If there's room, I'd love to take part in this one.
Name: Luff
Race: Ogre
Age: Unknown, though definitely middle-aged. The human equivalent of about 45.
Appearance: A runt of an ogre, Luff stands only seven feel tall. His ashy gray skin is covered in thin white hair. Hard lines crease his face with scars to match, souvenirs of several human lifetimes worth of abuse at the hands of his elder, and properly sized, brothers. His dedication to his profession leaves him little opportunity to be seen without his bloody butcher’s apron. His one functioning eye sparkles with an intelligence entirely unbecoming of his brutish appearance. Twin cleavers hang from the leather belt that encircles his more-than-modest paunch. Tools of the trade.
Personality: Luff is quiet and analytical on the surface. He listens intently and never forgets anything he hears. Despite a somewhat demure exterior, which runs utterly in the face of his brutish appearance, he is stunningly ruthless. Decades of bullying due to his size at the hands of his tribe have left him totally devoid of mercy. Despite what his victims initially believe, he has a distaste for violence. Prolonged violence, anyway. Psychological torture is his game. Should he need to provide a lesson, it will be through cunning manipulation and the infliction of utter helplessness. The blade of his cleaver will be the sweet release.
Like all ogres, Luff has a passion for food. The best butcher in Santa Somabra, his cuts of meat are served from Chinatown to Palassa’s Song (though no chef would ever confess sourcing his meat from an ogre). He fancies himself quite the gastrophile and concocts elaborate meals in the same way that he hunts: with an eye for the details.
Bio: Born to an ogre tribe in northern Algeria, Luff was ingrained with an intimate knowledge of suffering. Being abnormally small and with a hazy mist clouding one eye, he was a disgrace to his family. His performance in the traditional ogre recreations was abysmal, a fact which he was constantly reminded of. But he bore it. For decades, he endured it. The one thing his family never noticed, likely due to their own lack of the very thing, was that Luff was the possessor of a singular intelligence. He schemed and plotted like the most conniving goblin. And so he bore his unfortunate lot in life until one day, during the North African campaigns of the second world war, he made the acquaintance of a particularly ambitious german officer.
After the German's initial fear had abated Luff seized his opportunity, for Luff is nothing if not resourceful, and sold his entire tribe into slavery. Slabs of muscle and rolls of fat are nothing compared to German Panzers. The officer, in the aftermath of his promotion, remembered Luff and provided a way for him to get to Germany. By the time the war had ended, Luff was one of the most powerful information brokers in Berlin.
As things began to settle in Germany, Luff began to read the writing on the wall. An industry as surreptitious as his did not thrive in peace, even a one as farcical as had settled over Germany. So he moved to America, Santa Somabra to be exact, at the recommendation of his few friends in the German army who had lived through the end of the war.
Arriving in Santa Somabra in 1947, Luff spent the first few years working security for the Rats. Though not to his strengths, he was big and brawny enough to keep any rambunctious humans in line. It was in this paradise of intemperance that Luff began to make his connections. First, it was the goblins and the few gnoll possessing enough intelligence to be useful. He leveraged smaller factions, playing them off each other until he had amassed an illusion of power broad enough to cause the eyes and ears of the city to ingratiate themselves to him.
An increasingly desired enforcer, he moved on from the Rats and played nice with the larger factions, the real holders of power. He opened up his butcher shop in the Deadlight Hills and waited. As his reputation as the strangely kind old ogre grew, so did his ability to pull the strings.
As he works jobs for the various gangs, cleaning up their messes or providing fresh wreckage, he amasses information: secrets of the secret keepers. At the moment, he is in the middle of cleaning up a particularly vile fuck-up for one of the Chinatown runners. A shipment of demon’s blood has been stolen by the Worker’s Militia. Luff has promised to get it back for the low, low price of a name.
Other: Being an ogre, even an abnormally small one, Luff is very strong. For wetwork, he prefers his cleavers for the benefit of the psychological terror they tend to inflict. If he is forced to be all business, however, there’s nothing wrong with two to the back of the head or a nice dose of poison.
Race: Ogre
Age: Unknown, though definitely middle-aged. The human equivalent of about 45.
Appearance: A runt of an ogre, Luff stands only seven feel tall. His ashy gray skin is covered in thin white hair. Hard lines crease his face with scars to match, souvenirs of several human lifetimes worth of abuse at the hands of his elder, and properly sized, brothers. His dedication to his profession leaves him little opportunity to be seen without his bloody butcher’s apron. His one functioning eye sparkles with an intelligence entirely unbecoming of his brutish appearance. Twin cleavers hang from the leather belt that encircles his more-than-modest paunch. Tools of the trade.
Personality: Luff is quiet and analytical on the surface. He listens intently and never forgets anything he hears. Despite a somewhat demure exterior, which runs utterly in the face of his brutish appearance, he is stunningly ruthless. Decades of bullying due to his size at the hands of his tribe have left him totally devoid of mercy. Despite what his victims initially believe, he has a distaste for violence. Prolonged violence, anyway. Psychological torture is his game. Should he need to provide a lesson, it will be through cunning manipulation and the infliction of utter helplessness. The blade of his cleaver will be the sweet release.
Like all ogres, Luff has a passion for food. The best butcher in Santa Somabra, his cuts of meat are served from Chinatown to Palassa’s Song (though no chef would ever confess sourcing his meat from an ogre). He fancies himself quite the gastrophile and concocts elaborate meals in the same way that he hunts: with an eye for the details.
Bio: Born to an ogre tribe in northern Algeria, Luff was ingrained with an intimate knowledge of suffering. Being abnormally small and with a hazy mist clouding one eye, he was a disgrace to his family. His performance in the traditional ogre recreations was abysmal, a fact which he was constantly reminded of. But he bore it. For decades, he endured it. The one thing his family never noticed, likely due to their own lack of the very thing, was that Luff was the possessor of a singular intelligence. He schemed and plotted like the most conniving goblin. And so he bore his unfortunate lot in life until one day, during the North African campaigns of the second world war, he made the acquaintance of a particularly ambitious german officer.
After the German's initial fear had abated Luff seized his opportunity, for Luff is nothing if not resourceful, and sold his entire tribe into slavery. Slabs of muscle and rolls of fat are nothing compared to German Panzers. The officer, in the aftermath of his promotion, remembered Luff and provided a way for him to get to Germany. By the time the war had ended, Luff was one of the most powerful information brokers in Berlin.
As things began to settle in Germany, Luff began to read the writing on the wall. An industry as surreptitious as his did not thrive in peace, even a one as farcical as had settled over Germany. So he moved to America, Santa Somabra to be exact, at the recommendation of his few friends in the German army who had lived through the end of the war.
Arriving in Santa Somabra in 1947, Luff spent the first few years working security for the Rats. Though not to his strengths, he was big and brawny enough to keep any rambunctious humans in line. It was in this paradise of intemperance that Luff began to make his connections. First, it was the goblins and the few gnoll possessing enough intelligence to be useful. He leveraged smaller factions, playing them off each other until he had amassed an illusion of power broad enough to cause the eyes and ears of the city to ingratiate themselves to him.
An increasingly desired enforcer, he moved on from the Rats and played nice with the larger factions, the real holders of power. He opened up his butcher shop in the Deadlight Hills and waited. As his reputation as the strangely kind old ogre grew, so did his ability to pull the strings.
As he works jobs for the various gangs, cleaning up their messes or providing fresh wreckage, he amasses information: secrets of the secret keepers. At the moment, he is in the middle of cleaning up a particularly vile fuck-up for one of the Chinatown runners. A shipment of demon’s blood has been stolen by the Worker’s Militia. Luff has promised to get it back for the low, low price of a name.
Other: Being an ogre, even an abnormally small one, Luff is very strong. For wetwork, he prefers his cleavers for the benefit of the psychological terror they tend to inflict. If he is forced to be all business, however, there’s nothing wrong with two to the back of the head or a nice dose of poison.
