so far: Vengeance and Don't get in my Way by Zack Hemsey. The Arena by Lindley Stirling.


 


Attached Files
File Type: pdf Sister Mary Pax Final.pdf (3.03 MB, 82 views)
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Last edited by ArionNaomi; Sep 3rd, 2016 at 09:56 AM.
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Old Aug 17th, 2016, 10:03 PM
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Peace was never an option
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Ye Olde Character ApplicationeName: Declan O'Toole
Age:24
Gender: Male
Nationality: Irish
Religion: Irish Catholic
Description:
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Alan Tudyk
A young irishman of stout physical stature with perfect teeth and a muscular build.
 


Supernatural Ties: Declan is tied to the Summer Court of the Fey as he has been was taken by the Fairest and changed into something of Draconic origins.
Tone: Angry and Cynical but he has the Irish light hearted humor. Maybe I mix between Spike and the Flannery brothers.
Bonds: The Summer Court, he has tried to forget his fey heritage as much as possible but is loyal to the Court and has been known to serve them from time to time.
Motivations: He is pissed but the problem is the person he is angry at is Satan so whatever he can do to give the devil his due he is all for. He is kind hearted underneath a very rough exterior. He also is a very big fan of whiskey.
Misc.: He plays the fiddle A LOT. Its kinda his thing so he will pretty much be playing tons of this kind of music when he's not drinking and fighting.
Attached Files
File Type: pdf Declan O'Toolepdf.pdf (2.02 MB, 73 views)

Last edited by Avner; Sep 8th, 2016 at 10:16 PM.
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Old Aug 18th, 2016, 08:21 PM
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The Last Wolf of Nubia
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Name: Sese Redja "Red" Nekubo
Age: Get real I am black and it's the 1880's. Nobody knows.
Gender: A manly man. No seriously, male.
Nationality: Nubian
Religion: Bah I am Uratha, I do not believe I know what is and what isn't. The rest is for the cattle.

Description: "Jizus Christ bouy, dat no place fer a neegro." That's how Red was usually greeted as he roamed the south in the aftermath of the civil war. Those who'd heard the stories knew better than to mouth off like that, lest be picking themselves off the floor, but it was a big country, and obliviousness tends to go hand-in-hand with racism. Facts be facts, Redja was not your average freedman in the south. Yes, african descendants, particularly Nubians, were big fellas and of strong build, but he was something else entirely. More beast than man they said. A monster they said. They had no idea.

With Red standing just shy of the 2 meter mark, equipped with lean muscles and a fearsome gaze, the statement is well placed indeed. He usually shaves both his head and facial hair although he can be seen wearing an extended goatee now and again. He is leaning on loose clothing in hues of black, dark brown or cypress green, capable of both blending in with his surroundings and offering a certain degree of comfort. Roper-style boots, belt and a worn out boss of the plains to top off his unique style. He does favor a set of old round sunglasses, and he's never seen without his hatchet or his large bowie knife, it's handle engraved with a strange-looking symbol vaguely resembling an eye. His body and part of his face is heavily scarred yet some cuts seem to form patterns almost ritualistic in nature.

It's common sense that, when you see a large man with an axe on his belt and an animalistic temperament, you best stay away. Thing is, curiously enough, that wasn't always the case. Hate run deep in the South and thus, Red's preferable method of resolving the frequent "misunderstandings" a black man challenging the local stereotypes will undoubtedly endure, involved a direct and no less violent, approach. Even while he served in the National Park Rangers, not once did he draw his '73 Colt Single Action Army. Hearsay testimonies spread as a result, claiming that even if he did, he wouldn't know what to do with it. Such tattler had the habit of attracting unwanted attention, yet mostly amongst the drunk or the foolhardy, willing to overlook his figure, or the less widespread -in San Francisco that is- and far more disturbing rumor on how he got to be nicknamed "Red". In any case one could falsely assume retribution would be loud, full of cursing, spitting and screaming as per usual, yet the case was far from it. It was instead, quiet, swift, clean and efficient. Never did the same man insult him twice. Many would just disappear soon afterwards with no-one caring cause, let's face it, it is the West. There was at least one case of a man that lashed out against him to end up a week later brutally dismembered in the woods. Apparently Red was put under investigation and released from service, yet the results were inconclusive. They ended up blaming a grizzly instead. On the bright side, they did take his revolver away. One less thing to worry about.

Red will almost solely use his Hishu form inside city limits, and will rely on Urhan or Urshul, only during the Siskur-Dah or while roaming the wilderness of the many national parks nearby San Francisco. He has been known to use his Dalu form in cases of emergency even within the limits of human civilization, yet it does make an impression, and he will preferably avoid such attention if he can manage to do so, since in his Dalu, he is a fearsome sight to behold indeed.

 


Supernatural Ties: Werewolf obviously, spirits, the Ridden and the Claimed.
Tone: Nubian ex-slave, born in Africa, brought to America, former Union soldier and current freedman. Holds a serious grudge against slave owners and their supporters in the south. The silent type all around tough, macho, on the Native American side wild wild west kind of guy, with a sense of sarcasm to boot. Despite appearances however, a reliable, loyal and honorable individual. A man of his word. He has a rather longer fuse one would expect of an individual of his reputation, yet once lit, it goes out in a bang. He strives to keep the balance between the man and the beast within, the gift of his people and his motherland.
Motivation: Red takes the Hunt very seriously. He believes the People are striving to keep a decaying world balanced and they are losing the fight. He wants to do more, to be better to be stronger, to be smarter. For the People, for the pack, for himself. He needs the win. To succeed. If he doesn't he will tirelessly keep trying until he does. At the same time he frequently bathes in the desire to make slavery supporters disappear of this earth. It's a remnant of his lost humanity, his anchor to the flesh. He occasionally indulges that wish. Skolis-Ur is his guide in all things that matter. He secretly loathes and loves the beast within. He believes it to be pure, cleaner than human ever was. He often dreems of visiting Africa, the land of his forefathers once more before he passes.
Bonds: His army buddies are either gone or lost across the continent. He never was particularly close with any of them. Most if his fellow Buffalo Soldiers are still stationed in Sierra Nevada and the local Park Rangers are mostly white Southerners who dislike Red at best. His sole connection is the pack and it's periphery. Morgan naturally, the wolf-blooded Zitkala and Morgan's cousin; Jaquann Fields the mortal biracial son of the white witch from New Orleans and Fluff alert!Mr Zhang, a Chinese physician who owns a business practicing traditional medicine in Chinatown, and who has no idea who or what Red really is. Emperor Norton he knows mostly by name and reputation, although he did have drinks with the man on at least one occasion, by merit of the Emperor's friendship with Morgan.
Avatar: Peter Mensah. Art is from Spartacus.
Misc: Hell on Wheels opening theme, Ennio Morricone in The Hateful Eight, and A Fistful of Dollars. Also this and of course this.
.

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Attached Files
File Type: pdf Red.pdf (3.00 MB, 99 views)
File Type: pdf Pack.pdf (1.44 MB, 52 views)

Last edited by Xber; Sep 2nd, 2016 at 05:41 PM.
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Old Aug 19th, 2016, 04:20 AM
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Irraka, Hunters in Darkness
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Tom Hardy being Awesome

Name: Morgan Harris
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Nationality: American
Religion: "I tried prayin' to God, once upon a time. Then I learned that we ain't seein' eye-to-eye on things. So I stopped prayin'. Best decision I ever made."

Description: Physically, Morgan appears much like any frontiersman. He is burly, tough, and has never been clean-shaven since the stubble of his chin started to grow in. Sure, he might trim his facial hair once in a while, but he'll die before he exposes his shaven throat to anyone. Morgan Harris detests the idea of dressing up, and while he isn't happy in rags, either, he is not a man fit for high society. Grace and elegance need only apply during the Hunt.

Mentally, Morgan is poorly educated, possessive, and territorial. He'll give permission aplenty to those who ask him for it-- he's (probably) more than some gruff, barking savage-- but he strongly resents those who take or impose without asking, and he is highly attuned to personal space and property. To "outsiders", Morgan can come across as snippish, grim, cold, and intense. While he is certainly these things in spades, it is merely one side of him.

To the few beings that Morgan recognizes as non-mortal-- and not enemies-- he can be a boisterous companion. While he never truly lets down his guard, he clearly considers himself leagues above mere mortals, and any other being like him automatically deserves respect for being better than the common rabble. Gender, ethnicity, political affiliation, or creed be damned-- if you aren't entirely human or trying to do harm unto him, you might as well be a friend. For better or worse, friends usually end up with dead rabbits delivered to the foot of their bed. For breakfast. Because he cares about knowing where you sleep, and he wants to make sure that you know that.

Background: Morgan has lived a complicated life, even without the added complications of being immersed in the supernatural world. The Harris family burned brightly and quickly. Morgan's parents met during the Rush of 49, wed, and had Morgan in 51. Unlike the veritable horde of prospectors seeking gold in the hills, Morgan's mother made her own small fortune by opening up a boarding house to take advantage of the influx of fortune-seekers. This is how she met Morgan's father, who sold mining and prospecting equipment (after buying it up from everyone else before the rush became national news), and the two entrepreneurs made not-insignificant profits off the prospectors.

Eventually the gold ran out, leaving behind nothing but desperate men with little to their names but despair, anger, envy, and mining tools. It is no surprise that criminal acts surged as desperation and shattered hopes took root. A fire in 65 claimed Morgan's parents-- or so he believes. However, soon after, the young man learned that he was something more than human, and the journal of his father, pulled from a safe that endured the fire, revealed more than Morgan could comprehend. At least before his first Change, his first Hunt.

Morgan remained in the California frontier, often falling in with unsavory individuals, especially right after this "Civil War" thing ended, but he rarely stayed with any group for very long. He really only cared about making enough money to be able to piss it away on women-- it was damn well impossible for him to get drunk, and he preferred sleeping outdoors to the foul dens most humans piled into.

Times change, as ever, especially the day that he received a letter from San Francisco. His paternal uncle died, and Morgan was named as a beneficiary in the man's will. Not one to pass up easy gains, Morgan headed to the city and received his inheritance. A monetary pittance, it would do little to change the course of his life. That improvement would come in the form of his cousin, a Wolf-Blooded well-learned in the ways of the Uratha, and son to Morgan's uncle. Morgan first learned what he-- and his father-- was by the shorthand comments in a damaged journal. His cousin knew everything and had a heavy hand in steering Morgan toward the werewolf he needed to be.

Morgan has been living in San Francisco ever since. It's been eight years of relative peace and quiet. The city isn't the frontier, even if it does have an active Uratha sneaking through its streets. Of course, ending up as good friends with the Emperor of the United States was an added luxury.

Supernatural Ties: Despite being an Uratha born to a Wolf-Blooded parent, Morgan has a little bit of influence from... something else. Specifically, his mother was a Beast, a being with a soul of something very old and very powerful, and it was the manifestation of a "Hero" that led to the apparent death of Morgan's parents. As a result, Morgan is particularly fond of setting up labyrinths to trap his prey within.

During his time in San Francisco, Morgan has bumped into a few cute and adorable (by his reckoning) critters that seem to think that they are bigger and scarier than he is. Of course, there's a big difference between a Changeling that happens to look like a wolf and an Uratha; Morgan doesn't particularly care how these "Changelings" think of him so long as they respect the bounds of his hunting grounds. If they're nice, he might even invite them along on a hunt or two, to show them how a real wolf hunts.

Tone: Bleak, gallows humor. Dark, but balanced by jolts of levity. Psychological horror is a must here.

Bonds: Morgan has formed a small pack in San Francisco, composed principly of his Wolf-Blooded cousin (who is quite jealous that Morgan was the one to experience the Change), and another Uratha named Red. Until the death of the Emperor of the United States, Morgan considered himself one of the man's many friends. A Beastkin Changeling by the name of Elov Isakson was taken under Morgan's wing, recently. Morgan finds it adorable that the pup things he knows what its like to hunt, and he has been trying to convince Elov to accompany him on the Siskur-Dah for months now.

Motivations: What is the difference between a man, an animal, and a monster? Learn that, then discover if those things are mutually exclusive.

Misc.: There is so much I could add here. Frankly, there's too much, so I'll leave you with this.

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Last edited by GeoAvanti; Aug 30th, 2016 at 07:00 PM.
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Old Aug 30th, 2016, 02:39 PM
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The Pack
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Uratha
Morgan Harris, Hunters in Darkness Irraka.

Sese Redja "Red" Nekubo, Storm Lords Rahu.

Supporting Cast
 


 
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