Sad Ogo

Red Dead Reckoning

Rosalyn “Roz” Monroe

---

---

---

“Home” - Alice Walker

---

Name:
Rosalyn Monroe | Roz

Age:
Twenty-six

Gender:
Female

Appearance:

Roz stands at 5’1” in her heeled boots, her healthy figure most commonly adorned in button up tops and long skirts. Her frame is undeniably feminine, but it is apparent in her choice of modest clothing styles and colors that this is not a quality she would like to emphasize. Thick, dark auburn hair drapes beneath her ribcage, but it is frequently tied away or loosely braided. Her pale complexion is peppered in freckles, the marks most dense on the bridge of her sloped nose. They continue falling down her chest and are scattered about the rest of her upper half. Her lips are on the thinner side, but they seem to maintain a shade of wine-stained red.

Occupations:

Rosalyn is the owner of the Armadillo saloon, simultaneously working as a madam of the brothel upstairs. She is in good standing with local law, but so much of the business she conducts is done behind closed doors. Law enforcement seems to easily overlook things when they’re offered free service and drinks.

Assets:
- The Armadillo Saloon and Brothel
- Brandy and Barley, a pair of Irish Wolfhounds
- Long double-barreled shotgun
- Colt six-shot revolver held in a makeshift thigh holster
- Some gorgeous ladies who would love to meet you

Personality:

Maternal instinct and a deeply rooted need to protect those under her care stand as the basis of Rosalyn’s nature. She finds that she sticks to her traditions and routines almost religiously, as this offers her a sense of comfort and reassurance that she and the girls will continue to stay out of trouble. Due to her hypervigilance, she is extremely perceptive about people is often on the offense in her interactions with others. She always tries to stay two steps ahead and her plans nearly always include an alternative, never relenting in her efforts to prove she is not one to be underestimated.

Roz lives by a certain code and expects others to naturally fall in line with her morals and ideals. Loyalty and trustworthiness are two virtues that Roz will never compromise on. One step out of line pertaining to either and she will make it a mission of hers to ostracize and humiliate the offender so thoroughly they would never think of acting in that manner again. Once permitted into her inner circle, however, you will be rewarded with the friendship of someone who would do everything in her power to pluck the stars from the sky should you request one.

Roz’s most apparent vice comes in a bottle. She has long struggled with an alcohol dependence that was kickstarted in her younger years. Having such easy access to the substance, there doesn't seem to be an end to this. Not that she sees it as an issue anyway.

History:

Roz was brought up in a very respectable home along with her four siblings, with both a mother and father present. They were avid church goers and ate each meal their mother prepared together around the table, despite the financial hardships that rested heavily on her parent’s shoulders. Her father operated a local saloon and her mother was a laundress, therefore they recruited the children to find small incomes themselves. Roz found a position aiding the upper class women of the town in the upkeep of their homes, taking over their duties of cooking and cleaning, often before their husbands would return. The wife of Joseph Baker, town preacher, was one of her employers, but Rox despised her time there. Joseph would frequent invite her to stay for dinner, but at her refusal, he would “accidentally” knock over her dust tray or bump the meal she had prepared from the table. His hand found itself resting on her shoulder or her thigh far too often. He complimented her young features in a manner that she knew now to only be predatorial. Roz pleaded with her parents to allow her to cease her time in the Baker home, but for their daughter to refuse to work for their preacher would stand as an insult. This answer was only solidified upon her father’s diagnosis of tuberculosis.

Mrs. Monroe remarried with urgency after the death of her husband. It was a necessity that she find someone to support the family and Marcus Lee was the first willing to step forward as the head of their household. He picked the family up and moved them to his neighboring hometown. He was a fairly decent man, if it wasn't for the occasional rise of his temper. He ruled the home with a stern grasp and left little air for them to breath. As soon as she was capable, Roz began outlining a plan of escape. She began with the saloon her father had left behind in Armadillo and, despite an outrage from the local men, she claimed it up once more for the Monroe family. She worked relentlessly to convert a previously decrepit upstairs space into living quarters, originally intending for the rooms to serve as lodging. It wasn't until she began receiving inquiries from local women desperate for a livable wage that she considered a brothel. Her and the girls made quick work of the place and they were functioning successfully within the first year.

One customer in particular would send a stick into the spindles of the life Roz had created, however. Brother Joseph Baker visited frequently, coming in late in the evenings or before the sun had even broken forth from behind the dirt. His hair had grayed and his cheeks had sunken, but he still walked with the same sense of entitlement he always had. Rosalyn watched him without falter each and every time he came, her stomach twisting with strong instinct. Her suspicions were proven when one of her girls scrambled down the stairs to the bar, nose draining red down into her lips, eye sockets darkened and swollen, handprints already welting around her neck. Roz shot her preacher in the back as he was buckling his pants and straightening his clerical collar. It was an anticlimactic event, his body falling to the hardwood with a hefty thud. It was almost easy for Roz. Due to his unusual hours, the building was empty of customers and the girls were more than willing to help in cleaning and disposing. Baker’s wife went on assuming he had skipped town due to her inability to bear children and that was that. No further questions asked and Pastor Baker still resides deep within the ground out back. Beside him rest four other men, all swiftly punished for their acts against women. After a glass of bourbon, Roz sleeps quite well at night, guns and dogs at her side.

Additional Information:

The cellar beneath Roz’s establishment remains entirely off limits to anyone but her employees. Within it, she mans her own moonshine still and frequently has the ladies working to dilute her more costly alcohol with water. These are not the only secrets locked below the floorboards, however.

Do you have a personal story arc prepared?:
Yes!

---

@Berlin

I think I have a crush on that artwork, haha. Great character! She seems like she'd have a fair bit of wealth from running those various businesses, perhaps an occasional employer of us more impoverished laborers? Hope she's accepted!

Elder Scrolls: Skingrad Company

Calder Blood-Mouth

Name: Calder Blood-Mouth
Race: Nord
Gender: Male
Age: 27

Appearance: Calder is a little shorter than most Nords standing at about 5’10 inches tall. He also isn’t quite as heavy set looking as most of his Nordic brethren being better described as wiry and lean rather than barrel chested and log armed. He isn’t scrawny by any means having honed his body through years of combat and training, it’s just a little harder than usual to see on him. You could likely even mistake him for an Imperial if it weren’t for his paler skin and distinct blue eyes. Well, that and his wild Nordic look. His unkempt brown hair and beard don’t exactly scream refinement.

His body itself is littered with scars and tattoos. A long scar across his chest from a sword slash he’d moved too slow to completely avoid, a scar on his stomach from a stab wound he’d thought too foolishly and too slowly to avoid and even some burn scars on his left arm and shoulder than weren’t really his fault at all. Just being in the right place at the wrong time. The tattoos are mostly mementos for significant events. Particularly difficult battles he managed to live through or people he killed or didn’t that deserve to be remembered.

Personality: Calder is rather unusual personality wise, especially for a relatively young mercenary. He is reserved, thoughtful and often even outright humble in a way that most warriors with his aptitude for fighting don’t tend to be. He is rarely impulsive and very slow to anger, much preferring to take as much time as he can get to listen and think before taking a course of action. That isn’t to say he is immune to poor decisions, there are certain things that can and will shake or irritate him. He has a kind of code he holds himself to and is deeply bothered by the breaking of it.

Strangely compassionate for such a talented killer he abhors torture for any reason and prefers granting quick deaths even to those who don’t deserve them. He also doesn’t really lie, vastly preferring to deal with the sometimes dangerous consequences of truth rather than the complexities of weaving and keeping up with lies. An odd and somewhat complicated man Calder doesn’t truly really know himself yet and very few people know him all that well either. Most who do tend to either over or underestimate him. Though not very connected to his Nord roots and definitely having no strong feelings about Sovngarde or any other afterlife Calder is still a firm believer in there being worse things than death. He is by no means an “the ends justify the means” kind of man.

Major Skills: One Handed, Hand-to-Hand, Block.
Minor Skills: Sneak, Light Armor, Athletics, and Acrobatics.

Equipment: The most distinct of Calders gear is the armor he wears. A strangely fashionable and very well made set of gear comprised of black, red and brown fabric underneath with hardened and layered leather jackets and chainmail over the top, reinforced with steel studs. Black leather gloves and boots finish the set.

For weapons Calders preference is his custom made steel sabre, dubbed Sentinel. He also keeps two small war axes on his hips that he can employ in situations where the sabre isn’t ideal such as foes that need to be dispatched at some range. He isn’t as accurate with the axes as a well trained archer might be, he also can’t throw them nearly as far as an arrow can shoot and he only gets two chances but typically when he does hit the target it’s down for good.

Other than that he has a medium sized leather pouch he keeps all the adventuring necessities in. Food, drink, septims and sometimes purchased potions or poisons.

History: Calder spent his childhood on the impoverished waterfront of the Imperial City. His mother being a strong Nord woman helped load and deload the various ships that docked for an okay wage. It was decent enough work for the waterfront anyway. Made sure they stayed warm in one of the small shacks there which is more than could be said for a lot of the poor who inhabited that area. She loved her son dearly and spent most of her wage keeping him fed and entertained whilst she worked. Trying her best to keep his focus away from the various Thieves Guild members who used children as distractions or couriers and whatever else. To that end she taught him to read and bought him countless books that they would both read and discuss together. Slowly teaching him everything from history to morality and philosophy through them. It worked for the most part. Calder rarely got into trouble and when he was approached and asked to do certain nefarious things he had the confidence and smarts to judge the situation well enough. For the most part he spent those early years reading and pretty soon he grew strong enough to help his mother load ships. He wasn’t the biggest lad but he was strong.

His father was an Imperial who worked on one of the ships his mother loaded. A smuggler and privateer who always seemed to have a smirk on his face. He was a battle-scarred ex-soldier who looked like he’d seen enough war for ten men but didn’t seem to really let it faze him. At least outwardly. Despite his love for him he rarely saw his dad for the first ten or so years of his life. Once a month would be an overstatement. He was either always at sea or at some other port somewhere taking care of whatever would come up there. When he did see him it was a source of joy however, something to break the monotony of the waterfront. He’d tell him stories of life at sea and tales of other lands from Blackmarsh to Hammerfell. As he grew and heard those stories combined with the ones he’d read by himself he became more and more sure that doing what his father did was what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to see the wonders of the seas, experience the brotherhood of shipmates and experience the lands various port cities. For a boy who had barely ever left the docks it sounded truly wonderful.

To that end his father started training him both in combat and in the ways of seafaring. Showing him what he could of the ship and how it worked whilst not actually being at sea. To his surprise his dad completely changed when it came time to train in combat. He no longer smiled or joked and was almost brutal in his lessons. It was no joke or light matter he explained near the start of training. What he was learning would at some point be the difference between living and dying out at sea. The difference between his mother and him grinning from ear to ear seeing their son step off of his docked ship after months at sea or spending the rest of their lives filled with grief and regret at letting him pursue the life of a privateer. Over time his dad started returning more and more often, taking shorter trips and stating that Calder needed more frequent lessons. By the time he turned 15 he was training with real steel and almost as nimble with a blade as his dad. Having now been training with increasing frequency for 5 years he was hungry for the seas. Ready for them. Though sad at the prospect of leaving his mother alone for the first time. His father for his part said that there were certain things you could never truly prepare for until you experienced them. It was almost time, he’d take him to sea after he’d turned 16.

One more year. That wasn’t soon enough for Calder and for the first time in his life he did something he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of. He entered some bare knuckle boxing matches on the waterfront. He was already almost fully grown and the years of loading ships and combat training with his father had left him in fantastic shape and well trained. Most of the combatants likely wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Secretly it was also at the suggestion of his father. He said Calder needed to experience real, true violence before it was thrust upon him without him having any choice in the matter. A boxing match with at least a couple of rules and around locals who knew and liked him well enough was one of the safest places he could think of for him to experience that.

Sadly he’d been wrong about the people fighting there being no match for him. His fathers brutal training hadn’t actually been all that brutal it seemed. Real fighting was something else. Nothing but the reality of it can prepare you for a man rushing at you and trying to bash your face into mush. The first few fights he got some hits in but barely seemed to faze his opponent, soon after taking a couple of hits himself that felt like crates falling on him and being down for the count. His father watched him fight as soon as he could and quickly summed it up. “You’re holding back”, he said. “You pull your punches like that in your first life or death fight and you won't live to see a second... Believe it or not you have to actually hurt the other person to beat them. If you can’t do that then find something to do with your life that doesn’t involve fighting. I won't be responsible for your death because you got in a fight where the other person wanted to chop your head clean off and stick it on a pike and you were worried about cutting them.”

Calders initial response to that was that in a real fight it would be self defense and he wouldn’t feel any guilt for ending them. That in boxing it was just for coin, that a lot of the people that fought were just trying to make enough to get by on the docks and that he had other ways to make money whereas they didn’t. He didn’t say any of that though. He knew how he felt was right, or at least he thought it was but he also knew his father was right in his way too. So he stopped holding back and soon started winning fights. Though he quietly gave half the winnings to the loser if he knew they were in need.

A year later he’d grown calm and confident even in the more challenging fights. He felt ready for that first real fight his father told him he’d eventually come to experience, though he knew he wasn’t. He thought the same thing before he’d boxed and he was wrong. He just hoped he wouldn’t be quite as wrong when the time came. So now 16 years of age Calder said an emotional goodbye to his mother and set off to sea with his father. A relatively quick journey to Archon of Black Marsh. Better yet they were fully stocked so if they spotted a ship flying enemy colors they weren’t obliged to attack it for the possible cargo. He soon grew to love the sea as much as he thought he would. The smell, the constant work, his shipmates and the sights. He loved what many others might have hated. Sadly them being fully stocked narrowed only their chances of attacking, not of being attacked and as Calder later learned it actually increased them somewhat since certain people would tip off others on which ships were carrying more cargo. So a ship soon moved to attack them, a thing Calder assumed would be fast and violent but no, they knew about 20 minutes before that the ship was on an intercept course. That was the longest 20 minutes of Calder's life at that point. As the ship drew closer they fired on it but didn’t manage to do much damage before they were being boarded. Then things grew fast. His father shouted “Don’t hold back!” right before they entered the fray and that’s about all he remembered from his life before at that moment. Suddenly nothing else mattered, nothing else in the world had happened or would ever happen. Or that was happening was this life and death right here. This minute would be the only minute there might ever be.

Some huge Nord tried to hit him with a war hammer and he quickly dodged back, stepping forward again as the momentum and weight of the hammer threw the man off balance and slicing his sword across his neck. Warm blood spat out across his face and he had to consciously stop himself from being overly distracted by it. Before he could move on and pick another target he was tackled, someone hitting him and bringing him to the ground like a boulder. Before he knew it he felt the very familiar feeling of being punched in the face and the old sharp pain in his jaw. Then large hands around his throat. He did his best to stop himself from panicking as his oxygen was cut off and desperately grasped around for his sword. He couldn’t find it so he moved on to the man on top of him, scratching and clawing at his face, trying to gouge his eyes. It wasn’t working. A desperation and rage like he’d never felt took over him just as blackness started to and he cocked his arm back and launched it forward as hard as he could muster, cracking the man in the nose. His grip loosened almost entirely and Calder quickly took the opportunity to knock his arms away with his, then quickly pulled his head forward and down to him leaving his neck exposed. In the minute of battle madness Calder bit deep into his neck, tearing away as much flesh as he could. Then he did it again and then once again until the man was clutching his mutilated throat and gasping his last inaudible words. Probably curses. The fight soon ended after that with them victorious, his father and the other battle-hardened men making quick work of their foes. Calder earned his name that day and the respect of the crew. His father later asked him how he felt and he surprised both of them by saying “Nothing really. It was them or mother never seeing me step back off this ship.”

Over the next decade Calder went on countless journeys. He visited Hammerfell, High Rock, Valenwood, Black Marsh and Morrowind countless times, staying with his fathers captain even after his dad had retired to finally settle down with Calder's mother. He killed at least a hundred men over the years, most of them at sea. Occasionally he would stay in a land such as High Rock or Valenwood for a month or two taking on mercenary work in order to see the land. It was this that eventually got him into trouble. He was looking for a ship sailing back to Anvil from Falinesti where he’d been making his home for a while. He wasn’t one to brag but his name was famous or infamous enough among most sea-fairers that most would happily have him aboard for the journey in return for his help if they were attacked or needed to board a ship. It didn’t take him long to find such a one.

Unfortunately it turned out to be a big mistake, this particular crew had crossed the thin line from privateer and pirate to straight up bandit some time back it seemed. When they raided a civilian ship and cut down the guards that was enough by itself to get Calder angry but once they started executing the actual civilians he flew into a rage. He managed to carve through five of them before they pinned him down, beating him half to death and dragging him to the wretch they called a captain. A dishonor to the title. What hurt Calders pride the most in all this was that the captain didn’t understand why he was upset. He was a pirate just as he was after all. Calder spat blood in his face at that. He’d never killed a civilian. Not once in the hundreds of ships he’d taken. Not even the one that had stabbed him in fear. Sure, technically he was a pirate but he still abided by the code his father taught him as a privateer. He only ever took military targets and those warriors that surrendered lived no matter what. The injured got medical treatment and the people too far gone got quick deaths. It was a dirty business but that didn’t mean you had to become a monster. The so called captain found this explanation amusing. He chuckled as he took out his dagger and stabbed Calder twice in the abdomen, then ordering him thrown overboard.

Luckily for Calder they weren’t too far off the shore of Anvil at this point and the waves brought him closer still. A fishing boat found him and did their best to staunch the bleeding until they got back to the city. There they brought him to the temple where a Priestess used restoration magic to heal him fully over a matter of days. He split what little coin he had left on him between the Priestess and the fishermen as thanks for saving his life and set out seeking well paid mercenary work. He was going to finally explore Cyrodiil, make enough money doing contracts to afford a ship, find a decent and loyal crew and then hunt that wretched captain down if it took him the rest of his days. He owed that bastard and anyone working for him at least two stab wounds each.

Elder Scrolls: Skingrad Company

@Sad Ogo accepted. :) Enjoyed the back story of him, seems like him and Adrian could be very good friends or hate each other, can't see the being much in-between haha. You okay just messaging me about how you're planning to introduce him if you don't mind.

@josephb

Thanks! Indeed, their relationship will be interesting. Cool, I'll send ya one shortly.

Red Dead Reckoning

@sad ogo Really interesting character, love the choice of character picture one of my favorite actors and the fact he's a bounty hunter I have some propositions for you once I get my character sheet up.

@idlehands

Thanks! Aye, he's one of my favorites too, especially when it comes to playing unhinged characters. Cool. Sounds good to me, shoot me a PM when you're ready.

Red Dead Reckoning

John Stone

Name: John Stone
Gender: Male
Age: 30

Appearance:

A physically imposing man standing at six feet one inches tall and weighing a little over two hundred pounds John is well suited to his work physically. Many scars litter his body due to his years of brawling and gunfighting, the most noticeable being one from a knife starting above his left eyebrow and running down below his eye. He has been shot twice, stabbed once, cut on several occasions and beaten even more often than that. It hasn't yet been quite enough to kill him, although he does now walk with a slightly noticeable limp.

He keeps his dark brown hair short on the sides and slightly longer on top, as well as keeping a mustache and goatee. He has brown eyes that might often betray pain he’d claim he isn’t feeling, or anger he’ll claim he is. His face has a few more wrinkles than someone of his age should and a coarseness to it that betrays his rough way of life.

Occupations:

Bounty Hunter
Boxer/Brawler
Outlaw

Weapons:

Rossi Overland 12 Gauge Shotgun
Colt .45 Single Action Army Revolver
Bowie Knife
Horse: Black Coated Friesian named Morrigan.
Residence: A cabin in the woods outside of Strawberry. Mostly used to store spare weapons and supplies.

Personality:

John is difficult to like and he seems to try to keep it that way. A callous and cynical brute of a man he is well suited to the life of a bounty hunter and outlaw, though even among people in those lines of work he is renowned for his noteworthy brutality. Long since used to repressing most uncomfortable emotions it is rare to see him express anything other than anger or annoyance. He’s not a sadist, rarely taking pleasure in any sort of violence but that makes little difference to those unfortunate enough to become his target. He’ll calmly chop a foot off of a bounty who tries to run whether he gets enjoyment out of it or not.

If there’s anything good that could be said about John at all it’s probably that he’s not altogether ungrateful or disloyal. If someone deliberately goes out of their way to do him a solid he’s not simply going to brush it off. The way he sees it genuine selflessness is so rare it’s not right to simply disregard it on the occasions where it truly occurs. He doesn't really have friends but anyone who gets close enough to him and isn't reflexively pushed away by what he is as a person is something of a treasure. Something he's occasionally even sentient enough to appreciate.

All in all, it's difficult to know who John might have been without the years of emotional repression and numbness and harder still to know if there’s any semblance of that man still in him at all that might one day tunnel his way out.

History:

John spent his early years in Chicago. His father was a relatively well known though not quite professional heavyweight boxer there who was the sole breadwinner of their small family. Whether it was the stress of taking care of them or simple bitterness about being a tied-down family man when he didn’t really seem to want to be the man was a vicious and cruel bastard. He would frequently lose his temper at the smallest of things and physically and verbally abuse both his wife and young son. John’s mother for her part was a timid but compassionate and intelligent woman who always did her best to protect her child from her husbands anger, taking many a lashing in his place.

One day when John was about five or six years old his father once again lost his temper at some insignificant thing and started lashing out at his son, beating him with a broom handle. His mother as always got between them and started trying to push her much larger husband back. The boxer cocked back his fist and punched her hard in the face like he’d done a dozen or more times before. His wife dropped with a sickening crack as her head hit the floor. Unlike all the other times she didn’t cry out, didn’t try to get back up to further defend young John, didn’t move. Both John and his father watched her, all three of them motionless for what felt like an eternity. At that point John kind of blacked out.

By the time he formed his next memory they had fled Chicago and headed to less lawful lands where his father figured he’d be safe from justice. John for his part had buried the memory of his mothers murder so deep he barely even remembered it or her. His mind kind of blocked it all out to protect him, though he’d frequently have nightmares of his father beating and killing faceless women in front of him. Life went on though. They rented a cabin in the plains outside of a town called Valentine and his father found work fighting for money and the entertainment of all those who earned an honest living in and around the livestock town. Sheep herders and hands would come from all around to see the cityboy boxer break the jaw of some dumb yokel that thought he could take him.

John actually had a better time of it out in the country than he did back in the city. He made quite a few friends who taught him how to shoot and how to hunt. In return he used his large stature and sometimes simply his father's fearsome reputation to protect them from older bullies. He occasionally had to fight either for or with them but he found that compared to his father's beatings a teenagers punches felt pretty damn soft. He also found out as well as quite a few others that he could hit pretty damn hard himself too. One of the greatest things about the country though was that it was big enough that there were enough things to do outside both during the day and in the town at night that he barely ever had to see his dad. Though eventually the day came where that stopped being a problem at all.

His dad would occasionally bring women back to their shack using his winnings from boxing and tell John to get the hell out for a while. Now fourteen years old John knew well enough what was up and usually just left without a word and either sat outside for an hour or so or went off somewhere else so he didn’t have to risk hearing anything. This time though he was already tired from a long day of tracking deer and rabbits and hauling them back to town and he simply wanted to wait around long enough for her to leave so he could go back in and get some sleep. Unfortunately that was soon interrupted by the woman screaming and his father loudly shouting back.

John not really knowing why grabbed his shotgun off the porch and barged his way back inside. There he found his father standing over the woman, blood on his already bruised fists and the lady herself with a bleeding lip. His brain decided then to unlock certain old traumatic memories and both good, loving ones and terrifying, rage inducing ones rushed back to him. “You killed ma.” Was all he said before he raised up the shotgun and blasted his father in the chest. The woman screamed as his father stumbled backwards, knocking over a chair and falling to the wooden floor sputtering blood. The one slug was not quite enough to kill him outright but enough that he wouldn’t last long. John turned to the prostitute and told her to get out and that if she told anyone what she'd seen he’d tell them that he’d last seen them both together when his father told him to leave. After she quickly fled he watched as his father breathed his last breaths feeling little but relief at his passing and grief over losing his mom.

It took quite some time but John eventually managed to move his dad's corpse from the cabin in the middle of the plains to some woods not too far off. He hoped wolves or whatever else would take care of him soon enough, or at least leave him unidentifiable. After cleaning up the blood back at the cabin he packed up as much dry food as he could, grabbed his own shotgun and his dads old revolver and what money he could and headed west on his father's horse towards Strawberry. He hunted pelts and lived in the woods outside of town for a while until he made enough money selling both them and animal meat to afford a small room in town. He'd also occasionally come across camps whilst he was tracking an animal and hold up whoever had made their bed there. It was usually pretty easy. Once or twice someone stupid tried to draw on him and he'd blow off one of their knees but that was about as serious as it ever got. It was a hell of a lot easier to shoot a man standing still ten feet away than it was to snipe a deer or rabbit at fifty.

A couple of years of hunting and bar fighting later he stumbled into taking his first bounty at seventeen, accompanying another more seasoned hunter he'd met in the saloon on one of his contracts. It went pretty well, John killed two men without hesitating or taking any bullets himself and they managed to hogtie the man they were after and bring him in alive for the full price on his head. The seasoned bounty hunter tried to only pay John twenty five percent of the bounty since he was apparently only his apprentice but John called bullshit on that and insisted on half or he’d beat the living hell out of him right there in town and take what was owed. The older man was definitely better with a gun but he sure couldn’t take the larger, younger and angrier man in a fair fist fight. He paid up grudgingly and John made his first professional enemy, one of many he later killed on the job.

To this day John has built himself quite the reputation ranging from Tumbleweed to Valentine as an effective and ruthless bounty hunter and occasional outlaw. He’s had to on rare occasions kill a sheriff and some deputies for refusing to pay him what they owed but he'd taken it in stride, even with the occasional bounties placed on him. Just part of the brutal business.

Theme Song:

Through the Valley by Shawn James and The Shapeshifters.

Do you have a personal story arc prepared:

Kind of? I know where I want to take John character wise but I'm not quite sure how I'm going to get him there yet.

Red Dead Reckoning

John Stone is approved @Sad Ogo. Cowboy up.

@RedVII

Thanks! Would ya like me to wait until you add your CS on the characters thread before I put him over there?

Red Dead Reckoning

Pretty much had my character ready. Just had to adjust him slightly to the CS style. Hope he's okay! I haven't made any IC posts on this site yet so let me know if ya want me to write something. :)

John Stone

Name: John Stone
Gender: Male
Age: 30

Appearance:

A physically imposing man standing at six feet one inches tall and weighing a little over two hundred pounds John is well suited to his work physically. Many scars litter his body due to his years of brawling and gunfighting, the most noticeable being one from a knife starting above his left eyebrow and running down below his eye. He has been shot twice, stabbed once, cut on several occasions and beaten even more often than that. It hasn't yet been quite enough to kill him, although he does now walk with a slightly noticeable limp.

He keeps his dark brown hair short on the sides and slightly longer on top, as well as keeping a mustache and goatee. He has brown eyes that might often betray pain he’d claim he isn’t feeling, or anger he’ll claim he is. His face has a few more wrinkles than someone of his age should and a coarseness to it that betrays his rough way of life.

Occupations:

Bounty Hunter
Boxer/Brawler
Outlaw

Weapons:

Rossi Overland 12 Gauge Shotgun
Colt .45 Single Action Army Revolver
Bowie Knife
Horse: Black Coated Friesian named Morrigan.
Residence: A cabin in the woods outside of Strawberry. Mostly used to store spare weapons and supplies.

Personality:

John is difficult to like and he seems to try to keep it that way. A callous and cynical brute of a man he is well suited to the life of a bounty hunter and outlaw, though even among people in those lines of work he is renowned for his noteworthy brutality. Long since used to repressing most uncomfortable emotions it is rare to see him express anything other than anger or annoyance. He’s not a sadist, rarely taking pleasure in any sort of violence but that makes little difference to those unfortunate enough to become his target. He’ll calmly chop a foot off of a bounty who tries to run whether he gets enjoyment out of it or not.

If there’s anything good that could be said about John at all it’s probably that he’s not altogether ungrateful or disloyal. If someone deliberately goes out of their way to do him a solid he’s not simply going to brush it off. The way he sees it genuine selflessness is so rare it’s not right to simply disregard it on the occasions where it truly occurs. He doesn't really have friends but anyone who gets close enough to him and isn't reflexively pushed away by what he is as a person is something of a treasure. Something he's occasionally even sentient enough to appreciate.

All in all, it's difficult to know who John might have been without the years of emotional repression and numbness and harder still to know if there’s any semblance of that man still in him at all that might one day tunnel his way out.

History:

John spent his early years in Chicago. His father was a relatively well known though not quite professional heavyweight boxer there who was the sole breadwinner of their small family. Whether it was the stress of taking care of them or simple bitterness about being a tied-down family man when he didn’t really seem to want to be the man was a vicious and cruel bastard. He would frequently lose his temper at the smallest of things and physically and verbally abuse both his wife and young son. John’s mother for her part was a timid but compassionate and intelligent woman who always did her best to protect her child from her husbands anger, taking many a lashing in his place.

One day when John was about five or six years old his father once again lost his temper at some insignificant thing and started lashing out at his son, beating him with a broom handle. His mother as always got between them and started trying to push her much larger husband back. The boxer cocked back his fist and punched her hard in the face like he’d done a dozen or more times before. His wife dropped with a sickening crack as her head hit the floor. Unlike all the other times she didn’t cry out, didn’t try to get back up to further defend young John, didn’t move. Both John and his father watched her, all three of them motionless for what felt like an eternity. At that point John kind of blacked out.

By the time he formed his next memory they had fled Chicago and headed to less lawful lands where his father figured he’d be safe from justice. John for his part had buried the memory of his mothers murder so deep he barely even remembered it or her. His mind kind of blocked it all out to protect him, though he’d frequently have nightmares of his father beating and killing faceless women in front of him. Life went on though. They rented a cabin in the plains outside of a town called Valentine and his father found work fighting for money and the entertainment of all those who earned an honest living in and around the livestock town. Sheep herders and hands would come from all around to see the cityboy boxer break the jaw of some dumb yokel that thought he could take him.

John actually had a better time of it out in the country than he did back in the city. He made quite a few friends who taught him how to shoot and how to hunt. In return he used his large stature and sometimes simply his father's fearsome reputation to protect them from older bullies. He occasionally had to fight either for or with them but he found that compared to his father's beatings a teenagers punches felt pretty damn soft. He also found out as well as quite a few others that he could hit pretty damn hard himself too. One of the greatest things about the country though was that it was big enough that there were enough things to do outside both during the day and in the town at night that he barely ever had to see his dad. Though eventually the day came where that stopped being a problem at all.

His dad would occasionally bring women back to their shack using his winnings from boxing and tell John to get the hell out for a while. Now fourteen years old John knew well enough what was up and usually just left without a word and either sat outside for an hour or so or went off somewhere else so he didn’t have to risk hearing anything. This time though he was already tired from a long day of tracking deer and rabbits and hauling them back to town and he simply wanted to wait around long enough for her to leave so he could go back in and get some sleep. Unfortunately that was soon interrupted by the woman screaming and his father loudly shouting back.

John not really knowing why grabbed his shotgun off the porch and barged his way back inside. There he found his father standing over the woman, blood on his already bruised fists and the lady herself with a bleeding lip. His brain decided then to unlock certain old traumatic memories and both good, loving ones and terrifying, rage inducing ones rushed back to him. “You killed ma.” Was all he said before he raised up the shotgun and blasted his father in the chest. The woman screamed as his father stumbled backwards, knocking over a chair and falling to the wooden floor sputtering blood. The one slug was not quite enough to kill him outright but enough that he wouldn’t last long. John turned to the prostitute and told her to get out and that if she told anyone what she'd seen he’d tell them that he’d last seen them both together when his father told him to leave. After she quickly fled he watched as his father breathed his last breaths feeling little but relief at his passing and grief over losing his mom.

It took quite some time but John eventually managed to move his dad's corpse from the cabin in the middle of the plains to some woods not too far off. He hoped wolves or whatever else would take care of him soon enough, or at least leave him unidentifiable. After cleaning up the blood back at the cabin he packed up as much dry food as he could, grabbed his own shotgun and his dads old revolver and what money he could and headed west on his father's horse towards Strawberry. He hunted pelts and lived in the woods outside of town for a while until he made enough money selling both them and animal meat to afford a small room in town. He'd also occasionally come across camps whilst he was tracking an animal and hold up whoever had made their bed there. It was usually pretty easy. Once or twice someone stupid tried to draw on him and he'd blow off one of their knees but that was about as serious as it ever got. It was a hell of a lot easier to shoot a man standing still ten feet away than it was to snipe a deer or rabbit at fifty.

A couple of years of hunting and bar fighting later he stumbled into taking his first bounty at seventeen, accompanying another more seasoned hunter he'd met in the saloon on one of his contracts. It went pretty well, John killed two men without hesitating or taking any bullets himself and they managed to hogtie the man they were after and bring him in alive for the full price on his head. The seasoned bounty hunter tried to only pay John twenty five percent of the bounty since he was apparently only his apprentice but John called bullshit on that and insisted on half or he’d beat the living hell out of him right there in town and take what was owed. The older man was definitely better with a gun but he sure couldn’t take the larger, younger and angrier man in a fair fist fight. He paid up grudgingly and John made his first professional enemy, one of many he later killed on the job.

To this day John has built himself quite the reputation ranging from Tumbleweed to Valentine as an effective and ruthless bounty hunter and occasional outlaw. He’s had to on rare occasions kill a sheriff and some deputies for refusing to pay him what they owed but he'd taken it in stride, even with the occasional bounties placed on him. Just part of the brutal business.

Additional info:

Nope. I am a fan of character theme songs though. Have one in case you too like them reader.

Do you have a personal story arc prepared:

Kind of? I know where I want to take John character wise but I'm not quite sure how I'm going to get him there yet.

Red Dead Potential: A Western RP

As a huge fan of the Red Dead games and a lover of the general setting I am also very interested in this. I'll start thinking about a character.

Elder Scrolls: Skingrad Company

Be very interesting to see how he and Flavia avoid killing each other in the long run if accepted, haha. Accidentally made her opposite. I got way too carried away with the character history. If you don't have all day the last three paragraphs pretty much sum up where he's at now and why he's there.

Calder Blood-Mouth

Name: Calder Blood-Mouth
Race: Nord
Gender: Male
Age: 27

Appearance: Calder is a little shorter than most Nords standing at about 5’10 inches tall. He also isn’t quite as heavy set looking as most of his Nordic brethren being better described as wiry and lean rather than barrel chested and log armed. He isn’t scrawny by any means having honed his body through years of combat and training, it’s just a little harder than usual to see on him. You could likely even mistake him for an Imperial if it weren’t for his paler skin and distinct blue eyes. Well, that and his wild Nordic look. His unkempt brown hair and beard don’t exactly scream refinement.

His body itself is littered with scars and tattoos. A long scar across his chest from a sword slash he’d moved too slow to completely avoid, a scar on his stomach from a stab wound he’d thought too foolishly and too slowly to avoid and even some burn scars on his left arm and shoulder than weren’t really his fault at all. Just being in the right place at the wrong time. The tattoos are mostly mementos for significant events. Particularly difficult battles he managed to live through or people he killed or didn’t that deserve to be remembered.

Personality: Calder is rather unusual personality wise, especially for a relatively young mercenary. He is reserved, thoughtful and often even outright humble in a way that most warriors with his aptitude for fighting don’t tend to be. He is rarely impulsive and very slow to anger, much preferring to take as much time as he can get to listen and think before taking a course of action. That isn’t to say he is immune to poor decisions, there are certain things that can and will shake or irritate him. He has a kind of code he holds himself to and is deeply bothered by the breaking of it.

Strangely compassionate for such a talented killer he abhors torture for any reason and prefers granting quick deaths even to those who don’t deserve them. He also doesn’t really lie, vastly preferring to deal with the sometimes dangerous consequences of truth rather than the complexities of weaving and keeping up with lies. An odd and somewhat complicated man Calder doesn’t truly really know himself yet and very few people know him all that well either. Most who do tend to either over or underestimate him. Though not very connected to his Nord roots and definitely having no strong feelings about Sovngarde or any other afterlife Calder is still a firm believer in there being worse things than death. He is by no means an “the ends justify the means” kind of man.

Major Skills: One Handed, Hand-to-Hand, Block.
Minor Skills: Sneak, Light Armor, Athletics, and Acrobatics.

Equipment: The most distinct of Calders gear is the armor he wears. A strangely fashionable and very well made set of gear comprised of black, red and brown fabric underneath with hardened and layered leather jackets and chainmail over the top, reinforced with steel studs. Black leather gloves and boots finish the set.

For weapons Calders preference is his custom made steel sabre, dubbed Sentinel. He also keeps two small war axes on his hips that he can employ in situations where the sabre isn’t ideal such as foes that need to be dispatched at some range. He isn’t as accurate with the axes as a well trained archer might be, he also can’t throw them nearly as far as an arrow can shoot and he only gets two chances but typically when he does hit the target it’s down for good.

Other than that he has a medium sized leather pouch he keeps all the adventuring necessities in. Food, drink, septims and sometimes purchased potions or poisons.

History: Calder spent his childhood on the impoverished waterfront of the Imperial City. His mother being a strong Nord woman helped load and deload the various ships that docked for an okay wage. It was decent enough work for the waterfront anyway. Made sure they stayed warm in one of the small shacks there which is more than could be said for a lot of the poor who inhabited that area. She loved her son dearly and spent most of her wage keeping him fed and entertained whilst she worked. Trying her best to keep his focus away from the various Thieves Guild members who used children as distractions or couriers and whatever else. To that end she taught him to read and bought him countless books that they would both read and discuss together. Slowly teaching him everything from history to morality and philosophy through them. It worked for the most part. Calder rarely got into trouble and when he was approached and asked to do certain nefarious things he had the confidence and smarts to judge the situation well enough. For the most part he spent those early years reading and pretty soon he grew strong enough to help his mother load ships. He wasn’t the biggest lad but he was strong.

His father was an Imperial who worked on one of the ships his mother loaded. A smuggler and privateer who always seemed to have a smirk on his face. He was a battle-scarred ex-soldier who looked like he’d seen enough war for ten men but didn’t seem to really let it faze him. At least outwardly. Despite his love for him he rarely saw his dad for the first ten or so years of his life. Once a month would be an overstatement. He was either always at sea or at some other port somewhere taking care of whatever would come up there. When he did see him it was a source of joy however, something to break the monotony of the waterfront. He’d tell him stories of life at sea and tales of other lands from Blackmarsh to Hammerfell. As he grew and heard those stories combined with the ones he’d read by himself he became more and more sure that doing what his father did was what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to see the wonders of the seas, experience the brotherhood of shipmates and experience the lands various port cities. For a boy who had barely ever left the docks it sounded truly wonderful.

To that end his father started training him both in combat and in the ways of seafaring. Showing him what he could of the ship and how it worked whilst not actually being at sea. To his surprise his dad completely changed when it came time to train in combat. He no longer smiled or joked and was almost brutal in his lessons. It was no joke or light matter he explained near the start of training. What he was learning would at some point be the difference between living and dying out at sea. The difference between his mother and him grinning from ear to ear seeing their son step off of his docked ship after months at sea or spending the rest of their lives filled with grief and regret at letting him pursue the life of a privateer. Over time his dad started returning more and more often, taking shorter trips and stating that Calder needed more frequent lessons. By the time he turned 15 he was training with real steel and almost as nimble with a blade as his dad. Having now been training with increasing frequency for 5 years he was hungry for the seas. Ready for them. Though sad at the prospect of leaving his mother alone for the first time. His father for his part said that there were certain things you could never truly prepare for until you experienced them. It was almost time, he’d take him to sea after he’d turned 16.

One more year. That wasn’t soon enough for Calder and for the first time in his life he did something he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of. He entered some bare knuckle boxing matches on the waterfront. He was already almost fully grown and the years of loading ships and combat training with his father had left him in fantastic shape and well trained. Most of the combatants likely wouldn’t be much of a challenge. Secretly it was also at the suggestion of his father. He said Calder needed to experience real, true violence before it was thrust upon him without him having any choice in the matter. A boxing match with at least a couple of rules and around locals who knew and liked him well enough was one of the safest places he could think of for him to experience that.

Sadly he’d been wrong about the people fighting there being no match for him. His fathers brutal training hadn’t actually been all that brutal it seemed. Real fighting was something else. Nothing but the reality of it can prepare you for a man rushing at you and trying to bash your face into mush. The first few fights he got some hits in but barely seemed to faze his opponent, soon after taking a couple of hits himself that felt like crates falling on him and being down for the count. His father watched him fight as soon as he could and quickly summed it up. “You’re holding back”, he said. “You pull your punches like that in your first life or death fight and you won't live to see a second... Believe it or not you have to actually hurt the other person to beat them. If you can’t do that then find something to do with your life that doesn’t involve fighting. I won't be responsible for your death because you got in a fight where the other person wanted to chop your head clean off and stick it on a pike and you were worried about cutting them.”

Calders initial response to that was that in a real fight it would be self defense and he wouldn’t feel any guilt for ending them. That in boxing it was just for coin, that a lot of the people that fought were just trying to make enough to get by on the docks and that he had other ways to make money whereas they didn’t. He didn’t say any of that though. He knew how he felt was right, or at least he thought it was but he also knew his father was right in his way too. So he stopped holding back and soon started winning fights. Though he quietly gave half the winnings to the loser if he knew they were in need.

A year later he’d grown calm and confident even in the more challenging fights. He felt ready for that first real fight his father told him he’d eventually come to experience, though he knew he wasn’t. He thought the same thing before he’d boxed and he was wrong. He just hoped he wouldn’t be quite as wrong when the time came. So now 16 years of age Calder said an emotional goodbye to his mother and set off to sea with his father. A relatively quick journey to Archon of Black Marsh. Better yet they were fully stocked so if they spotted a ship flying enemy colors they weren’t obliged to attack it for the possible cargo. He soon grew to love the sea as much as he thought he would. The smell, the constant work, his shipmates and the sights. He loved what many others might have hated. Sadly them being fully stocked narrowed only their chances of attacking, not of being attacked and as Calder later learned it actually increased them somewhat since certain people would tip off others on which ships were carrying more cargo. So a ship soon moved to attack them, a thing Calder assumed would be fast and violent but no, they knew about 20 minutes before that the ship was on an intercept course. That was the longest 20 minutes of Calder's life at that point. As the ship drew closer they fired on it but didn’t manage to do much damage before they were being boarded. Then things grew fast. His father shouted “Don’t hold back!” right before they entered the fray and that’s about all he remembered from his life before at that moment. Suddenly nothing else mattered, nothing else in the world had happened or would ever happen. Or that was happening was this life and death right here. This minute would be the only minute there might ever be.

Some huge Nord tried to hit him with a war hammer and he quickly dodged back, stepping forward again as the momentum and weight of the hammer threw the man off balance and slicing his sword across his neck. Warm blood spat out across his face and he had to consciously stop himself from being overly distracted by it. Before he could move on and pick another target he was tackled, someone hitting him and bringing him to the ground like a boulder. Before he knew it he felt the very familiar feeling of being punched in the face and the old sharp pain in his jaw. Then large hands around his throat. He did his best to stop himself from panicking as his oxygen was cut off and desperately grasped around for his sword. He couldn’t find it so he moved on to the man on top of him, scratching and clawing at his face, trying to gouge his eyes. It wasn’t working. A desperation and rage like he’d never felt took over him just as blackness started to and he cocked his arm back and launched it forward as hard as he could muster, cracking the man in the nose. His grip loosened almost entirely and Calder quickly took the opportunity to knock his arms away with his, then quickly pulled his head forward and down to him leaving his neck exposed. In the minute of battle madness Calder bit deep into his neck, tearing away as much flesh as he could. Then he did it again and then once again until the man was clutching his mutilated throat and gasping his last inaudible words. Probably curses. The fight soon ended after that with them victorious, his father and the other battle-hardened men making quick work of their foes. Calder earned his name that day and the respect of the crew. His father later asked him how he felt and he surprised both of them by saying “Nothing really. It was them or mother never seeing me step back off this ship.”

Over the next decade Calder went on countless journeys. He visited Hammerfell, High Rock, Valenwood, Black Marsh and Morrowind countless times, staying with his fathers captain even after his dad had retired to finally settle down with Calder's mother. He killed at least a hundred men over the years, most of them at sea. Occasionally he would stay in a land such as High Rock or Valenwood for a month or two taking on mercenary work in order to see the land. It was this that eventually got him into trouble. He was looking for a ship sailing back to Anvil from Falinesti where he’d been making his home for a while. He wasn’t one to brag but his name was famous or infamous enough among most sea-fairers that most would happily have him aboard for the journey in return for his help if they were attacked or needed to board a ship. It didn’t take him long to find such a one.

Unfortunately it turned out to be a big mistake, this particular crew had crossed the thin line from privateer and pirate to straight up bandit some time back it seemed. When they raided a civilian ship and cut down the guards that was enough by itself to get Calder angry but once they started executing the actual civilians he flew into a rage. He managed to carve through five of them before they pinned him down, beating him half to death and dragging him to the wretch they called a captain. A dishonor to the title. What hurt Calders pride the most in all this was that the captain didn’t understand why he was upset. He was a pirate just as he was after all. Calder spat blood in his face at that. He’d never killed a civilian. Not once in the hundreds of ships he’d taken. Not even the one that had stabbed him in fear. Sure, technically he was a pirate but he still abided by the code his father taught him as a privateer. He only ever took military targets and those warriors that surrendered lived no matter what. The injured got medical treatment and the people too far gone got quick deaths. It was a dirty business but that didn’t mean you had to become a monster. The so called captain found this explanation amusing. He chuckled as he took out his dagger and stabbed Calder twice in the abdomen, then ordering him thrown overboard.

Luckily for Calder they weren’t too far off the shore of Anvil at this point and the waves brought him closer still. A fishing boat found him and did their best to staunch the bleeding until they got back to the city. There they brought him to the temple where a Priestess used restoration magic to heal him fully over a matter of days. He split what little coin he had left on him between the Priestess and the fishermen as thanks for saving his life and set out seeking well paid mercenary work. He was going to finally explore Cyrodiil, make enough money doing contracts to afford a ship, find a decent and loyal crew and then hunt that wretched captain down if it took him the rest of his days. He owed that bastard and anyone working for him at least two stab wounds each.

Elder Scrolls: Skingrad Company

@Sad Ogo if you can get a character sheet up and you want to start straight away, your character would just have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time or you can either wait... Up to you! Can always message me so we can sort it out.

@josephb

Cool! Thank you, I'll have a character sheet up pretty soon.