Jarl Coolgruuf — Roleplayer Guild

@Lo Pellegrino


"When you fall off your horse you gotta get back up and eat that horse!"


Name: Jimmy "Valentine" Vasquez

Date of Birth: February 14th, 2254 (29 years old)

Sex: Male

Appearance: Pale complexion with a clean shaven face and shaved head. His chocolate brown eyes are warm and welcoming even if the rest of his face is a bit hard to look at. His nose is crooked and his jawline is more than a bit off kilter both from many injuries that never healed properly. Not to mention he's missing a whole squad of teeth. Combine that with a permanently busted jaw and he comes out with a noticeable speech impediment and a lisp. His smile, though a bit rough on the eyes, is just as genuine as his laugh.

The rest of his body is mostly unmarked save for the odd little scar here or there and he stands at 6 foot flat (1.8 m). He's no bean pole and certainly not the next Mr. Universe either, but a happy medium of moderate bulk and a healthy amount of fat.

Place of Birth: Somewhere in Southern Appalachia

Path: Knight

Rank: Knight

Equipment:
R91 Assault Rifle "The Razzle Dazzle":
A heavily modified version of the standard R91 that fires beefy .308 cartridges at 700 rounds per minute. This monster kicks like a radstag and is only effective when fired in short bursts, but flattens most any soft target outright and knocks a lightly armored foe on their shiny metal ass. 

.38 Pipe Pistol "Ol' Reliable":
Standard semi automatic pipe pistol. Nothing special about it other than the fact it's never jammed, not even once, in almost 15 years. He keeps it holstered on his left hip.

Combat Knife:
He treats this knife like his newborn child and keeps it in such pristine condition that one would never guess it's over 200 years old. He sharpens and polishes it like some bite their fingernails and keeps it on him at all times. Rumor has it that he even showers with it. When on the move, it stays sheathed on his right hip.

Extra Magazines:
5 extra 30 round magazines in .308 and 3 in .38 special. He carries the .308 mags in a belt around his waist and the smaller .38 mags secured to his left thigh.

T-60 Power Armor:
If it's good enough for the Brotherhood it's good enough for him. He does his best to keep it clean and rust free but lacks the technical know how to hammer out dents or perform maintenance beyond the superficial. The only customization is the word "Valentine" scratched into the breast plate.

Field Rations:
Not very fun going in or out but they'll keep you alive and in fighting shape. He takes 4 day's worth whenever he leaves on field duty. He keeps these in a small carrying pouch on his lower back.

Whetstone:
It sharpens things real good and lives in the same place as the rations.

Notable Talents:
C'mon Snake, Let's Rattle!
He didn't get a face that busted up by reading books. Years in fighting pits taught him how to take a punch or twelve and keep swinging. He knows how to hit where it hurts and has no qualms about fighting dirty.

Fruit of the Land
Them prissy pants settlement folk think they're the bee's knees with their mega hammers and fancy schmancy elek-tri-sitee, but tell 'em to make a spear with a pipe and a flat rock and they'll be up a creek without a paddle right quick. Valentine, on the other hand, is a born survivalist and not only survives in ruined cities and unending forests, but thrives. Hunting, foraging, scavenging, and crafting were his bread and butter for many years and he hasn't lost his edge.

Woosah... Woosah...
His calm is constant and nigh unshakable even as the bullets start flying or in the midst of an ambush. Not that he doesn't have to work at staying level headed, but it seems effortless to outside observers.

Laughable Failings:
Words Are Hard
And not just because he has busted mouth. He'd like to be a people person, he's just very bad at it. Valentine's one of the nicest people you'll ever meet, but don't come to him for words of encouragement or comfort unless you want to walk away more upset than you already were and utterly confused.

Country Bumpkin
His survival skills in the wasteland are supreme. His skills with anything more advanced than a sharp stick or a pipe gun are less than abysmal. Without the technical expertise of Scribes, everything he carries besides his knife and his pipe pistol would soon degrade into scrap. Not only this, but he outright distrusts most anything that requires electricity. It took him days before he trusted automatic doors so forget energy weapons.

Monkey Brain Screams DIE!!!
He doesn't have a fear of radroaches so much as a radroach-induced psychotic fury. The sight of radroaches is the one thing that can penetrate his wall of zen and so they must be destroyed immediately, violently, and with his bare hands.

Personality: Cheerful and friendly, though he's not very good at the latter. He smiles easily and loves a good joke, even of his own humor is darker than tar. Despite his social ineptitude, he genuinely likes people, even if they sometimes find him uncomfortable and somewhat off-putting. He lacks even the basic concepts of tact and subtlety and speaks with a blunt honesty that makes a super sledge look downright surgical. Despite all his shortcomings, he's discipled, level-headed, kind (in his own way), driven, and fiercely loyal to his peers and the Brotherhood at large even if he might not agree with the popular opinion on ghouls and mutants.

Beneath his calm exterior, his past haunts him every day. He'll never forget what he did in the fighting pits, but he works hard to forgive himself just a little more every day and let his past go one piece at a time. The scars on his body will never truly heal, but maybe someday his soul will.

Short Background: His mother was a raider while his father was some poor schmuck who couldn't pay his "protection" money. The gang wanted to make an example of him and his family so they decided to take their payment in a somewhat... unconventional way. His mother got a little more than she bargained for. Fast forward 9 months and she died in childbirth. Not surprising, given that raiders aren't known for their medical knowledge. Over the next 15 years his adoptive family used and abused him as a cash cow by tossing him into fighting pits with other children and making bets on him. They kept him leashed with the promise of a hit from their psycho stash whenever he participated in a fight and two hits if he won. Eventually, he couldn't stand it anymore and snuck away in the dead of night with a ruck sack of food, water bottles, and a knife. The following week could be called a living hell if you wanted to sugar coat it. Only thing worse than a chem addiction is the withdrawal. Despite the odds, he persevered and quit cold turkey. For years he survived on his own, moving from place to place but he could never outrun the guilt of what he'd done in the pits so he joined up with the Brotherhood of Steel. Almost immediately he felt a sense of purpose (if not belonging) and devoted himself in body and soul to their cause.


If I'm not too late I'd like to throw my hat into the ring too.

@LordOfTheNight I'm thinking of an armored syr who acts as a mobile barricade for crossing no man's land and, due to his immense size, helps out with carrying supplies/wounded around the battlefield. They tried giving him guns but his fingers don't fit through the trigger guards of any firearms designed for humanoids of standard size. Instead, he wields a hunk of lumber twice the height of a man and coated with sealant to keep out water and bugs.

He's just recently been sent back to the front after recovering from an anti tank round to the face. Granted, he can't hear out of area where his left ear used to be, but he's lucky to be alive at all.

He's a gruff and rough around the edges and has more than one chip on his shoulder regarding commanding officers seeing as he never wanted to fight at all. The draft, however, had different plans.

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