BangoSkank — Roleplayer Guild

Characters

I made some of these CS templates and was given some by others so if you like one let me know and I'll send it to you

Name: Roald Cliffbloom

Race/Species: Ratling

Gender: Male

Age: 43

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Roald is small in stature, not surprising for a Ratling, and hairy, also not surprising. He's tan and oddly fit for a race commonly known for their pot bellies. He has wild overgrown eyebrows and an up turned nose scrunched up with a large forehead. He has thick messy dark brown hair which is gradually going gray and sideburns as well as a neigh permanent five o' clock shadow. His default facial expression is a frown.

Attire:
Light Brown/Grey Head Wrap
Climbing Ropes Wrapped Up Around Shoulder
Green Cameleoline Cloak
Militarum Auxilia Chest Strap with Two Pockets and Skull Emblem
Standard Olive Drab Uniform Shirt and Pants
Thick Belt with a Canteen Holder Attached on One Side and an Ammo Box on the other
Bandaging Wraps Around Wrists/Hands and Ankles/Feet

Personality:
With his fellow Rogue Traders, whether alone with them or peacefully exploring a town with them, he is loud, crude, coarse, obnoxious, drunken, lecherous, gluttonous, and yet somehow still charming. He takes full advantage of his small nonthreatening stature and large eyes so that even when he presses things too far and gets a well deserved slap or shove the conversations generally keep on. He is easy to talk to, easy not to take seriously, and somehow despite how offensive he can be he rarely actually offends. He wants the things everyone wants, he's just more open about wanting them and generally wants more of them.

Aboard the ship he serves as the mechanic.  His small size allows him to get around the moving parts more easily and to attend to them from angles that many wouldn't be able to.  His curiosity, persistence, and ample application of grease, oil, lubricant, or whatever other fluid he thinks likely to help him solve a problem have served the ship well in keeping things moving.  Often times the smell of oil and muffled sound of incoherent swearing echo from the oddest sections of the ship.

In the field, when out on a mission, he is much more professional and quiet during the scouting and traveling phases. Given an order he will quickly find a way to escape even his fellow Trader's view and then pop up again some time later having ventured ahead far afield. When the rifles start cracking his loud whoops tend to accompany his return fire and often, immediately after one of his traps goes off, his barking laughter can be heard from somewhere or other in the battlefield.

One of his goals is to become influential/powerful/wealthy enough to improve his peoples standing in the Empire. After the many slaughters and near genocide at Ornsworld he wants to secure a future for his people and be remembered for doing so.  His secondary goal is to get laid, get paid, and repeat that cycle over and over as much as possible until he drops dead. It is often not at all clear which is the priority for Roald.

He is a drunken lecherous loud mouth, but also a sneaky, half mad, mean, little bugger. He works for a paycheck, the notoriety, and to get his hands on booze, drugs, tech, and women from across the universe.

History:
Roald's professional life began in the Militarum Auxilia. With his fellow Abhumans he served in this specialist division of the Astra Militarum as a member of a crew of Ratlings. He didn't manage to fit in quite as well as he had hoped. While his combat capabilities were exemplary his personality didn't do him many favors. Certain things are expected among a company of Ratlings but even then there are limits. Roald's inability to exist within these bounds led to his exile from the Militarum Auxilia.

He had served well as a Trailblazer. His confidence, restlessness and some tendencies toward solitude made him a perfect fit for the primary responsibilities of the role, and his penchant for explosions and sometimes rather disturbing exuberance when sending rounds into the general cranium region of unsuspecting enemy troops served him well. He'd joined them in enough campaigns and saw them through enough tight spots that when his general debauchery and penchant for "borrowing" stuff from adjacent units and the populace in general got him in trouble he was assigned to stay on Bakka, participating in repairs and maintenance of the Imperial battlefleets docked there.

He figured out fairly quickly that the whole damn place was hot and smokey, the company wasn't much to look at, and there was no one and nothing fun to shoot. Though he enjoyed the work at first the sedate life of a full time mechanic would never fit him and so sought to join on with the first Rogue Trader to make a stop on Bakka and begin his new life.

Skills:
Roald is the consummate Trailblazer, having found a role that fits his natural abilities and inclinations rather well.

In town or, during his Auxilia days, around camp he is quite proficient at procuring near anything he or his unit need or want. When he chooses to he can be very outgoing and friendly, while he is almost always obnoxious and coarse. He is fairly good at disarming hostile but not yet violent strangers due to his diminutive size in the hope to gain useful information about nearby likely hostile areas or the location of fun toys to play with.

Despite his often loud and obnoxious nature among his crewmates when he is on the job he is eerily capable of evading detection and remaining undetected while moving through hostile areas at a relatively high rate of speed. He can swiftly move up the sheerest cliffs and wiggle through the smallest of openings due to his small stature and considerable proportionate strength. Having moved unseen through these areas he is then able to help others navigate their dangers with minimal risk utilizing freshly made trails or old trails freshly uncovered.

When things inevitably wind their way toward some folks he is fond of shooting a lot of folks he doesn't particularly care for he utilizes some of the tech has has managed to "acquire" over the years to harass, distract, and slow down the enemy. Stealth cloaks, combat webbing, ropes, hooks, all manner of traps, and his small size and fondness for finding crevices to stick himself into (hee hee) allow him to create opportunities for himself to engage the enemy when they are at their weakest.

When it comes down to the actual shooting he uses those traps, his small size, his speed, and his accuracy with his Long-Las to confound the enemy and attempt to set them up to be ambushed by his fellow Traders or caught in their own crossfire. He has the uncanny and sometimes downright unsettling ability to set traps up in the most devious of places to inflict grievous wounds and sew discord.

Equipment and Weapons:
-Vox-Caster
-Monocular Telescope
-Canteen on Belt
-Cameleoline Cloak
-Climbing Gear

-Long-Las Rifle
-Combat Knife (attached to waist)
-Various traps and trap making materials

Name: 
Neophyte Aloysius Ry'hles

Age: 
23 

Appearance: 
A strong jaw line, a large nose, a brutal cut of brow.  Piercing eyes.  A generally intimidating appearance, developed during his Initiation.  Coupled with a sense of confidence that often borders on, and ventures well into, arrogance.  His skin has become spotty and pockmarked from repeated heat damage, it now more often than not has a slight dark red tinge to it, as of skin so often burnt and heat blasted that it no longer has the inclination to peel.

Equipment: 
Despite Aloysius' high opinion of himself he possesses the standard issue equipment of a Scout of his experience.  
Deep Green Carapace Armor made of overlapping ceramite plating, appearing, at least to Aloysius, to be a significantly upgraded version of that used for the Astra Militarum.  Though it has been modified to account for their genetically altered and bio-enhanced bodies he is eager to step up to a full fledged Marine and the Power Armor that comes with that position.
He carries a standard issue .75 Bolter, two Krak grenades on one thigh and a Combat Knife on his chest, though he yearns to make his way to a special weapons team.

Psychological profile: 
Aloysius has a high opinion of himself and of the Salamanders as a whole.  These high expectations have served him well at times, pushing him to grind away his own inadequacies and allowing him to survive the arduous Initiation process, but they have also worked against him at times.  He has failed to hold his tongue or to speak with tact several times, driving a wedge between himself, his contemporaries, and at times his superiors.  Bemoaning his own failures as well as though of his squad mates has done him few favors.  His intentions are good, and the clarity of those intentions is likely what allowed him to remain in the program, but if those rough edges are not burnt away in the crucible of service his potential will likely go unexplored.  Save perhaps his potential in regard to forging armor and weapons and perhaps ensuring the Chapter grounds remain spotless.

Character Name: Malva Bolger 
Race/Species: Halfling of The Moot
Gender: Female

Age: 28

Career and Skills: Malva poses the tools and skills of a thief though she does not consider herself as such.  She has made a living working with trading caravans and ships keeping track of their logistics and finances while learning some of the basics of sailing.  She is somewhat versed in swordsmanship from long hours spent training on the deck, though this practice was not particularly heated.  Her curiosity, small size and persistence makes her an effective manager and and keeps her well informed.

Weapons:  Malva carries a dagger she uses as a Sword and a sling with rocks which she has become quite proficient with.  She would like to carry a pistol as she has seen some of the men carry but doesn't own one and hasn't had an opportunity to practice.  They do make a lovely noise though.

Attire: Malva wears unremarkable clothing.  She has a set of adventuring clothes rolled up and hidden away in a suitably small and rarely seen crevice in the ship, but she generally wears the lightest most comfortable clothes she can while continuing on the charade that she is a man.

Equipment/Other: Malva carries around a small very fine quality satchel to hold her notebooks, sketchbooks, pens, glasses and other knickknacks from home.  A compass, a necklace, a bracelet made from roots, and a small carved wooden bird.

Physical Description: Brownish Red Hair shorn roughly to about shoulder length and tied into a rakish ponytail.

Mental Description/Personality: Braver than she realizes

Background/History: While young a party of humans came to visit their town, stopped in their home on the border of Sauerpafel, her father was reading her a bed time story when there was a commotion from downstairs.  Malva heard her mother cry out and her father rushed down the stairs.  she was too afraid to follow.  a commotion broke out.  the killed her father and rushed out.  her adult brother, Shel, chased after them later that day and while he was never seen again tales of his bravery spread through the town.  she has worked with the ships thinking no one is aware she is a woman.  they all know.  the captain has sworn that any man that lays an ill hand on her will die slowly.

Nickname because small, clever, curious

Character Name: 
Udo Wanderfoot

Race/Species: 
Halfling

Gender: 
Male

Age: 
38

Career: 
Udo worked as a Bounty Hunter throughout the Empire after a brief spell as a Fieldwarden in a small frontier Halfling town and many years working as an unofficial "Bounty" Hunter.  

Skills: 
Udo speaks Common, Halfling, and Reikspiel.  
He is knowledgeable about the geneaology and heraldry of the Empire.  
He is skilled in Outdoor Survival, Cooking, Perception, Gossip, Search, Shadowing, Silently Moving, Following Trails, the Specialist Weapon Groups Slings and Entangling, Strike to Stun, Strike Mighty Blow, and has unusually good Night Vision.

Weapons: 
A small flanged mace, a well crafted shank, a sling and crafted projectiles, a bola, a net

Attire: 
Plain cotton shirts, vests, and pants, each in different colors.  A thicker brown adventuring vest.  A green parka. A clean more presentable town outfit bundled up and black shoes to match.  A beautiful amulet of Sigmar.

Equipment/Other:
Several thick sketchbooks and pens, a very small tent, a small pot to cook in and a small bowl to eat from

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.):
Udo is 38 years old, 90 lbs, and 3'7".  With thick brown hair generally combed back and parted, sharp green eyes, a bulbous nose, and no beard on his face save for well groomed muttonchops, he is in every way physically an unremarkable Halfling.  He no longer looks like a Halfling in his childhood but he appears to have lived a fairly comfortable life.  The only thing that might betray his less than peaceful life is his ragged left ear, a souvenir of that fateful night.  

Mental Description/Personality:
Udo presents himself as a loud gregarious man when it suits him and adopts a quieter more proper personality when the time calls for it.  He is very friendly and very quick witted, he uses these two things and his slight stature to ingratiate himself with people who may prove informative.  Though in town he often appears quite happy go lucky he is in fact quite cunning.  His personality is in short divided, he is quite kind and friendly with his friends and indeed with many strangers until and unless he needs to be decidedly less friendly.

Background/History:
A few years into Udo's work as a Fieldwarden his town was beset upon by a blood thirsty band of cultists.  Though he fought alongside his fellow Fieldwardens he was quickly clubbed hard over the head with a small shield and left for dead.  Upon awakening he saw that after overcoming the others the cultists had been much less kind to the rest of his people.  They had been gathered, slaughtered, and butchered.  With nothing left Udo spent many years hunting them down and his personal attachment to this pursuit taught him precisely how to do exactly that, hunt and catch a man.   

Udo perfected his bounty hunting skills hunting down the cultists who had destroyed his small town in his youth.  The journey took him many years longer than it might have if he were a little larger, a little stronger,  a little more intimidating, a little better suited to simply carving up the monsters as they so deserved.  Udo had spent his youth celebrating a happy carefree life loving his small body and his peaceful people had come to know and ended up spending many after his youth cursing it all.  Seeking his revenge and seeing it escape him time and time again.  

That loss formed a great divide in his life, a time before and a time after, and nearly all of his memories now are from the time after.  Many years spent in pursuit in it's many forms.  Mingling with the common folk to learn about small time criminals, popular taverns, the travelings and trevails of the underclass.  They had even taught him how to cook good nourishing food with nothing but what he could gather in the wilds.  Mingling with the upper class to learn the geneaology and heraldry of the realm and to sharpen up his Reikspiel.  He gradually became better at it all as he moved from cultist to cultist.  

When his hunt was finished and the last cultist found Udo reached out to an old fat friend to celebrate the day.  An old well-celebrated chef who had taught Udo how to cook and with whom Udo had shared many a long trip.  He had a small cottage amid the mountain and along the river just West of Eilhart. Together they made a rare specialty which stood right on that border between Royal Extravagance and Commoner Ingenuity.  Wild Boar Meat, Chicken Broth (prepared the night before), Fresh Cracked Black Pepper, Olive Oil, Butter (generous), Garlic, Bay Leaves, Caraway Seeds, Carrots, Celery, Reik Sprouts, Mushrooms, Parsley, and a happy helping of Potatoes.  Cooked up all together, low and slow, and stirred at regular intervals to prevent uneven cooking.  Pour it generously into bowls for the Commoners, arrange it artfully on a plate with a reasonable amount of broth drizzled atop for the Upper Class.  Garnish it with Madman's Cap to bring the final cultist to rest.

The fat man carried a generous pot out to a small table on a prepared outcrop there.  Years ago they had swept it clear of debris and trimmed back the weeds and brush that grew there for the wedding of the fat man's niece.  She was a beautiful if stupid thing though the ceremony had gone off without a hitch and brought her a better life than she could ever had had with such a simple (if accomplished) parentage.  The fat man poured a bowl for each of them, having learned from Udo the joy of messily slurping up the broth when the meal was finished, then hurried back to fetch some good wine while Udo put the final touches on their bowls.  They ate together and spoke about the years that had come and passed and then with a full stomach and a clear conscious, after that fat man had fallen into an unnatural slumber, Udo lifted his mace and brought it down on the fat man's head until there was little left but mush and powder from the crushed rock he rested on.  Udo then finished his bowl quickly, packed the bowl up, and returned to the fat man's cottage to pick up a more recognizable memento, and walked into his new life.  

With his vengeance finally achieved he felt a burden lifted off his shoulders, but with it went the purpose that had driven him for so long.  With no specific goal but a rather effective set of skills he decided, before that fine meal had even really begun to digest, that he would continue to hunt men.  He would turn those lessons he had learned and relationships he had formed toward hunting men for the Empire rather than for his own satisfaction.  Money proved to be a suitable substitute for revenge, if not for home.

Character Name: Shel "Surefoot" Applewood

Race/Species: Halfling (Formerly of the Moot)

Gender: Male 

Age: 34 

Career (if any) and Skills:
While protecting the borders of his home in the Moot as a Fieldwarden Shel spent much time learning to forage for ingredients and to cook traditional Halfling dishes.  His culinary interests proved greater than the simple paletes of his people, who never appreciated his genius, leading him to venture out into the world.  In the years that followed, working as a Ranger, he learned much about tracking and hunting.  When things became difficult he took the opportunity to further research such interests as climbing up cliff sides, camouflaging into his environment, moving stealthily away from danger, hiding until that danger passed, and wishing the baddies would just please go away.  His time as a Ranger amidst a Mercenary company taught him to read and write at a basic level in the style of the Empire or of Bretonnians, and more importantly helped him become an accomplished map maker.  In battle, he is quite useful at distracting and delaying as well as scouting and fleeing.  Shel is quite handy at a distance with either bow or sling, he is passable in close quarters using a dirk as a sword.  In a one on one situation with little place to hide, he will likely quickly assist the party by running away from his foe, granting his party an opportunity to ambush that foe as they had most definitely discussed beforehand.

Weapons: 
Shel carries a well made but quite basic dirk in a Halfling sized buckled belt he had custom made for him.  He likes the way he looks with it, like a proper adventurer, but seldom uses it as he prefers to keep his distance.  For that purpose he carries a particularly short shortbow on his back with a small quiver of arrows and often has a sling wrapped around a shoulder or around his quiver.  He has a small number of quite heavy metal octagonal projectiles with sharp edges.

Attire:
He wears a light green tunic with a brown leather apron over it and brown pants, held up by a custom made Halfling sized buckled belt with a sheathe for his butcher's knife and small leather straps to hold a wooden soup spoon and a dinner fork.  He often wears a chef's hat he bestowed upon himself and carries a large (to him) leather backpack with a padded shoulder strap.

Equipment/Other: 
Shel has long traveled with a mule, their size being more appropriate for him.  He also finds them to be smarter and more nimble than a small horse or pony.  He carries in his backpack a small assortment of items useful to him in cooking and map making.  It doesn't hold much but the party can generally procure most of what they need when they stop.

Physical Description (as detailed as possible please, pictures not accepted.): 
Shel has very light green eyes and a mop of curly reddish brown hair. He cannot grow much of a beard, virtually no beard at all in fact, but has voluptuous mutton chops.  He is slightly skinny for a halfling, which leads some to question his cooking ability but they simply don't appreciate his genius. He stands at 3'4, right about average for a Halfling.

Mental Description/Personality: 
Shel thinks quite highly of himself, believing that he holds himself to quite a high standard, and holds others to that same standard.  Despite the realities of the situation he often sees himself as brave and appreciates as much in others.  He is very proud of his brave approach to the culinary arts and while he will not hold it against those whose paletes are woefully undeveloped he takes quite a liking to anyone properly appreciative of his abilities.  He is a very happy drunk and quite susceptible to flattery.

Background/History:
Shel Applewood led the happy safe life that it typical of his people. Halfling's don't take up much space, enjoying homes that are small and cozy (even for them) rather than vast and expansive, and that coupled with their famous hospitality allows them to get along rather well. As a young man Shel wanted to follow in the footsteps of his parents who ran a famous bed and breakfast, he wanted to become a famous Chef. At the age of 24 he came to realize that he had gone as far as he would as a Chef without leaving the Moot.  The chefs of the Moot lacked the bravery needed to step beyond the shallow pool of their knowledge.  Even at such a young age he could learn no more from them.  They lacked the courage to try new ingredients and to take brave actions.  He would not dedicate the next twenty years of his life to recreating recipes created decades ago by amateurish Halflings who had never ventured beyond the Moot.  He would not follow in the their footsteps, but rather would blaze a trail of his own. 

Always a rather curious Halfling, Shel seized the opportunity when a large mercenary company was passing through his town. He prepared a particularly sumptuous meal for the company and presented it to them himself, explaining what he had made and how he had prepared it. He had hoped the leader, a stern faced man well past his youth, would hem and haw and heap praises upon him, but instead they simply ate their meals quickly and headed to their rooms. He had given up hope when the mercenary groups second in command came into the kitchen and invited him into the company. They had long had stomach issues, but his cooking had cleaned them straight out.  How had he known?

They were not what you would call a friendly group, but alongside them Shel was able to explore the world and devise recipes of his own. He had learned of many long lost practices.  He had learned of the proper use of many little known spices.  As a Halfling he was rather dexterous and among a crew of humans, particularly among a crew of often drunken humans, he learned how to stay out of the way and (remembering again that they were drunk lonely men) how to stay hidden. On his trips out from camp to gather flora and hunt he learned to scout out the road ahead, and in order to better scout he learned to draw maps. With the tiny hands he was given at birth and the attention to detail he had learned as a cook a regular piece of paper was a canvas, he found to his delight that he was able to make maps that were uniquely intricate.

Since then he has always traveled, his skills as a mapmaker and scout overpowering the curious nature of his cooking.  In time the peasants he travels with may come to appreciate his brilliant culinary accomplishments.  His last party had proved quite resistant to sampling his latest masterpieces and so he set out to find a new company more appreciative of his adventurous cooking.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Asset  
Cross Reference : Weapon Series
(MIA - Re-acquirement at Nova Priority)

***Security Pass Required - Identity Logged***
***If Accessed in Error Alert Level 4 Supervisor Immediately***

Birth Name:James Howlett

Codename: Wolverine/Logan/Patch/Weapon X

Age: 80+ Estimated

Gender: Male

Appearance:  Subject is 5'3 and 300 pounds.  Short, well-muscled, hairy, often angry.  Long hair and sideburns make subject stick out but when subject shaves those away it can be difficult to track visually.  

Personality: 
Subject is resolutely resistant to controls.  Responds well to leadership and mentor roles but resists any longer term assignments which would include schedules and limit ability to travel.  Subject responds poorly to authority.  Subject questions orders publicly, disobeys order, dresses down subordinates and superiors, and will occasionally walk away from posts and duties without a word of explanation.  Often into the wilderness, definite preference for Canadian wilderness.

Subject seems to desire company of others yet often will depart from that company to go dwell alone for extended periods of time or seek new company.  Subject displays great long-term loyalty but poor short-term loyalty.  Often best methods of re-acquiring subject is to acquire those associated with subject and provide a trail of crumbs.  Such actions require authorization from the highest levels due to inherent high level of risk entailed.

When acquired can be controlled for short stints of time through combination use of carefully controlled substance exposure and psychic or other mental blocks or insertions.  Subject has built up resistance to these methods due to repeated exposures and proximity to Subject Charles Xavier.  Reference Weapon Series and Cross Reference to World Wars, Vietnam War, Iraq War, further cross reference suggestions available from Level 4 Supervisors.

Acquirement Suggested only for short term operations.  Use and Burn.  Subject is suspicious and nosy.  Treat like mushroom and dispose.  Ensure all records of operations are purged, subject is relentless in pursuit.

Powers/Abilities: 
Peak Human/Super Soldier levels of Strength and Agility
Adamantium Skeleton 
Adamantium Claws, retractable from both forearms
Extensive experience in hunting/stalking/operating
Extensive training in small arms and hand to hand combat
High Grade Healing Factor : S.H.I.E.L.D. From 1278(b) Level 4 Supervisor Research Pass Suggested for Further Information

Supporting Cast: 
Sabretooth: Victor Creed (MIA)
Omega Red: Arkady Gregorovich Rossovich (Deceased, Suspected)
Itsu: (Deceased)
Classified
Classified
Marvel Girl: Jean Grey (Deceased)
Cyclops: Scott Summers
Professor X: Charles Xavier
Jubilee: Jubilation Lee
Shadow Cat: Katherine Pride
Kid Omega: Quentin Quire

Extra/Notes: 
I particularly like two versions of Wolverine.  The street level vigilante bits where he is chasing down murderers and kidnappers and human traffickers and that sort of stuff OR the stuff where he is acting as more of a mentor and less of a weapon to be used.  My intention at least, if I can stay on point, is to sort of combine the two.  This version of Logan is tired of being used.  Tired of the people he puts his faith in turning out to be monsters.  Professor X and Hydra/SHIELD in particular.  I have a particular interest in the concepts of mortality and what eternal or wildly elongated life would mean in practice.  So yeah.

History: 
Spent a lot of time staring into that abyss.  Sometimes wasn't the only one looking through my eyes.  France, Germany, Africa, Japan, Viet-fuckin-nam, Madripoor, Mexico, good old US of A, Canada of course.  Shed blood all over the world, bled a lot of it too.  Seen all manner of cruelty and evil, come to the conclusion it, Evil, ain't some alien thing from Hell that reaches out to us every few decades.  It's a thing that lives in all of us, some more than others.  God knows I've got enough of it in me.  Ol' Kurt Wagner taught me plenty 'bout that.  

Stare into that abyss and it stares back at you.  Me and it we old friends.  Very old.  Ain't no spring chicken anymore.  Body still is, but the shit takes its toll.  Wonder sometimes how we do it.  How we keep on pushing year after year, decade after decade.  More than a few of us been doing this for generations now.  Run into folk I've been friends with or enemies ta or both for longer than most folk get to live.  Plenty of folk tried to help or tried to stand in my way.  I took plenty of their lives, those that tried to stop me, and just me being me ended up getting plenty of them that tried to help me dead.  Plenty more of them just wilted, like people do eventually.  It's like them Kansas fellas said, Dust in the Wind.   

I can't see myself just sitting by while bad things happen.  Not in me.  But maybe I can stop being such a damn ass about things.  Stop running out on friends first sign of them caring a little too much.  Got kids to think about, them that don't hate me and ain't tried to kill me at least.  I can hope for redemption for them that do want to kill me too can't I?  Nothing says I can't.  Maybe this old dog can learn a new trick.  Maybe this short hairy mutt can even make up for the dark old days.

C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A L

J O N A H   H E X 

J O N A H   H E X  ♦   B O U N T Y   H U N T E R  ♦   T H E   W E S T   ♦   F R O N T I E R   J U S T I C E

C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T:

"You don't bury him the way he ought to be buried, Smithy, then you better get all your personal business fixed right --
-- cause you'll be stuffin' one of your own boxes."

November 1st, 1838 - North Western Missouri
Jonah Hex is born and grows up a regular victim of physical abuse at the hands of Woodson Hex, an embittered alcoholic father, and a regular witness to his mother's own brutal beatings at the hands of the same man.  Some small relief that Old Man Woodson found his son made a better punching bag than his wife.

Summer, 1851 - Heading West
Thirteen year old Jonah Hex is growing wild and Woodson takes him off West to turn him in to a proper man.  Teach him roping, hunting, riding, all manner of manly pursuits.  Sumbitch sells him in to slavery, his idea, to the Mescalero Apache in exchange for safe passage through New Mexico.  Apache work him constant until he proved his worth by saving the Chieftain from a wily puma ambush.  Jonah is made a full-fledged member of the tribe and adopted by Chieftain but sure enough the Chieftain's blood son, Noh-Tante, grows resentful of his new brother.  Both men had their eye on a young woman in the tribe, White Fawn, and it all came to a head during their manhood rite.  

Spring, 1854 - New Mexico
Sixteen years old and undergoing the manhood ritual with Noh-Tante that would allow each to take a wife, he is betrayed by his brother while they rustle horses from an enemy tribe, the Kiowa, and is left for dead.  Dead he would have been if a Cavalry patrol hadn't happened along.  Though the Cavalry mistook him for one of their own they ended up shooting him in the gut and leaving him for dead, once again, when he tried to stop their slaughter of the entire Kiowa tribe.  By the time he had been rescued by an old trapper and returned to his tribe's camp they were long gone and he was alone once more.

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C H A R A C T E R   N O T E S:

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S A M P L E   P O S T:

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| Character Differences |

Jonah Hex lived once long ago during the Civil War of the United States.  Raised in the South he may well have ended up fighting for the Confederacy were it not for the positive influence of his father, Woodson Hex.  Fleeing the war (and potential charges regarding the sudden disappearance of his wife) himself Woodson took his son with him and exchanged him in New Mexico for safe passage through tribal lands.

Raised there among the tribe until as a young man he got into a violent confrontation with the natural born son of his adoptive father, the Chieftain of the tribe.  Exiled from the tribe he went on to live a long rough life in the Wild West as a bounty hunter and all around rough customer.  His story departs here from his traditional treatment in D.C. Comics.

After a hard brutal life he found a swift violent end and his body became a curiosity for some time before being acquired by a government run private museum of just such curiosities as well as any usable biological material.  As the world developed and the United States government became aware and involved in superhumans, mutants, and in time the supernatural several government operations opened up.  Some operating officially and openly but many operating under more than one level of cover.  One such program, the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Development, came into possession of Hex's body and one of their number with a particular affinity for speaking with the deceased talked him back from the abyss.

Classified as a Weapon for some time, perhaps correctly, Jonah Hex walks again.  Now officially designated as Weapon Hex he came to become a major part of the B.P.R.D. in this reality.  Largely filling in the large mean bastard with a big gun role that Hellboy plays in most realities.  He is dispatched to help solve mysteries and put down threats of a supernatural and particularly dangerous nature.

As part of B.P.R.D.'s weaponizing Hex now has a substantial healing factor and as a consequence of his long visit in the lands of the dead he now has a connection to the underworld.  A sixth sense essentially.  Beyond that he is simply a large, mean, sharp shooting, dirty fighting, hard drinking son of a bitch.

| Brief World Background |

The world Jonah Hex/Weapon Hex comes from is a more violent and more magical iteration of the DC and Marvel Worlds.  One without the big hitters that could likely solve many of the problems quickly.  Without a Superman or his rogue's gallery the government had to, or chose to, get more involved in matters.  Some agencies monitor the superheroes of the world, others monitor the more mundane but still perfectly sinister machinations of the unpowered criminals that litter the world, the B.P.R.D. keeps an eye out for the magical, spiritual and just generally freaky happenings.

At times the B.P.R.D. comes in to conflict with the spheres of other existing heroes.  Daredevil and The Hand, The X-Men and their stranger foes, and often with many of the more street level heroes when B.P.R.D. is called in and collateral damage occurs.

| Brief Character Background |

Dispatched on just another mission Hex found himself inside a decades old parking structure which had been torn down and bulldozed twelve years ago investigating an anomaly.  Strange happenings but that was par for the course.  Hackles raised, massive revolver loaded up and ready for bear, he moved slowly up the levels of the parking structure.  Winds blowing up small dirt devils despite the parking structures immaculate keeping.  Top to bottom, parking spots, security booth, all four stairwells, nothing supernatural.  Nothing amiss.  Except a moment later the sky changed colors and he was all at once in an entirely new world.  Some powerful mojo at work.

Captain America
Steve Rogers, Age 25 (48) (b. 1920)
Based in San Francisco, California
Active since approximately 1941

Character Concept

For the world the end of the Great War was some 23 years ago.  The ways of that world are already becoming things of occasional nostalgia and occasional disdain.  They were quaint times, story book times, to many now who never lived through them.  The past is viewed through the prism of the present.  To Steve Rogers, sputtering and shivering to life in a land he was at war with, seemingly, yesterday the world has gone through this extensive change in no time at all.  Yesterday was April 27th 1945 and then suddenly today was December 2nd 1967.  Today today is December 31st, 1967 and Steve Rogers is due to meet with a group of men who may better understand what he is going through.

My concept is a slightly different spin of the 1960s Captain America, that is the Captain America still grieving Bucky's loss and trying to find his way in the world.  Potentially working for S.H.I.E.L.D. and encountering Nick Fury again.  Rather than Nixon bringing on the "Nomad" character later on I intend to have Steve Roger's in roughly that spot now, having woken to a very different America in a very different time.

I want to explore what Captain America means in so much as what America means to Steve Roger's Captain America and to Frank Simpson's Captain America who is in a very different position.  What this means in Vietnam, what Captain America's role in a war should be, what America's role in the world should be, and what Captain America's role should be in peace time.

A man who grew up in a time when the entirety of Western Civilization seemed to be in danger of being destroyed and being replaced with an ugly war machine pushed ever forward by an ugly ideology now finds himself in a world where things do not seem so clear.  There is not so obvious an other that must be beaten.  America is not so clearly a force for great good, she is not so surrounded by Allies, it is not so easy to say she is in the right.  So where does that leave Captain America.

Arc 1 : Steve Rogers in San Francisco, trying to figure out who and what he is now.  Talking with Dum Dum Duggan and other veterans.  Learning about America in the 60s.  Frank Simpson in Vietnam, enjoying what he's doing and forming his own opinions about war.

Depending on what happens with events and connected characters I might change future Arcs but I'm thinking...

Arc 2 : Steve Rogers is getting involved in S.H.I.E.L.D. matters and past evils, learning about Frank Simpson, Vietnam, Civil Rights issues, Veterans in general and Communism.  Frank Simpson is more fully involved in Vietnam, becoming an independent actor in addition to his more traditional role.

Arc 3 : Steve Rogers is putting things together involving corruption and the legacy of WW2.  Frank Simpson is heading toward a clash with Steve Rogers. Trying to find out why.  

Key Notes

Name   : Steve Rogers
Alias  : Captain America
Birth  : 1920, New York
Mother : Deceased, in Rogers' early child
Father : Deceased, in Rogers' teenage years
Enlistment : 1940

Important Dates : 
- 1939 Major George Barnes KIA during training, Camp Leigh
- 1941 Bucky Barnes joins Steve Rogers in combat
- 1945 February, Bucky Barnes lost over English Channel
- 1945 April, Steve Rogers lost over North Atlantic Ocean

M.I.A.     : April 14, 1945
Resurfaced : Classified - Need to Know

Supporting Characters:

Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan
Boston Born and Bred.  Circus strongman.  British Army.  Howling Commando.  Semi-Retired.  S.H.I.E.L.D.
Runs a bar in San Francisco CA catering to Veterans.

Frank "Nuke or The Captain America of Vietnam" Simpson
Born in Ohio.  Parents murdered by short ugly government agent.  Raised for the military.  
In his element in Vietnam.

Isaiah Green
Assistant Gunner to Frank Simpson.  Tactically minded.  Not much good behind a barrel.
Watching Frank Simpson's back through the Vietnam War.

Brock Rumlow 
Mercenary.  Showman.  Goddamned Killer.
Killing.

Sample Post

San Francisco, California
9:48 PM, December 31st 1967

Timely.

I always tried to be timely.  The military drilled that in to me, but even before all of that it was something that mattered to me.  I learned early on you couldn't control it, there were too many variables, all you could do was try to be prepared when things shifted.  I wasn't ready when pneumonia took my mother.  I disappeared into comics, decided I would be an artist.  I wasn't ready when the war came to America.  God I was so skinny then.  I had no idea what I was getting in to.  None of us did.  We couldn't have.  I was timely though.

Couldn't have known how timely.  

"So," the grizzled old man across the bar locked eyes with me and interrupted from my reverie, "Tell me about your day?"

I was distracted, lost in more ways than one, looking back into a once familiar face.  Jesus Christ.

"It helps you know," Duggan said as he poured some good whiskey in an old glass and slid it over to me, "We don't talk."

"Irishmen?" I replied over my cup.

"Any of us.  You know how long it took me to get some of these fuckers to talk?  The shit don't come natural, after what we've seen, what we've done.  You don't want to remember, you don't want to put that on your brothers.  Don't want their sympathy, don't want their pity.  None of us do, but you said you'd talk Rogers.  It's New Years, it's what we do."

"I was never much for talking about the past.  About memories.  You know, all those years, it was action.  All movement, all action, just one thing after another.  Go, go, go."

"Yeah," my suddenly old buddy Dum Dum Duggan replied, with a loud unhealthy sounding exhale "I remember that, remember it better than most.  Maybe more than anyone left, but for some of us memories is all we got left.  Memories, this shit little bar, and now you Steve.  A long lost friend come back.  You owe it to us.  Your day."

"It's a hell of a thing."

Old Dum Dum looked back at me, 23 years older than when I had last seen him.  He had been a tank of a man, where had it all gone.  Years on years, and it had all been just a few weeks ago.  For me.  It was a hell of a thing.  How one day can change your world.

Captain America / Nuke
Frank Simpson, Age 25 (b. 1942)
Deployed in Vietnam
Active since approximately 1960

Character Concept

Frank Simpson has more in common with the Vietcong than with half of the men in this Army.  They're wild sometimes, howling at the moon.  They're wily sometimes with their foxholes and their punji pits.  Not like half of the sadsack fucks he gets sent out with.  Americans forced into service.  Forced into service.  Vietcong ain't forced into fucking shit.  These boys are out here fighting like goddam lions.  These Vietcong make for one hell of an enemy, it is almost a shame he has to kill them.  It is almost a shame he has to kill every last god damn Vietcong in Vietnam until the job is done and America is safe.  Hell someone has to do it don't they?  Who better?

This is Frank Simpson's war.  These are the enemy.  These are the battlefields.  It's a hell of a goddamned thing.  He calls himself Nuke, at least he used to.  Brass didn't like it.  Said it was problematic.  Doesn't matter.  He's going to end this war the same way the Nukes did.  He started calling himself Captain America.  Maybe the brass didn't like that either but goddam if the men didn't love it.  His men.  Oorah.  

My concept with this character is largely to contrast with the 1950s ethos, world view, and upbringing of Steve Rogers' Captain America.  Steve Rogers' Captain America has a very rose tinted nostalgic view of what America is, was, and will be.  Though that may change.  Frank Simpsons' Captain America has a much more jaded view on these things.  They have many stark differences and many similarities they are not aware of.

I want to explore how Frank Simpson sees things based on his upbringing and experiences both in life prior to Vietnam and in actually fighting in it.  He will have his own perspective on Steve Rogers' Captain America and vice versa, hopefully leading up to an eventual direct confrontation.  In regard to America's and Captain America's role in a war, role globally, and role in peacetime they will be largely diametrically opposed.  

Part of these differences are due to upbringing and experiences and part of it is due to maturity.  

Where Steve Rogers' Captain America is at his core a good man trying to do the right thing and protect all Americans Frank Simpsons' Captain America is a man who has been preparing for war all his life and is now in the thick of it.  I want Frank Simpsons' Captain America to be essentially the villain at least for awhile.  I haven't quite determined if he will be even partially redeemed, but I want him to be a villain with some positive characteristics rather than a caricature.  He will have some stances that are laudable, maybe even some things he is better with than Steve Rogers, but he is a troubled violent man.

I am not quite sure how or if we will address race, sex, and class issues in this, but Simpson will be essentially Animal Mother from FMJ in those regards.  From the end of the movie not the earlier bits.  He's a little crude, he's a bit of an ass.  He's not a racist.  He's a pig but not a sexist.  He's poor and resents the wealthy, particularly the pukes who have dodged the draft.

Arc 1 : Steve Rogers in San Francisco, trying to figure out who and what he is now.  Talking with Dum Dum Duggan and other veterans.  Learning about America in the 60s.  Frank Simpson in Vietnam, enjoying what he's doing and forming his own opinions about war.

Depending on what happens with events and connected characters I might change future Arcs but I'm thinking...

Arc 2 : Steve Rogers is getting involved in S.H.I.E.L.D. matters and past evils, learning about Frank Simpson, Vietnam, Civil Rights issues, Veterans in general and Communism.  Frank Simpson is more fully involved in Vietnam, becoming an independent actor in addition to his more traditional role.

Arc 3 : Steve Rogers is putting things together involving corruption and the legacy of WW2.  Frank Simpson is heading toward a clash with Steve Rogers. Trying to find out why.  

Key Notes

Name   : Frank Simpson
Alias  : Captain America, Nuke, Meo Hoang
Birth  : 1942, Texas
Mother : Deceased, Access by Special Request Only
Father : Deceased, Access by Special Request Only
Enlistment : 1960 

Sample Post

Vietnam
December 31st 1967

Yeah yeah yeah.  Yeah.  You heard right.  Vietnam is hot.  It's muggy.  It smells different.  It looks different.  That don't mean everything is different though.  People are still people and fuck yes New Years Eve is still New Years Eve.  

The last day of December 1967 and goddam if we weren't still riding high off Tam Quan.  This shit was what we here for.  This shit was one hundred percent the shit that I was here for.  Every single one of us who was here to be here had gotten some this December and after we got done getting some and we got back to what passes for civilization out here you know god damn well we got some.  If you weren't getting it from someone in your unit you were getting it somewhere.  All of it.  Sex, booze, smokes, weed, acid, speed, uppers, downers, zips, zooms, and whamwhams.

We'd just been walking the fences since then.  Baking in the sun.  Sharing stories and bodily fluids with each other.  Training together, talking shit together, playing cards together, listening to music together, killing time in the armpit of the world man, together.  There were so many of us, it was so goddamned hot, and we were all still so pepped up on Tam Quan.  That was where I met Betsy.  Fucking Betsy man.  Thinking about her gets me antsy again.  Ooo wee.

See December had jumped off quick.  Word came down in the tail end of November that Intelligence had heard the PAVN or Vietcong or LASV or some group was heading on down to Bong Son so we were ready.  We were itching.  PAVN, LASV, Vietcong, those are all just slight variations on enemy.  Sure enough in the first few days of December they headed down Highway 1 and started moving on our boys, that's ARVN, Army of the Republic of Vietnam.  The good guys, second place anyway.  America is Number One and all that shit.  So that's how it started, the Battle of Tam Quan.

December 6th and they send the 9th Cav in to investigate.  They're pinned down quick so they call in the 8th Cav and they send me with 'em.  Goddamned Captain America shit here we go.  Hey bartender get me a beer yeah?  Whatever you got.  Yeah that's right I drink this shit.  It's beer man.  No.  Fuck no they ain't gonna poison me, I'm a regular customer and these are friendlies.  Plus I'm just too damn good.  Look at me.  Just look at me.

You know how we do it.  1725 Hours they tell us to go.  1800 Hours my feet hit the street and I've got a new dancing partner.  Helicopter crew was worried, they smelled it so they hooked me up with my girl.  Betsy.  You know where Betsy came from brother?  Goddamned General Electric.  No I'm not kidding.  General Electric.  This sweet piece of ass is a scaled down M61 Vulcan.  She can put out 4,000 a minute before she overheats.  That's more than your mom.  Goddamn, right?

So like I was saying.  1800 Hours we're landed, by 2100 we've got the 9th Cav on their way out and we're setting up perimeter.  Betsy wanted to dance.  You should really see us go.  We do a mean Mashed Potato.

What happened next?  Yeah, sure I'll tell yeah.  Let me just get a drink.  Long story.  Shit gets real you know?  You want one?  I got you, it's no problem.

Name: Danger, Danger Fontaine
Epithet: Masked and Mustachioed Macho...Guy
Age: 32
Height: 6'4" pounds of towering manliness
Weight: 246 pounds of raw hard muscle slathered in baby oil
Race: Human
Dominant Hand: Right

Weapons-
All of Danger's weapons are fashioned from cheap steel and are designed to break easily.  They are carted down to the ring in a shopping car.
-A Wooden Folding Table designed for little more than being broken in dramatic fashion.

-A Chinese folding metal chair initially designed for sitting but quite useful for bashing about the head.

-A wooden kendo stick

-A Stop Sign seemingly picked up off the street

-A single live and very confused Lobster

-A Black Duct-Taped Up Baseball Bat

Equipment-

The Man Known As Danger, Danger Fontaine, wears upon his person:
Urban Colored Camo Shorts

Black and White Gold's Gym Muscle Shirt

Black and White Wrestling Mask (trimmed back to allow his mustache freedom from the confines of his mask)

Wrestling Gloves

Wrestling Boots

Red Entrance Cape

Appearance- 

Danger, Danger Fontaine is a thickly muscled well tanned man and is never seen without an indulgent quantity of baby oil ensuring each and ever muscle fiber glistens under the stadium lights as does his perfectly manicured mustache.  His build is best described as mercilessly powerful and massively sexual.

Physical Abilities/Powers-
Physical Ability-
Danger, Danger Fontaine has inarguably perfected his craft.  He is truly the picture of perfection.  He is the image of intensity.  The epitome of excellence.  The physical manifestation of manliness.  And also a generous lover, if you know what I mean.  His grip is unbreakable, his strikes impeccable, his aerial game im...un...it's also pretty good.  

Powers-
Imagined Invulnerability -
Danger, Danger Fontaine can ignore injuries that would incapacitate neigh any other man.  Due to a combination of repeated traumatic concussions, pain killer use and abuse, and his massively inflated ego he can suffer great harm and continue on despite it.  He is either numb to the pain due to a combination of nerve damage and pain killer use or simply able to power through it due to his own overpowering sense of self confidence.  In short, while he is not actually in any way shape or form invulnerable to injury or damage he is fully capable of ignoring such damage until it becomes fundamentally physically incapacitating.

Supreme Arrogance - 
Danger, Danger Fontaine's massively inflated ego and additive brain damage due to regular traumatic head injury allows him to face adversaries that are clearly exponentially more powerful than he and believe he still has a very real chance of victory.  

Delusion - 
Arguably all of Danger, Danger Fontaine's power is a result of this aspect of his mind.  Despite what absurd circumstance he may find himself in and what inconceivable threat he may face, he will stalwartly believe that he is the Fan Favorite and that this is his shot at the big time.  He can hear the roaring crowd.  He can hear the commentators expounding over his miraculous musculature and marvelous mustache.

Unreasoning Rage -
Danger, Danger Fontaine's patina of professional wrestling professionalism fades into oblivion if his mask is removed or his mustache is mussed up.  Though he generally plays up for the adoring arena carefully watching his each and every match, when an opponent dares to remove his mask he loses his restraint entirely.  As a great man once said, he loses his smile.  Much of the posing and smiling fades away and he is left a raving animal, throwing out as many big moves as he can as quickly as he can, often to his eventual detriment.

Personality- 
Danger...Danger Fontaine.  A self obsessed obnoxiously narcissistic professional wrestler, his greatest strength is also his greatest weakness.  He is loud, because it is important that the millions and millions of fans, all slavering at the bit for just a little more Danger, hear each and every syllable of each and every word.  He is self aggrandizing because who knows Danger better than Danger himself?  He is light hearted and often cracks terrible terrible jokes, because he is THE MAN.  He is the top, the pinnacle, the apex, the peak, the asymptote, the azimuth, the hyperbole, he is the the man and the only way to be THE MAN is to beat THE MAN and the only man who can beat THE MAN is THE MAN, which is him, thus he is unbeatable.  Ask anyone, they'll tell you.  In the unlikely event he is one day beaten he is magnanimous in defeat because he knows, HE KNOWS, that belt is meant for one man and one man alone.  THE MAN, which is him, Danger, Danger Fontaine, aka THE MAN. The Macho...Guy.

Background- 
Danger, Danger Fontaine dreamed through all of his childhood of becoming a professional wrestler and eventually managed to make his dream come true.  Growing up in South Dakota he knew from a young age that he was destined for greatness and the greatest greatness he could envision was becoming a massive slab of tanned and oiled muscle body slamming other, lesser, tanned and oiled massive muscle slabs for the entertainment and adoration of the million and millions watching at home.  Happily fueled on by the antics of his wrestling idols, action movies, and neigh every book and training program advertised in the back of comic books, he grew muscleyier and muscleyier as his dream became an inevitable future.

He worked his way up through the indies gaining a reputation as an enormous ass, but an ass who put asses in seats.  Which is the best kind of ass.  Taking inspiration from his idols from America and the world abroad he fashioned for himself a number of easily recognized moves and a very recognizable physique.  Muscles, Muscles, Mask and Mustache.  In time he made his way to the premier federation of the United States and found great success.  As well as he did he faced many injuries and eventually ended up as too big of a liability to the company to remain.  This was likely a wise move as his massive ego led to him suffering many injuries that would have sidelined him if he weren't just such an egomaniac.  Finally one day his undeniable superiority, ceaseless impossibly hyperbolic bragging, and need to pay some bills brought him to Undisputed Pro Wrestling.

Edrick Manard

C H A R A C T E R   S U M M A R Y

Edrick's personality matches his appearance, which matches his reputation prior to joining the Phoenix Order.  A large, ugly, often meanspirited man, he has tempered these character defects somewhat as the hard process of his training proceeded.  At 31 he is getting a rather late start.  He may blame it on his Proletarian upbringing but it is really his own doing, and having grown up and lived among the people for 31 years and having often run in to trouble with the Crimson Eye no one is falling for that.

A P P E A R A N C E

Edrick is 6'1" with a muscular body built through years of helping his Blacksmith father in the only way he ever truly learned to; by doing the most basic backbreaking aspects of the work over and over again and with great enthusiasm.  His skin has darkened from long hours spent in the family shop and is marked here and there with small scars from his troublesome teenage years and his troublesome 20s.  His hair is cut short at the sides and longer on the top, with a rather ragged beard on his chin.  His most distinguishing feature is his nose, which healed poorly several times after being broken by one guard or another several times and generally for good cause.

P S Y C H O L O G Y

Edrick's personality has changed rather considerably during his time in the Phoenix Order.  He has not been able to completely shake his character flaws but finding a purpose and being held to a standard has change him.  He has always been impatient, hyperactive, and prone to making rash decisions without considering the potential consequences of his actions.  These flaws led him through a rather failed life prior to the Phoenix Order, but the training and punishment he received there tempered them.

E Q U I P M E N T

Heavy Plate
Shield
One Handed Mace
Simple Hide Shoulder Bag on his Back holding a bed roll, a large skin of water, a simple knife with a holster, and about as much dried meat as he could afford.

H I S T O R Y

Although his Father was a talented craftsman and a patient teacher Edrick had never really taken to the family business.  For long years his Father had made the finest of weapons and equipment for the Crimson Eye and Phoenix Order and for long years he had showed Edrick each step in detail, but it never seemed to stick for him.  On the rare occasion Edrick managed to pay attention to the long rather meticulous process he would come to the conclusion that he most certainly gives not a fuck about it.  Edrick never enjoyed the detail work that separated a serviceable piece of equipment from an expertly crafted work of art.  Edrick took more to the simple brute force aspects of it.  Pounding metal ingots flat, heating them, folding again, pounding again, and then when the work was done he would take his pay and fine something or someone new to pound in one fashion or another.

From his mid-teens through his twenties Edrick lived in this way earning himself quite a reputation for better or worse, and mostly for the worse.  Between drinking, fighting, and womanizing he found himself in trouble with the Crimson Eye on a fairly regular basis.  Due to his contribution to his Father's business and his Father's businesses contribution to Bastion they generally took it easy on him.  After a spirited beating he would generally be left with little worse than a broken nose.  In time many of the Crimson Eye came to know him, some thinking of him disdainfully as an untouchable waste, others hoping he might turn his life around if only to carry on his Father's legacy and stop disgracing his name.

Not paying much attention to his Father's yammering on as he got deeper into the process of repairing a Ranger's sword one day a 30 year old Edrick was thinking only of a saucy red haired woman he had seen walking the streets the morning.  She seemed to have a certain exotic look about her and Edrick intended to get a closer look at it.  Much closer.  Wondering to himself what he might say to her tonight he was caught by surprise, turning quickly in reaction to a startled scream from Father.  Thick smoke with a sheen to it had leapt up from the blade.  Across the shop their eyes met in horror, Edrick paused only a moment before beginning to walk toward his Father but it was long enough.

Crimson Eye in the market place had heard the shout and turned to see, and the Crimson Eye knew at once exactly what they had seen and exactly what it meant for the Blacksmith and his shop.  It had been his Father's poor luck that a bit of infected blood or flesh had been caught up in the metal.  Perhaps in the pitting about the pommel, perhaps in the filigree along the blade, whatever was caught and where it was caught as the blade heated up the flesh had flashed up and set it's vapors into the air.  Anyone in Bastion could tell you what must come next, it is inevitable.  As the Crimson Eye advanced toward the shop Edrick eyed his Father's hammer, but before he could move toward it he met the gaze of one of the Crimson Eyes.  If he reached for the weapon they would surely be upon him.  From there it all happened with an impossible speed.  A brief sad look from his Father as he wiped the infected blood and smoke from his face, some brief kind words from Crimson Eyes as they gathered about his Father, his Father dropping to his knees head held high and then only blood and fire.

Before the embers of his Father and his Shop had died down Edrick found himself in a cell awaiting inspection.  While he awaited judgement some of the Crimson Eye came to speak to him, from a safe distance.  They offered him a new Shop, steady work, if he could carry on his Father's work.  He could not.  Not even close.  The days after they left and before he was cleared were long, but then he was set to be released.  Released into a world he had no real place in, his only marketable skill his ability to perform the simplest most monotonous and back breaking of labor.  When his release came some of the Crimson Eye who had slain his Father and burned his home came to meet him and shine some light on his position.  They told him what he already knew, that he had no future, and then offered him a new hope. 

As a final gift to his Father they would offer Edrick one last shot at a life worth living or a death worth dying.  He would get no favors if he chose to try out for the Phoenix Order, but they would see to it that he got a foot in the door.  As it turned out that foot in the door was all Edrick needed.  His mistakes were corrected violently, they spoke to him in a language he understood.  His successes were met with more and harder work to do.  Years of hard work had hardened him enough that he had made it this far through his Aegis training.  He took some hard hits as the days wore on, but he dealt some pretty hard hits out himself.  It wasn't pretty, but neither was he.

Name: 
Don Bergeron

Age: 
37

Appearance:  
Stressed and Depressed.  
Bags under eyes.  
Sickly thin.  
Slow in movement.

Concept: 
Reluctant Detective, Compelled to Investigate, Losing His Grip On Reality

Powers/skills: 
Patience.
Stubborn determination.
Supplementation through alcohol, nicotine and junk food.  
Occasional otherworldly breakthroughs, sometimes brought on by primitive improvised rituals.

Things Your Character Wants to Happen (probably wont):
Sleep, Death, Peace, Answers, preferably not in that order.

Things You as a Writer Wants to Happen (Maybe will):
Some substantial victory followed by a new mystery to begin prodding at...or a slow descent into gibbering madness

C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A LD O N    B E R G E R O N

Image Credit : https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/rondo-hatton

   D E T E C T I V E   ♦   U N I T E D   S T A T E S   M I L I T A R Y,   R E T I R E D   
C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T:

"We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far."

- H. P. Lovecraft

Don is a Private Detective working at times by simple contract and at times when he feels a certain pull toward one case or another.  Sometimes to one location or another.  Resisting this pull is futile.  It will infest his dreams.  Occupy his waking life.  Occasionally he will find himself in one place or another with little to no recollection of how he arrived there and a mystery unraveling before him.  He is struggling to hold it all together.

He represents himself as a Veteran.  United States Military, Retired.  Military Police.  This is mostly but not entirely accurate.  Enough of it is accurate to prevent him from coming into any trouble in regard to Stolen Valor.  He did serve and did serve in the places and at the times he claims to.  He did serve with honor.  He did serve as Military Police.  He did not, however, exactly retire.  If one were to look into his background one would discover various and lurid reports of odd behavior and disturbing statements followed by a healthy helping of psychological analyses.  These reports and analyses resulted in an Honorable Discharge and an extended period of regular mandatory appointments to assess and reassess his mental health.

P L O T ( S )   &   G O A L ( S ):
Don Bergeron is largely hostage to whatever it was precisely that happened to him in Iraq.  He is compelled to seek out mysteries and attempt to solve them.  Some of this compulsion is natural.  It is an extension of his time with the Military Police and his natural curiosity.  Some of this compulsion is unnatural.  There are times he would very much like to settle down in some pleasant little suburban city and dig about at whatever mundane mysteries these cookie cutter whitebread slices of society hold.  Perhaps work in construction or landscaping and earn his pay through good old fashioned simple manual labor, going to sleep exhausted every day but with a clear calm mind.

He needs to solve the mysteries he happens upon to sustain himself, but he also needs to find some manner of foundation to build upon.  He needs friends to lean on.  Some semblance of stability.  An anchor.  He would love to find out what exactly it was that he and Wachowski stumbled into and why only he made it out.  That would be grand, but mostly he just needs a way to quiet the voices pushing him from one strange mystery to another.  Other than booze, pills, sex and more booze, pills and sex.

C H A R A C T E R   N O T E S:
Tall and skinny.  Better described as lanky.
Deliberative in movement, at least when he is sober.
Laconic.  Choosy with his words.  A bit of a smart ass.
Bags have formed and found permanent residence under his eyes.
Despite his many shortcomings and general desire for an end to all the investigating he is relentless once he becomes involved in a mystery.  However much he may long for rest as things develop he cannot resist throwing himself harder and harder into the investigation.  Often to his own detriment.
He has developed his own, extremely primitive, rituals based on random readings and personal experience.  Most of them centering on things as simple as sense deprivation, mantras, and ingesting whatever hallucinogenic, dissociative or otherwise intoxicating substances he can get his hands on.

Sometimes, usually in the late hours of the night but sometimes just right smack dab in the middle of the day, Don wants little more than to escape thought.  No memories.  No fears.  No hopes.  No beliefs.  No curiosity.  Just vague mindless distraction.  The simplest and grandest of biological mechanisms. Neurochemical pathways lighting up like Manhattan when West Side Story comes back to Broadway.  Serotonin flowing.  Whatever gets him there.  How in the fuck did he get here.  Where did shit go wrong.

Doors locked.  Lights off.  Sweaty clothes and glasses off too.

Life had, for some time, lined up precisely the way he had expected it to.  According to plan.  He had worked hard at school.  He went to church.  He read the right books, he did his homework, he played sports, he said the right things at the right times.  He'd gotten along well enough with the teachers.  He had friends.  He dated a few girls before finding exactly the right woman.  He joined JROTC and worked hard at it.  He graduated.  He was a strong young man with a good head on his shoulders and a good woman beside him.  Married her.  Enlisted.  Made a son.  Turned out to be a daughter.  Shipped out.  Then it all fucking went to shit.

Plug in.  Warm water on.  Bluetooth on.  Playlist set to mild songs in languages he didn't understand and volume set to just hardly audible.

2004.  Iraq.  Military Police.  Split duties between soldier and police officer.  Great job.  Great purpose.  Saddam Hussein had Weapons of Mass Destruction, except he didn't.  It was war.  That's a whole story.  It's a whole library of stories, but none of those stories are this one.

Most days were dead simple.  Sometimes had a briefing meeting, sometimes didn't.  Either way soon enough he was either in a car patrolling the grounds or doing the exact same thing but by foot.  Those were the officer days.  Other days were also dead simple but involved a lot more shooting and being shot at.  Those were the soldier days.  

Controlled breathing.  Irresponsible number of pills skittering across the tile next to the bathroom sink.  Gather them up.  Glass of whiskey grinding them to powder.  Powder joins the whiskey.

Soldier Day.  2005.  Operation Spear.  Looking for proof of foreign fighters pouring in from Syria.  Dangerous work.  Pushing through outskirts under heavy fire.  Calling in air strikes as we progressed.  Danger close.  Just another grunt with a gun.  One more warm body to throw into the gears of the war machine.  His squad was the Find Al-Zarqawi gear.  Finished up clearing the city with the Town Hall.  Four Iraqi hostages there.  Translator was no help, he'd been killed just minutes before.  Using grunt level Arabic they barely got across the concept of "Wait here, help on the way" and got a vague direction to go to maybe find Al-Zarqawi.  

If they had a better understanding of Arabic and it's dialects they might have understood that the frightened expressions and begging of the Iraqis waiting for rescue wasn't out of concern for their own safety but for that of Don and his men.  Brave men, they pushed on regardless.

Nerves kick in.  Sweating again.  Fingers drumming against thigh.  Controlled breathing.  Fingers stop drumming.  The chain-smoking portion of the ritual begins.  American Spirits.  Brown.  Harsh.  Organic.  Fitting name.

Outskirts opposite the Town Hall.  Shouldn't take long.  Still does.  Intel shows a small smattering of houses piled up atop each other and a small nondescript gathering building.  Likely a mosque.  They moved into that building some time ago.  Split up into small teams.  Dumb decision, but it was getting late and they wanted to clear the building and get back before dark.  Didn't want to get so close to catching him only to turn back from the verge of triumph.  Don had moved on with Wachowski.  They moved quickly, communicating through hand signals.  Occasionally point to decorations on the walls.  Unfamiliar designs.

Coughing a little.  Light-headed.  Tingly.  Controlled breathing.  Gradually clear mind.  Climb in the tub.  Drop in really.  Light-headed.  Gulp down now slightly foamy drink.  Controlled breathing.  Clear mind.  Controlled breathing.  Clear mind.

Clear left.  Clear right.  Empty room.  Weird decorations.  Clear left.  Clear right.  Empty room.  Candles.
Clear left.  Clear right.  Empty room.  Dead body.  What the fuck.  Radio malfunction.  Turn back.
Clear left.  Clear right.  Probably don't need to.  Just came from here.  Candle room.  Why are there no candles.  Turn back.  
Clear left.  Clear right.  No dead body.  Large wall engraving.  Rainforest scene.  Underground.  In Iraq.

Controlled breathing.  Clear mind.  Controlled breathing.  Clear mind.  Controlled breathing clear mind.

Controlled breathing clear mind controlled breathing clear mind controlled breathing clear mind

Rapid procession of disjointed memories.  Sequence seems correct but hard to tell.

Clear left.  Clear right.  Abhorrent tapestries.  Not Arabic.  Not Syrian.  Not Turkic.  Not Babylonian.  Not Greek.  Not Sumerian.  Not right.
Clear left.  Clear right.  T-Intersection.  Left is a straight drop of indeterminable depth.  Go right.
Clear left.  Clear right.  Woven mats.  Intricate chairs.  Bavarian maybe.  Germanic anyway.  Chairs occupied by casually posed burnt husks.
Clear left.  Silence.  Dirt floors.  Shattered bones.  Unplugged television displaying static.
Clear left.  Silence.  
Clear left!  Silence.  Shit.

Eventually the booze and pills and tobacco and breathing and indistinct but melodic sounds of a foreign tongue trigger something.

mind clear breathing control mind clear breathing control mind clear breathing control
rise suddenly out of tub, slightly foamy drink flows back into glass, coughing in reverse
sucking in clouds of smoke, smoke may or may not have faces, and putting them back in one cigarette after another, American Spirits
powder gathers to the center of drink, powder leaps back into hand, powder is scooped back onto tile counter, grinding glass over powder converts them into an irresponsibe number of pills, pills grow spider legs and skitter about the counter before leaping back into hand
clothes on lights on door unlocked walking backward through door and back into Iraq But Not Iraq

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BangoSkank Member

Halfway Intriguing Halfling

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