Odin's Sheets

[Mr Odin]

Some of Odin's Characters, active and retired are listed below.

- - - Updated - - -

"Shattered Lines The Expansion"

Dead Thread

Name: Jonathan “JD” Maddox

Race: Human (soon to be Dragonkin)

Gender: Male

Age: 37

General Description: JD is a fit man and has been most of his life. He ran a marathon once, in order to check it off his list of things to do and promptly vowed to never do it again. Other than that he eats well, hits the gym five days a week, cross fit or running most of the time, and spends a great deal of time hiking and kayaking. He carries himself upright, confident, and proud, something he learned from the Marines. At a solid 5’ 11” and roughly 195 he typically can be a bit intimidating but has an affable and good natured, hospitable demeanor that shows little of the temper he has been known to have, a temper he exerts great control over. At around twenty eight the receding hairline that is the hallmark of the men in his family began to affect JD so to avoid it he began to shave his head clean every week and he also keeps the hair on his face to nothing more than three day stubble. His eyes are green, nose trim but slightly off center due to an early life bar fight, and his ears are just a little too big… he is not exactly comely but there are worse faces in the world.

Education/skills: JD, an avid outdoors man, has focused on academic and career pursuits that would put him outside, free from the confines of the cubicle crucible. He entered the Active Duty Marine Corps with a high school education, served as an infantryman for six years and through the TA program earned a B.S. in Conservation Biology from the University of Phoenix. After completing his degree he dropped from the active force into the Marine Corps Reserve to be closer to home and pursue a career as a game warden for the state of Pennsylvania. His time in the military and as a law enforcement officer with the PA game commission has left him with a wide knowledge of outdoor skills such as survival measures, weather effects, biology, ecosystems, wildlife identification, botany, hunting, tracking, and trapping. His time as a law enforcement officer and military member (20 years) has equipped him with a solid knowledge of weapons handling, marksmanship, verbal skills, conflict resolution, leadership techniques, investigative tactics, and communication skills.

Weapons/equipment: At the start of this saga JD will be out in the woods discharging his duties as a game warden. It being December, he will be wearing a well worn set of Danner temperate RAT boots, good wool socks, and 5.11 winter insulted under-layer garments under a game commission winter uniform. The uniform consists of dark green law enforcement poly-wool trousers and long sleeved dark green poly wool shirt with the state game commission patch on the left shoulder, regional patch on the right, and last name stitched above left breast pocket. A commission parka, dark green in color, with a heavy hood, and with the same markings as the shirt it is worn over the torso. A black watch cap covers his shaved head and hatch winter law enforcement gloves keep his hands warm on patrol.

Being as he is on duty he will have a duty belt with a surefire flashlight in a holder on the left-front of the belt, his personal phone in his left front trouser pocket, a police radio held on the back-right hip clip of the belt with a transmitter pulled across his back and over his left shoulder hooked to the parka’s lapel, a write in the rain notebook in his right front trouser pocket, two sets of handcuffs in a holder center-rear of the duty belt, hotshot taser in cross draw holster on his left side, bear spray canister next to the handcuffs on his left-back hip next to his SOG multi-tool, and the entire right-front hip of the belt will be taken up by his duty weapon, holster, and two extra magazines. The duty weapon JD carries is a standard Glock 23 Gen4 chamber in .40S&W, standard load out is three, 13 round magazines, one in the weapon and two on the belt.

Being a prudent outdoors man JD also carries a buck series hunting knife attached to the small day pack he carries while patrolling the woods. The pack also contains a single days worth of trail food, 20 feet of nylon rope and 5 carabineers, a local map & compass, fire starting material, a half full hydration system and one set of extra gloves and socks.

History: JD grew up on Air Force bases his whole life and traveled throughout the country when he was coming up. During his childhood he was part of the typical middle class military family, was loved, encouraged, and disciplined at all the right times. He got the opportunity to see all the landscapes of North America from the eastern coast at Shaw AFB, to the frozen Midwest at Minot AFB and everything in between. JD became an avid outdoor enthusiast, hunter, hiker, and camper. After high school JD let a Marine Corp recruiter convince him the Marines would let him spend all the time he wanted outside hiking as long as he joined the infantry. After six years on active duty JD spent plenty of time outside, hiking and wallowing in some of the most inhospitable and miserable places but he enjoyed the majority of it. During his time on the Active side of the house JD took advantage of Uncle Sam’s college program and earned a B.S. in conservation biology before dropping to the Reserve side of the house where he has served in PA as a Platoon Sergeant and Company Gunny, one weekend a month, two weeks a year, ever since. His civilian job ever since leaving the Active military has been with the PA game commission as a wildlife conservation officer or game warden. It is a job he has enjoyed very much and considers himself very good at.

[Mr Odin]

"Frontier Salvage Company"

Dead Thread

Real Name: Devon Elemiah

Current Alias: Cameron Ecanus

Former Alias's: Samson Azazel, Carson Dumah, Markos Harut, and Devon Raziel


Age: 38


Appearance: The alarm was screaming, or was it the sirens from last night still ringing in his head. Cameron rolled over, the cheap bedding of the coffin hotel crinkling like the overused plastic that it was. Blue digits from the alarm holograph projected onto the wall over an unidentifiable stain were the only thing that flashed within his field of vision in the dark ten by ten room; yep, just an alarm... thank God for small miracles. Cameron slid from the bed and towards the mirror mounted above the toilet only a foot and a half from the bed, the ceiling only eight inches above his head. He looked in the mirror as he relieved the morning pressure on his bladder while simultaneously choking down the draining the three fingers of hooch left in the bottle sitting on the counter next to the toilet. Looking back at him in the mirror was a handsome man, or what could have been a handsome man is he had had the proper upbringing. His head was bald and across its left side two deep horizontal scars ran from just behind his ear, up and over his head, stopping above his left eye. His eyes were green and set deeper into his skull, his nose was wide and at one time may have been proportioned but it had been smashed and healed more than once, distorting its natural shape. His mouth was a bit wide his lips edging on thin and his chin was covered by a gray hair trimmed to a point. His body was in as much shape as a man's could be when he was near forty and lived off of soy paste, liquor, and five hours of sleep a night.

Cameron finished his morning business setting the empty bottle down and zipping up the same black mechanic pants he had slept in. He kicked the toilet with heavy steel lined boots making the commode rotate up and back, towards the wall, starting the flush mechanism while the merry-go-round of hygiene that passed for a bathroom presented a sink next. He washed his face with heavy, calloused hands and then slipped on a new black tank top from his pack, put on his leather hooded jacket, sunglasses, and ensured the Ares arms repeater he had was tucked snuggly in his waistband before leaving the coffin hotel with the swipe of a stolen cred stick.

Background: Cameron Ecanus... born Devon Elemiah, though he wouldn't know it even to this day, was born sometime during the year 2705 to a junkie mother and absentee father who were out the picture before he was old enough to string together coherent memories. He was an orphan raised by the Sisters of Light in a rundown home in the lawless Russian slum-sprawl of Vladivostok. Even growing up with the Sister he had been a street urchin, living off of small time grafts, petty thievery, and pandering. By 12 he was a full time child of the streets, abandoning the Sisters and their teachings for the quick fix of the streets. Coming up on the streets had giving Cameron a fierce attitude, a depth of cunning unnatural for someone his age, and enough scars to make a war veteran whistle. By fifteen he was running a small gang of mercenary children that were experts at spying and stealing for the local warlords, cartel leaders, and street bosses. At 17 he got pinched and spent three years in the Ural mines before escaping and moving on to Moscow. Here he got involved with the more organized elements of crime and became a smuggler. At first it was simple things like contraband, drugs, and guns... eventually his skills lead him to be a prime smuggler of people. He had a gift for forging identities and a near sociopathic gift for lying. As always though, those that play with fire get burned, mob bosses double cross, and petty functionaries, Cameron, get greedy.

A space flight to the moon, under an assumed name of Samson Azazel, posing as a construction contractor was how he escaped the mob. This happened after he smuggled himself and four others into the United States via Columbia in a manner that still baffles authorities and is known in the underworld as a "Samson". He spent a year on the moon lying low as this construction worker, learning some of the broader points of space travel and engineering before pressing on to Mars before his cover got too thin. The fact that he was he snagging low level military hardware and files and fencing it to the highest bidder probably was a factor in his cover wearing thin... when looked at in retrospect. From 2726 until 2733 he spent time on Mars; unfortunately five of those years were spent as Markos Harut who was confined to the maximum security Phoebe's prison facility. The charges were corporate espionage and attempted kidnapping. The fact that the corporate CEO's daughter had wanted to elope with Cameron and had just happened to bring along daddy's trade secrets didn't sway the judge; really it wasn't Cameron's fault. Released for good behavior... and maybe whispering a few prison break plots to the right guards, Cameron left Mars for the anonymity of space.

For the past ten years Cameron has drifted between salvage crews as both Cameron Ecanus and Devon Raziel. He is a jack of many trades, a supreme negotiator, and an up and coming salvager. He can pilot smaller single man salvage craft, has no problem with EVA's, has no problem with any kind of cargo, loves money, and has little to no moral compass. As Cameron Ecanus, he has spent the last five years with the Frontier Salvage Company, mainly because they offer the most long haul contracts that keep him far from planet side law and... all things considered, even a space ships accommodations beat a coffin hotel on Terra Firma.

[Mr Odin]

"90s Noir The City's Dying Breath"

Dead Thread

Name: Мотя Каретников “Motya Karetnikov”


Gender: Male


Occupation/Affiliation: Smuggler and aspiring Vor for the Солнцевская братва: “Solntsevskaya Bratva”


Age: 42


Appearance: Long troublesome years have shaped Motya Karetnikov like the wind carves and erodes a cliff side. The brown hair atop his head is splashed through with gray strands, all kept short and neatly trimmed by frequent trips to his friend Uri, a barber on 51st street. In his 42 years Motya has been a sailor, dockworker, and convict and each profession has etched deep lines into the weathered leather of his face, each line a worry contemplated and each furrow a trouble triumphed over. His ears are large, a distinguishing feature, and a bit flat against the sides of his head and his broad nose has been broken and set often enough that the deviation almost looks natural. Motya’s eyes were a striking blue when he was young but the years have faded his eyes to a clouded bluish gray color that seems to patiently observe any surroundings from underneath bushy eyebrows that are the same silvered brown color as his hair. Mr. Karetnikov always seems to have a hand rolled cigarette in a thin lipped mouth that seldom smiles, the corners always drawn slightly down. His solid chin and jaw are perpetually covered in a two days growth of spiky silver facial hair.

Motya is built like a man that has worked or fought his whole life. He is not overly big and at 42 he certainly doesn’t have the toned out gym look that the kids seem to go for these days. His shoulders have slumped a bit with age but have the strength of a life of hard work behind them. His back is straight and despite his age Motya always stands tall, more of a mental conviction to let no one see him broken and slouched. His hands are calloused and pocked by small scars from his life of work and incarceration but he has yet to have any rings tattooed on his fingers despite this same work and incarceration. His body is not devoid of tattoos though.

The back of his right hand is covered by the face of a “puss in boots” style cat. Around the wrists is tattooed a locked and chained manacle on both the right and left arm, the cat indicates he has been a thief that works on his own and the manacles represent 5 years in prison each. His left forearm is covered by a monk, studiously writing in a book with a quill pen and his right forearm has Russian lettering in concentric bands rising from the manacle at his wrist and stopping halfway up his forearm. The monk means he was a pickpocket who was dexterous with a razor, knife, or a sharpened coin. The Russian script represents the facilities he has been incarcerated in. His right shoulder is capped by a spider web with a widow like spider climbing up the web, meaning he is rising in his life as a criminal; the web has 13 rings for the number of years he has been incarcerated. The entirety of Motya’s chest and abdomen are covered by an expansive Orthodox depiction of the Virgin Mary and Christ child in the foreground and an Orthodox church with three domes in the background meaning he has been a criminal since he was a child, the three church domes signify three prison terms. On his back a Tiger stalks across his shoulders showing that Motya has a distinct dislike for and is aggressive towards correctional authorities. His left thigh holds the images of a bleeding dagger locked in a manacle, both his knees are tattooed with stars and his right calf shows the image of the setting sun. The locked dagger indicates he killed while incarcerated, the stars tell all that he bows to no one, and the setting sun represents freedom or an escape attempt.

Clothing: Motya dresses simply. Typically he wears one of the many blue and white stripped sailor tee-shirts he has left from his brief time as a sailor. If not one of these he sticks to tee’s of plain color and durable construction. Over these shirts he typically wears the handmade wool sweaters found at the Ural markets or a black leather jacket so worn that the leather has almost turned a gore red color in places. His slacks are usually durable jeans or the Dickies favored by the dock and warehouse workers. If not wearing a worn pair of Russian paratrooper boots Motya wears the work boots of a shore man. He also keeps a slightly out of date but well kept suit and tie in the small closet aboard his home for any special event but outside of that he hardly wears it. Despite the utilitarian nature of his clothing Motya has one vice when it comes to style, watches. Currently he wears a very nice gold ringed Quai de L’ile that was part of his last smuggling operation.


Weapons: Motya typically carries a Russian Makarov 9X18 everywhere he goes though it is unlicensed and he has no permit for it. As a smuggler and a member of the Bratva, though not a Vor, he has been faced with more than one altercation that would have been infinitely more painful without that weapon. He is not quick to use it though, years in prisons and the reasons he was incarcerated have taught him that a drawn weapon is hardly ever the easiest solution. The Makarov is a semi-auto, double action/single action pistol that holds one magazine of 8 rounds. Motya keeps one extra magazine in the glove compartment of his truck which he will put into a pocket if he thinks the situation merits it and a box of eighty rounds aboard his boat in the North Harbor. When carrying the weapon he keeps it in a pancake holster against the small of his back.

Inventory: Motya carries little else. If needed he would keep a burner cell phone in his front right trouser pocket and the keys to his truck and boat in the left front pocket. He carries a wallet with a driver’s license, varying amounts of cash, and a copy of his dock permit at the harbor in his back right pocket and a silver cigarette tin with twelve of his hand rolled cigarettes in the back left trouser pocket.


Vehicles: Motya owns a faded black 1986 Ford F150. He drives the truck because of his “legitimate work” as a warehouse manager for the Baltic Shipping Company. A tool box across the bed holds a jerry can of gas, flares, tools, pipes, and chains. In the bed of the truck there are a number of wadded up blue and black tarps under a random assortment of lumber and bags of concrete mix. The gear in the truck’s tool box, while seeming legitimate, is more often than not used for arson and assault while the tarps and lumber in the bed conceal a cleverly crafted compartment for smuggling items out of the harbor.

Motya also owns a rum runner style boat that serves as his residence and a method for him to meet ships out at sea and smuggle in cargo to the harbor. Mr. Karetnikov’s constant presence at the harbor, many good friends, and clearance as a warehouse manager for the largest shipping company in the harbor typically gives him unfettered access to the harbor. Though the boat appears to have seen better days Motya has spent nearly every dime he makes to keep it afloat and to make it a smuggling craft along with a home.

History:Мотя Каретников “Motya Karetnikov” was born in 1954 and was one of the last children of the Gulags, which were officially shut down in 1960. He has never known anything of his parents other that his mother was pregnant during her interment at Bopkyta and that when he was born he was taken from her and sent to a special orphanage for Gulag children in Moscow. The Soviet orphanages after Stalin had become more boarding school for wayward youth combining Soviet education with labor programs to produce good Soviet citizens. These are the years that Motya’s distrust for State authority began. Contrary to their propagandized image these boarding school were over crowded dens of abuse and neglect. By 1962 at the age of eight Motya linked up with a group of “gutter children” in Moscow and ran away from the school never to return. Surviving on charity and more often theft, Motya began learning the ways of a pickpocket and a thief and was a nimble fingered child. He lived on the streets of Moscow, squatting in unfinished or unoccupied government housing projects and getting whatever he needed through theft or grift. At the age of 14 in 1968 Motya was plying his trade up and down the streets of Moscow when he picked the pocket of the wrong man.

It had gone swimmingly at first. The well dressed man had a wallet that practically bulged from his back pocket and with the quick slip of a coin sharpened on street corners Motya cut the bottom of the pocket and cupped his hands as the wallet fell into them. As he turned to go, a heavy hand fell onto his small shoulder and looking over, Motya could see the symbolic rings tattooed across the man’s knuckles. He was Vor, a Thief in the Law, Russian Mafia. Motya was terrified, he had heard the stories, and with all the force he could manage he wrenched free from the man’s hand and ran straight into two officers of the State Police force, knocking one over into a trash can. His first incarceration began a few day latter at the Kolpino youth prison, for theft and assaulting an officer of the State, three and a half years. When word of his story got to the young Bratva hopefuls in the prison Motya was immediately inducted into their ranks, tattooed with the bluish prison ink, and served his term in the Kolpino youth prison as part of its fledgling and youthful Bratva.


Released in 1972 at the age of 16, six months were added to his sentence for refusing correctional officers orders; Motya was a young man in between two worlds. He returned to his street child haunts, finding some of his old friends, like Uri Belivka, still alive and part of the life. Particularly he found a girl he had called his sister all his known life, Alina Bogachyov. They had come up in the orphanage together and were truly closer than a brother and sister bound by blood. He was happy to be with her again and happy she had found a group to run with and protect her in Moscow shortly after his incarceration. However, only a few short weeks after his release he and Alina were walking together down a street in Moscow when the two teenagers were approached by a man in a fine suit with heavily tattooed hands. Motya recognized him instantly despite the four years of time that had past, it was the man he had tried to rob before going to prison. At first Motya was terrified that retribution was the order of the day but the man lead them to an extravagant diner that Motya knew was only usually frequented by State officials. There he talked to Motya while a meal finer than any Motya or Alina ever had was served to them free of charge. By the end of the meal this man’s offer was simple he would take Motya under his wing in the real Bratva, not the youth prison gang, and teach him the ways of the Vor. Motya was ready to take the offer until he was told he would have to leave his family, his only family, Alina behind… forsaking her forever for the Bratva and Vor. The meal ended with Motya denying the offer and the man politely paying the bill, and reminding him that though he was not a full Vor, the prison tattoo’s Motya wore made him part of the Bratva, the Brotherhood, there would be work soon.

From 1972 until 1980 Motya, his sister Alina, and the street gang he slowly took charge of ran jobs for the Bratva whenever they needed things done that could not be traced back to the Vor. Arson, assault, robbery, extortion, and anything else the Bratva needed done was to be the prevue of Motya when the Vor came to him. Life went well for those eight years under the employ of that specific branch of the Russian Mafia. The quality of life that Motya, Alina, Uri and his crew enjoyed wasn’t lavish but for street children it was comfortable. In 1980 that changed with the arrival of the Solntsevskaya Bratva in Solntsevo, the neighborhood that Motya was living. A violent upheaval took place in the Bratva, power shifted, Vor were killed, work exploded but became more treacherous and the time between 1980 and 1981 became very chaotic. In 1981, as part of the upheaval, Motya was arrested and sentenced to ten years for arson and assault.

During his time in the Strict Regime Corrective Labor Colony No.4, Obukhovo Settlement, the rising Solntsevskaya Bratva became a large part of Motya’s life. Imprisoned at the same time was a Vor of high standing in the Solntsevskaya Bratva and Motya, over the years, became a trusted enforcer of the Vor’s Law in the Labor Colony. Despite many offers to be inducted as a Vor of the Solntsevskaya Bratva over his years of incarceration Motya always refused unable to leave his little sister Alina. During his time in Colony 4 Motya first killed a man at the direction of the Solntsevskaya Bratva. The man was a Vor, imprisoned for the unapproved murder of another member of the Bratva, and to the leadership inside the prison this was deplorable. Not only was the murder unsanctioned but while imprisoned the man worked with prison officials to make his life easier. This could not be tolerated. While working one day breaking down rocks with sledgehammers Motya swung for the man’s head caving it in like a rotten melon. The murder earned him respect from the Solntsevskaya Vor, four months in solitary isolation, and thirty years added to his sentence.

After his time in solitary Motya made peace with the fact that he would spend the rest of his life in the Russian prison system and for the years 1989 through 1991 he was a feared force within the prison system. He executed the Solntsevskaya Bratva’s will without question, he routinely ignored if not directly hindered prison authority, and was considered the second most powerful man in the Colony, just under the Vor who lead the prisoners. Though resigned to the life of a career prisoner Motya’s life would take a radical turn in the month of December, 1991. During this month two things happened that would change Motya profoundly. First The Soviet Union collapsed and second Alina died.

He had received the letter on the 17th of December 1991, it was written by Uri, a friend from his street gang days. In simple sentences it told him that Alina had died in a street demonstration against the Soviet government. Motya's resolve collapsed in that moment, his soul was crushed. For ten days Motya did not leave his cell, his last connection to anything good, loving, or beautiful in the world was gone. taken by the same system, the Soviet system, that incarcerated him. His shock and depression boiled over into rage by that tenth day and he woke on the 27th of December 1991 and left his cell intending to be the embodiment of righteous violent retribution. What he saw was chaos, a chaos his near comatose depression had insulated him from. The prison was rioting, most of the guards had left, the locks were broken, and people were leaving. Motya made his way outside the confines of the barbed wire for the first time in ten years; all around him prisoners were running, cheering, hugging, and slapping each others backs. Motya caught a glimpse of a front page news paper that drifted by. “Declaration № 142-H of the Soviet Union declares all Republics Free.”

The next five years were a blur. Motya got out of Russia as soon as he could with the help of some of the Bratva who were all too happy to set him up as part of their smuggling operation. He spent three years on shipping vessels crossing the Atlantic hundreds of times as everything from a ships boy to a load master. What he was really doing on those ships though was smuggling loads of guns, people, hashish, and heroin from the Old World to North America. By 1994 Motya disembarked his life on the open sea and became the contact point for the Bratva’s shipping/smuggling organization in Vanitas. While he runs the front of warehouse 19-N on the North harbor as a warehouse manger for the Baltic hipping Company, Motya's main job is to get the illicit cargo from the ships and out into the city.


Motivations/Goals: With his sister’s passing Motya has lost the last connection to the family that kept him from becoming Vor, or a Thief in the Law, the Bratva’s leadership. With that tie gone Motya wants to take his place as Vor in the organization he has been a part of for most of his life. He wants to become a Thief in the Law. Some in the Bratva’s leadership see this as a long time coming for a man of Motya’s background… of the Old World; others think he has been a smuggler too long and he has refused them too often, they say he would not be a beneficial addition to the Vor. On top of this Motya is one of the more respected smugglers in the North Harbor which puts him squarely in the battle between the Bratva and the Vigotelli Family for the harbor district. He must maintain his life, reputation, loyalty, and income by working out of this harbor, all while trying to become a leading member in the Bratva.

[Mr Odin]

"The Ghosts of Golden Gate"

Dead Thread

Character Sheet

Name: Samuel Klein

Age: 46

Appearance: Samuel is an older man with dark skin and brown hair. His hair, wild and unkempt is more often than not hidden under a brown cloth form hat that looks like it could have been used on the set of a Crocodile Dundee movie. His face is sullen and weathered, near a decade of living as one of San Francisco's homeless has eroded away any of the natural joy he carried in his features since his youth. Heavy eyebrows rest above chocolate colored eyes that always seem to be a little blood shot from the hair of the dog that bite him last night. His nose is broad and the entirety of his lower face is covered in a curly beard that is shot through with strands of white. His body once may have been strong but the years have taken their toll. His shoulders are typically slumped under a heavy wool pea coat and the simple backpack he wears looks to weigh on him heavily. His shirts, trousers, shoes, and gloves are of whatever make, color, brand, or quality he can come by as refuse on the streets.

Personality: Samuel was once a jovial college professor focusing on comparative philosophy at San Francisco University. He was always a bit extrinsic even when he was a productive member of society, always concerned with concepts of the afterlife and what it meant to be dead. Despite this he was dependable, erudite, and friendly. In 2001 that all changed. He became a recluse, hardly speaking to anyone on campus but people always heard him speaking in his office and he said the strangest things. He began to be seen drinking almost anytime he was seen outside his office and became hostile towards some people shouting manic things about his understanding of their true nature and capabilities, that he knew what they did. Now after ten years on the street Samuel's manic shouting fits have been calmed by a steady diet of whatever hooch is available. More often than not he seems to be in his own world wherever he is, having quiet conversations with himself that are barely above a whisper.

History: Samuel Klein was born in 1966, a San Francisco native his whole life. He came up in an academic family his father a high school math teacher and his mother an art history professor. His childhood was normal enough, growing up in the middle class suburbs around San Francisco with loving but firm parents lead Samuel to be a well adjusted youth that did well in school, was a high school football star, and was a part of an extensive community network. The only odd part about his young life were troubling nightmares about relatives that had past away, they would visit Samuel at night. Years of being told it was nothing and just a nightmare developed a mental wall in his mind and soon the nightmares where shut away. After high school he went to San Francisco University and was there until 2001. First he studied Philosophy for near a decade becoming a member of the University staff in the philosophy department by 1997. For four years he lectured at San Francisco University and around the nation and in September 2001 he was at NYU as a visiting professor when the attacks on the Twin Towers happened. The flood of death from that event changed Samuel, the mental block he had built by psychological denial was shattered. The world of the living and the world of the dead came crashing together for Samuel and his mind barely remained intact. He returned to San Francisco and began a downward spiral into mania. He stopped lecturing, began drinking heavily to abate vision he couldn't understand, distanced and cut himself off from fellow professors, friends, students, and family. Soon his bills were going unpaid, his department stopped covering for him, he was fired from the University, lost his home, car, life savings, everything. For going on ten years now Samuel has been wandering the streets of San Francisco, quietly mumbling to himself after each sip from a bottle of hooch.

[Mr Odin]

"Zombie Party"
http://roleplayerguild.com/showthrea...ombie-Party-IC

Active

Character Sheet

Name: Dom-Soo Kwon; A.K.A Dominic "The Businessman of Sloevale"

Age: 39

Sex: Male

Appearance:“Dom… Dom… Dominic, Christ! Wake the hell up!” Carter swept aside the ragged sheet metal that served as the door to the room in the shanty brothel that Dom-Soo Kwon, known to most in Sloevale as Dominic, had been seen walking into the night before. The big man pushed his way into the scented hole of a bedroom and was greeted by Dominic who was standing, fastening the last button on the elegant cuff of his shirt while the women he had spent the night with lay wrapped in moth eaten blankets.

“Carter my boy…” Dominic whispered, his heavy Cockney English accent turning the gang enforcers name into something closer to cutter than Carter. “…lower your voice. Now why has the guv'ner let a radio rental chap like you off your leash and sent you to disrupt me on this viddy afternoon?” Dominic examined himself in the room’s only mirror as Carter began explaining his energetic entrance. The polished mirror had long ago lost its luster, the heavy gilded frame was showing the bluish green of tarnish, filth collected in the corners of the glass, and a ragged crack snaked across the lower quarter but even with all its imperfections it still did the job.

Dominic had maintained a handsome appearance long before the world spun around and down the toilet of zombie infestation and all things considered, he felt he still did a pretty good job. His face was structured well, attractive to most, and clearly evidenced his Korean / English breeding. An aquiline nose, smooth defined chin, sharp cheekbones, and deep brown eyes all complimented the perpetual smirk that curved his lips. Dark hair spilled back from his head, fastened and festooned in a menagerie of dreads, braids, and bits that created an interestingly unique profile. His body was thin and lean, naturally ectomorphic; a condition that compounded his lean features and slim but tight muscle mass, especially after the comforts of the world had faded away.

However, just because the comforts of the world had faded did not mean that those with the will could not still find comforts and enjoy them. Dominic had the will and the resources… to say he overdressed for the apocalypse would be an understatement. The boots he wore were square toed and supple leather, as polished and clean as the end of civilization would allow. The Businessman of Sloevale also managed to possess multiple pairs of finely pin-striped trousers that though imbedded with the dust and wear of the end times, were always immaculately tailored. He wore an amazingly white shirt under a marbled blue and gray vest, the chain of a silver pocket watch dangling from the slim pocket line.

As Carter finished his frantic explanation Dominic lifted his coat from the bedside table. A fine cut of cloth and leather with long tails, heavy silvered buttons, and thick black cuffs. He shrugged the coat over his thin shoulders and smiled as the weight rested down on him. His hands reached to the opening of his coat near his sternum and he straightened it on his shoulders with a sharp tug. The color of the coat was the same marbled blue gray as the vest but overlain with the distress of the past eight years, showing in the fading seams and corners which were covered with a dusty white threadbare look.

Happy with his appearance for now Dominic reached into his coat pocket and lifted a half empty pack of cigarettes free and tossed them onto the bed next to the sleeping woman. Without a mention to acceptance of Carter or any other motion to his surroundings he swept past Carter and out of the brothel.


Weapons/Survival tools/Gear:“… and you will leave today.” The tone of voice the boss of the Sloevale gang used brooked no argument from Dominic; he would be traveling to Haven as soon as possible. Dominic uncrossed his legs, his right ankle falling from his left knee; he stood with a slight nod.

“Shiny guv, I’ll get off down to Haven and get that twisted lil’ Mick sort-id if he ain’t already been nicked up by the Sweeny or gone for a Burton.” As Dominic walked out the boss of the Sloevale gang shook his head and looked over to his main enforcer, Carter. Carter looked at the boss and tried to reassure him by saying in a confident manner… “I didn’t understand a single thing he said but he’ll get the job done.”

Dominic walked from the boss’s smoky den and out into daylight to see a trade convoy already lined up and prepped to head out for Haven. He hadn’t had time to run back to his place so he had needed to send a runner off to gather his things. As Dominic was looking over the convoy a young boy, the errand boy he had sent, ran up to him huffing and puffing. “I got it all sir, just like you asked.” The young child beamed a smile at Dominic.

“Did ya now lad, well let’s have a proper gander.” Dominic opened the bag the boy had brought everything in. He first removed a faded leather holster that he promptly affixed to his belt, settling the worn leather onto the side of his right thigh. Next he removed a Model 65 Taurus revolver and slid it into the holster. The boys eyes went wide when he saw the gun, not many people carried guns anymore. What the boy didn’t know is what most people didn’t know, there were only two rounds of .38 special left in the cylinder and Dominic had had a devil of a time finding more and even if he had found more, Dominic couldn’t shoot a fish in a barrel if he tried. The gun served a more subtle purpose, when you had a firearm people assumed you had more ammo, and if you had a gun and lots of ammo you had a serious and powerful bargaining chip. Next the businessman of Sloevale removed a few small knives, switchblades and lock-open models… nothing fancy, and tucked them away into pockets. Dominic rummaged though some food packed in the bottom, a flask, some cigarettes, and all the odds and ends he had asked the boy to gather.

Lastly he looked up to the boy and held out his hand. The ragged looking street urchin handed over an elaborately carved walking stick. The cane itself was made of lacquered black hard wood. The toe was capped in silver filigree and the head was an a small but heavy looking hammer, though a nearly foolish point of style in this day and age, the cane was also functional. With a twist of the hammers head the cane could be drawn away and the remaining center core turned into a rapier like weapon. Though Dominic could not shoot to save his life his upper class English upbringing had taught him how to fence all through his formative years, even attaining three collegiate championships. With the greatest of ease he could slide this blade through a creatures eye socket be they human or zombie.

Dominic looked to the boy and smiled as he took the cane into his right hand. “It appears you may be of some use scamp.” Dominic lifted a note from his pocket, a note of credit from one of the local speakeasies. “Get this along to your old man, your mum, or brothers, let ‘em gets some mother’s ruin on me, tell ‘em it’s a reward for raising a solid young lad...” The boy took the paper and was about to be off when Dominic called out and the child turned. “…and if you ever find yourself in a right old two and eight, tell the bruisers your one of Dominic’s lads and they’ll sort ya’ out right.” With that Dominic gathered his things, tossed the bag onto the lead caravan and hopped in for the ride to Haven.

Personality: Dominic is a man that could sell firewood to someone watching his house burn or even sell ice to an Eskimo. Ever since his youth he has been able to talk, reason, worm, contrive, and weasel his way into or out of any situation. He is charismatic and can often times see right into the heart of people, dissecting their wants, desires, struggles, trials, and tribulations before those people are even aware of what he is doing. His skill with people leads to Dominic carrying himself with an air of supreme confidence and even arrogance at times, which is often twisted by Dominic so that people believe his arrogance is just the kindness of a concerned and benevolent benefactor. He is dreadfully intelligent and well educated and knows the solutions to problems people don’t even know they have. He always comes off approachable and welcoming and if you’re not careful this ultimate devil’s advocate will talk you into willingly and happily giving up your first born child.

History: Dominic was born in one of the 66 houses on The Bishop’s Avenue in London England; a lane better known as “Billionaires Row.” His father was a Korean business man that had invested heavily in Chinese companies that processed rare Earth minerals. When the U.S. and Afghan war drew down and these Chinese companies laid claim to trillions of dollars of mineral rights in the war ravaged country Dominic’s father sold, bought, and managed his way into obscene amounts of money. His father’s company had an office in London and on one of his many trips Dominic’s father met a wealthy London Socialite from an equally wealthy family and the rest, as they say, is high society history. His father moved to London permanently, bought a lavish home, and sired Dominic within the first year of the marriage.

Dominic grew up in the lifestyle of sickening wealth. He was tended to and cared for by his parents and a small army of tutors, nannies, coaches, and teachers. Dominic grew up and attended schools like, The Phoenix House, The Hall, and The Arnold House before moving on to tertiary education at Cambridge University and Oxford. By the Age of twenty-eight Dominic held an MBA from Cambridge with concentrations in Culture, Arts, and Media and a Doctorate from Oxford in Management Research.

The young Dominic was always shying from his father’s industry of industrial mining and manufacturing and enjoyed the more cultural side of high society that his mother was a part of. He founded and chaired several organizations supporting fine art and culture and eventually bought and managed one of the finest wine and spirits distributors in the world. This was all before day Z though.

Day Z saw a thirty year old Dominic flying to one of the most anticipated events of the year in New York City. Of course the news ran rampant of odd outbreaks and riots in third world countries but whenever did it not. Some airports were taking extra screening process and Dominic had heard that Moscow international had shut down completely. Things like that would not stop him though, men like him flew privately and thru special terminals, so again, he paid it all little attention. By the time the gala was over and he was trying to return to London an activated US military security guard at the airport told him politely that if his private plane took off it would be followed by its own private fighter jet, which would send his very own private missile to blow him out of the sky. Shortly after this altercation a mob of infected entered the airport and the next six years were chaotic.

Dominic somehow escaped the airport, linked up with a group, made it out of the city… nearly dying more times than he can remember. The group headed south, most died, a new group came along and found Dominic nearly starving on a roadside, and Dominic joined them. This group headed west. This group died a year later and it went on like this with groups and settlements until Sloevale was founded. A supposed safe place, where of all things, liquor was being distilled and traded as a commodity. His old business, one of the oldest in the world, had survived the apocalypse.

For the next two years Dominic lived in Sloevale. At first he worked, manual labor, detestable work and as he worked he aid the foundations of his plans. As time went on, enforcers left, street bosses began to speak highly of a runner and trader named Dominic, people took unexplained walks into the wilds right when Dominic was ready to take their job. The Businessman of Sloevale began to make a name for himself, his swagger came back and so did a ruthless cunning and determination to never again join the ranks of the peons… never, at any expense.


Skills/Weaknesses: Dominic is an expert manipulator of people. Charismatic, confident, educated, resourceful, adaptable, patient, calculating, devious, well spoken (when not speaking his Cockney slang), and intuitive, Dominic can often find out what it is a person wants or holds dear with the least bit of trouble and effort. This coupled with his near sociopathic lack of empathy for the trials and tribulations of others and a supremely arrogant and narcissistic faith in himself forms his greatest skill; the skill of getting what he wants from who he wants without them ever knowing they were working towards Dominic’s ends.

Dominic is also an expert fencer and horseman. Having grown up in some of the U.K.’s finest schools he has fenced, played polo, and fox hunted his entire life. His skill at these endeavors saw him entered and winning many collegiate and European championships before the manure hit the rotary scattering device. After the fall of civilization these skills allowed Dominic to maintain a constant source of movement cross-country and left him a viable means of defense from zombies. A rapier through the eye socket stops many an undead cold in their tracks.

Unfortunately Dominic also lacks some crucial skills. If the poorest marksman in all of Sloevale and Dominic were forced to compete at target shooting Dominic would make that man or women look like a competition shooter. Dominic has little to no marksmanship skills and though he has shot handguns before is probably the poorest shot in recent memory. Despite all the time he spent bouncing from group to group and settlement to settlement Dominic possesses very few of the common survival skills that people have adapted to today. He has always conned, manipulated, and convinced people to do these things for him.

Dominic’s greatest strength is also a potential catastrophe. His ambition has lead him to cultivate networks of people, to weave webs of favors, blackmail, treachery, and shadow all through Sloevale with lines of this web beginning to reach out towards Haven and Boom Town. Though this cobweb of secrecy and information gains him power and influence it also requires a great deal of scheming, maintenance, favors, and plotting to maintain. If some of the plots he has in place were to be discovered, especially by the few people higher up in the Sloevale gang than he, his life would potentially become drastically shorter.

[Mr Odin]

"S.O.L.a.R."

Dead Thread

Character Sheet

-----Federal Records: Access Granted…[//]
-----Biometrics verified… Voice print verified… Retinal scan complete…[//]
-----Access Level Confirmed: November Alpha permissions granted…[//]
-----Log Record Status: Login and record deletion upon session termination…[//]
-----Files Retrieved: 1…[//]


-----Subject Personal Data…[//]

Name: Michael Telsor
Age: 43
Profession: Biologist
Specialty: Doctor Telsor is one the leading scientist in the field of extremophile research and extraterrestrial habitat adaptation. A top graduate from the University of Cambridge's biological sciences department, Doctor Telsor has been recruited by and has worked for many of the larger space exploration and colonization corporations along with multiple government operated space programs. He is a leading authority on the development of habitable and sustainable environments in space whether that is within contained ecosystems like space stations or through future terraforming efforts for Mars and the lunar colonies.

-----Subject Physical Data…[//]

Build: Doctor Telsor, while not a couch potato, is no professional athlete. Months, if not years, spent in harsh conditions at sea, in frozen wastelands, or barren deserts have both hardened his body and weathered it to equal degrees. He is just under six feet tall and weighs in at just under 200 pounds. Age has worn his body some and the later years of his life have seen more time spent in the lab than in the field.
Hair Color: Light Brown
Eye Color: Brown


-----Subject Risk Factors…[//]

Detrimental Qualities: Doctor Telsor is known to be a habitual smoker and drinker. While his alcohol consumption is detrimental to his health, he has not yet been diagnosed as an alcoholic as of the time this report was compiled. His constant smoking has presented a medical concern in the form of early stage lung cancer. Two years ago Doctor Telsor was diagnosed with type 2 non-small cell lung cancer. A surgery removed the cancerous tissue and the Doctor is considered to be in remission though his refusals to quit smoking is expected to lead to greater prognosis probabilities of more advanced cancers.

Psychological Notes: Doctor Telsor's eidetic memory and advanced cognitive IQ can sometimes present a barrier to social acclimatization and at worst presents as direct conflict with the Doctor assuming the role of the superior. Complex social interactions often times lead to the Doctor distancing himself and detaching from accepted social groups.

-----Cargo Manifest at Time of S.O.L.a.R Arrival…[//]

Personal Belongings: At the time of his arrival on the S.O.L.a.R station Doctor Telsor was in possession of the clothing he worn on the refugee flight consisting of a light blue shirt, white t-shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. He was also listed as possessing a backpack. In the backpack is a small field kit including immediate first air materials and two days supply of food and water. The pack also contained scientific sampling equipment including basic collection, preservation, examination, and testing elements along with record keeping material. Doctor Telsor was also confirmed to be in possession of a pint flask of an undetermined vintage of scotch and a large cigarette case that included a lighter, rolling papers, and one pound of a hand blended tobacco combination consisting of Turkish tobacco, small traces of hashish, Middle Eastern oils, and spices.

-----Federal Records: Access terminated…[//]
-----Biometrics log erased… Voice print log erased… Retinal scan erased…[//]
-----Access Level Confirmed: November Alpha permissions revoked…[//]
-----Log Record Status: Login records deleted…[//]
-----Files Retrieved: All files purged…[//]