cider

Upon the Sunset Sea; World of Darkness RP

Hah, you look like roadkill.

Upon the Sunset Sea; World of Darkness RP

Gareth

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Name: Gareth Allard
Age: 154. Appearance-wise early 40's.
Species: Kindred, Malkavian, Camarilla. 8th generation.
Personality:

Gareth is obsessive, cunning, unyielding and not a little bit mad. He lives for his job, and his personality accomodates for it. Naturally investigative and curious, smart enough to know not to poke his nose where it doesn't belong yet clearly deranged enough to do so anyway. When Gareth is given a mission - or picks one - he will follow it through no matter what. As determined and brutal as he is in these aspects, as contradictory is other parts of his personality. Gareth is social and witty, laidback in conversations as well as life in general whenever not working.

When he keeps his madness in check, Gareth is an exceptional detective and informant. He knows a lot of stuff and a lot of people, and a lot of stuff about a lot of people. His main hobby in life (death) is indeed his job, and he works with serious tenacity. Gareth has a photographic memory, something he makes use of along with his analytical skills. Gareth doesn't employ a large network of contacts like many others in his business do, but opts to go places and physically finding out stuff himself. He has contacts, of course, just not the numbers one might expect of a man in Gareth's position. He is not beyond using technology, but it's generally just not his forte. It is a common belief amongst people who know him that the only way to keep Gareth "sane" is to keep him working, as his focus seem to at least temporarily overcome his curse.

He acts erratically, and can often be found writing nonsense on walls whenever he has a pen and time in and on his hands. He is impossible to offend, and treats others as if they were the same. He understands nothing of art, but loves it and collects it. Paintings, in particular. He likes plenty of other people, but isn't above killing any of them. Some (most) would call him a sociopath, but Gareth merely views himself as Gareth. He simply, generally speaking, does what he wants, whether it's talking, laughing or killing.

Speaking of which, Gareth firmly believes that the laws of Camarilla should be upheld no matter what, yet seemingly has tremendous troubles not to break them himself. His mad streaks include, but are not limited to, an incessant need for tormenting various creatures, preferably Kine or Garou, a very strong need to drink blood no matter how recently he fed, a compulsive repression of his human memories and very, very real nightmares that sometimes occur when he is awake, as if they were visions. Indeed, he believes they are. Moreover, he doesn't even dislike Kine nor Garou, he just wants - needs - to brutally murder them.

Biography:

Gareth is the proud proprietor, owner and only employee of Allard's Agency, a private detective firm that isn't actually a private detective firm but rather a room in a deserted office building in the outskirts of Los Angeles, with a homemade sign reading "Allard's Agency" nailed to the door. Living in Boston since the early 20's, Gareth Allard has been part information broker, part private detective and part hitman in employ of the Camarilla. During later years he has, however, had his hitman "license" revoked by the Camarilla as these murders seemed to ramp up his madness rather than take off the pressure, leading to less than satisfying results.

Gareth used to be the premiere information broker in Boston, but was due to reasons as of yet unknown the subject of a personal vendetta driven by Boston's Prince - Quentin King III. Gareth chose to flee rather than fight, and left Boston for the warmer climate of Los Angeles a mere six months ago. It wasn't the climate that drew Gareth to Los Angeles though, but rather connections and possibilities. Generally a city of turmoil, LA has been even more chaotic than usual lately - a great opportunity for someone like Gareth to squeeze in. Moreover, Gareth's childe - Alima - is an established figure in Los Angeles.

Today, Gareth is the go-to-guy for many of Los Angeles' less fortunate supernaturals whenever they need help and information in particular, be it about other beings of the night, kine, companies, history or even themselves. That is assuming they can pay the price, naturally. Gareth takes payment in a rather unusual form - that of people. When Gareth is contracted, he typically wants a specific type of person, or even a specific individual, as payment. This is more than likely another reason Gareth has not reached the heights he might have otherwise done. Moreover, Gareth also undertakes missions of his own, usually merely in order to satisfy his curiosity, which is never satisfied.

Gareth remembers little of is human life, but he believes he was a math teacher. Or a janitor. Or something else. Likely a murderer or similarly depraved individual, or so Gareth has concluded based on his own behaviour. What he does know is that he originally comes from Wyoming, that his father was a dentist and that his mother was not. He also knows he was embraced in 1863, because his now dead sire has told him so.

He has had many dealings and contacts throughout his years in Boston, and had he not been mad and instead actually cared about power and influence, chances are he would have been a very powerful and influential person by now. Instead, he has often been used by his ungrateful peers - but Gareth simply never cared. He is popular and reputable amongst many Malkavians across the States and have been so for quite some time, and while most vampires would never trust Gareth, they tend to like his antics whether they want to or not. Paradoxically, the orderly Camarilla clans seem to have the most problem with Gareth as a person, yet the most use of him as a professional.

While Gareth Allard is new to the LA scene, he has already earned the respect of the lower standing citizens, and the higher ups are no doubt fully aware of who they now have in their midst. If one were to make Gareth an enemy, he might even now prove very dangerous indeed - but how do you make an enemy out of someone who literally can not be offended?

NPCs:

Gareth's childe

Alima, 9th generation Malkavian. So far the only childe of Gareth's, Alima is his most important contact. They trust one another implicitly, and as such Gareth often has Alima handle delicate matters. She's headstrong, independent and owns one of the more popular Malkavian clubs in the LA area; Rabid. She commonly mingles with higher ups in LA and is often viewed as a socialite. She was embraced in the early 70's. Rumor has it she was originally sent to Gareth as payment, her human background unknown. What is known for certain is that she is a foreigner, as she used to have quite an accent back in the day.

Gareth's contacts and acquaintances

Empty as of yet. Will be updated continuously as people show up IC.

Upon the Sunset Sea; World of Darkness RP

Thanks for the info! I'll rework the CS accordingly.

Upon the Sunset Sea; World of Darkness RP

Hello. I have a few questions.

1) You mentioned in the OP where this RP is set, but I wonder when? As in year. Maybe this was indirectly written, but I'm probably not familiar enough with the lore to understand it if so. I'm a big fan of Bloodlines (although it was a good many years ago since I last played it) but have zero experience with World of Darkness otherwise (well, other than RP's). On a similar note, I also wonder what this conflict between the Camarilla and Anarchs was.

2) If I understood it correctly, this is set in the same "world" as Bloodlines? I'm aware there's different editions (? wrong word maybe), but the only one I'm familiar with is the one used for Bloodlines.

3) Is it okay to submit a CS used for another roleplay? I can't remember ever doing that before, but I have a character concept I really liked from another WoD-RP several years ago that never really got off the ground that I'd like to adapt to this.

Absolute Comics: A Brave New World

P R E S E N T

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P R O L O G U E

P A R T II

The devil's advocate

N E W Y O R K CITY

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^{January 2nd, 2016 - 07:00 | A penthouse apartment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.}

Standing by one of the many windows, Wilson Fisk watched the sun slowly rise over New York. It was very much an everyday routine, or perhaps a ritual. The morning routine never changed. First, Wilson would make his way from the bedroom to an oversized bathroom and do that routine, then brew and pour coffee before putting it on a tray at the very window he was now standing at. Fisk didn't like very hot coffee, and while waiting for it to cool a little, he would do what he did now - shave while watching the sunrise. It was a meditative experience, he found. Helped him acquire the patient, calm demeanor he was known for, and avoid the aggressive outbursts that had made him infamous. Sunny mornings like today made it all the easier. Fisk finished his shave and put the razor down. He lightly dabbed his face with a warm cloth folded in front of him and took his coffee. He drank it while reading the morning newspapers.

The top stories was the same as it had been yesterday. "Chaos ensue as violence escalate". The article went on about the recent skirmishes in the criminal underworld, and in particular what by this journalist was called the massacre of New Year's Eve which left over thirty people dead in three locations, all members of organized crime. While Fisk had no doubts the police was of a different opinion, media had already connected the sudden killing spree to a vigilante, or several vigilantes. "The next Punisher" was one of the headlines, the article elaborating that organized crime might be in for a very difficult future. Fisk had no doubt the stories would become more sensible as the initial sensation wore off, but it did make for an entertaining read.

The attacks on New Year's Eve was indeed worthy of being called "massacres". They had all been carried out to the letter, with every single target left dead. One of Fisk's men had succumbed to a bullet from one of his own - the result of crossfire - but other than that, the operation had been executed to perfection. The Maggia leadership had been wiped out in one swift stroke, and with the snake decapitated it was also rendered nearly harmless. Without the organizational structure intact, Fisk had no doubt the large local manpower of the Maggia would be very willing to switch sides.

So why, then, did his mouth tighten and his fingers restlessly drum against the kitchen table? It is nothing, he thought. But it wasn't. It was a silly, simple thing, but while Fisk wanted to put the thought away he knew he could not. During one of the attacks on New Year's Eve, the one in the port district, Richie Kalinski had said something. Kalinski was a made man of the Maggia, and one of the most prominent ones. He had been in charge of smuggling various goods in and out of the city by sea. Fisk's men had reported that as Kuklinski bled out on the ground, the man had taunted his attackers, saying that taking his life meant nothing. They had responded that Kuklinski wasn't the first man that had died that night, but that the leader of the New York Maggia, Damian Adelardi, was dead as well. Kuklinski had laughed and managed to blurt out "Adelardi? Who fucking cares? You people don't know anything, do you?" before being shot dead. One of the men had had the good grace of notifying Jack Rose, the leader of the operation, who in turn relayed the quote to Fisk.

It was just a few words spilled out of a dying, panicked and likely shocked man, but Fisk thought that all the more reason to take it seriously. It didn't seem entirely unlikely that something wasn't as it should, after all. Fisk had never held Adelardi in high esteem, and had at times wondered how a man of such common intellect was able to lead the Maggia. Fisk had assumed it came down to the actual heads of the Maggia, those ruling over the entire east coast, being hands on in their approach, guiding Adelardi in his task. But perhaps there was something more to it. The more Fisk thought about it, the more it seemed like a plausibility rather than improbability that Adelardi was a front of some sorts. A living target, someone to attract the attention others did not want. Still, that was a very risky game to play and sounded more like something out of a novel than a ploy that might actually be used.

Fisk spit the coffee back in the cup. It had grown cold. He rose from the table and entered his walk-in closet. He chose a charcoal suit with a plain mulberry tie and proceeded to get dressed. Yesterday had been a hectic day. Fisk had made sure to keep the pressure up, continuing to hit the Maggia across town, albeit hits of a smaller magnitude. What surprised him was that the Maggia was yet to hit back. He had anticipated attacks on a number of locations, and had prepared accordingly. Instead his enemies seemed to whimper in a corner, perfectly content with Fisk taking over the house. That did not seem right, and another reason to lend credibility to Kukinski's dying words. Fisk wished his men had been clever enough to interrogate the man rather than finish him off. The logical conclusion now was that the Maggia was preparing a large scale counter attack, likely organized by the east coast leaders or, possibly, by an unknown party in New York. Yet even if Fisk assumed that was the case, how should he react? What would they do, and how could he stop it? What capabilities could they still possess, and where would they hit?

---

^{January 4th, 2016 - 15:15 | Somewhere in Pennsylvania.}

The mansion was positively huge, its property sprawling over acres and acres. The mansion itself had stood for nearly two hundred years. It served as the seat and home for whoever was in charge of the east coast at the moment, and had done so for nearly a century. As such, it was one of the Maggia's more secretive locations. Not its existence, naturally, but rather its purpose. Flicking through the folder, the silver-haired man leaned back in his chair and peered at the subordinate seated in front of him.

"This is our man, I take it?"
"Yes sir, our contacts mark him as the premiere professional available for the job. He supposedly has extensive military experience, and rumors have it he's even taken on the Punisher back in the day and, well, survived."
"Supposedly? Rumors?" the silver-haired man asked, raising an eyebrow.
"His background has been difficult to figure out sir. He, or someone, has done a very good job of hiding it. What we do know is that he's taken on at least fifty contracts just in the U.S., and that he is responsible for killing a whole lot of men, including mutants."
"And how many contracts has he failed?"
"None, as far as we are aware, sir. If I may ask though... why are we not letting Joseph deal with this instead of involving outsiders?" The old man in the chair scratched his chin.
"Because we have lost enough important men already. I would not have Joseph do something this risky when we have a man that appears more capable and of less importance able to do the job." He made a gesture to his subordinate, who left him. The man looked down on the folder again, reading it properly. There was indeed no doubt this man was capable of the job. By the looks of it, the man might well be a mutant himself. He even had a moniker to match. In fact, all he had was a moniker, as his real identity remained unknown. And what a silly moniker it was. Bullseye.

---

^{January 7th, 2016 - 02:25 | A penthouse apartment somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.}

The sound was dull and quick, but Fisk knew the thud he'd just heard was what had awaken him and not part of whatever he had been dreaming of. With agility and deftness improbable of a man his size, Fisk got out of bed and silently picked up a very big, almost proportionate to his own size, loaded .50 pistol from his nightstand with one hand and a metal baseball bat from underneath his bed with the other. Weapons in hand, he stood still and listened. The sound had appeared to come from inside the apartment. Unsure if he was imagining the nature of the sound or not, Fisk nevertheless thought it sounded very much like a body dropping to the ground. It wouldn't be impossible. Jack Rose had been guarding his apartment while Fisk slept for the past nights as Fisk grew increasingly worried of the Maggia's retaliation, or rather the lack of it. He knew damn well that this apartment was protected - there was no way anyone outside of his organization knew he lived here - but Fisk was not one to take chances, never mind underestimate his enemies.

Another sound was heard. It was a dull sound like the one that had woken him, but this one was nearly inaudible. Yet Fisk had no doubt what he heard straight after was a very human hushing. On the wall next to him was three switches. One would light up the bedroom, one would light up the entire apartment, and one would trigger the panic alarm. Fisk flicked the panic button as well as lit up the entire floor. For all he knew, there was a team of Maggia men or crooked police on the other side of the door wearing night vision goggles. Without further consideration, Fisk lifted his gun simultaneously to flicking on the light and aimed at what would be the average man's chest height. He then proceeded to squeeze the trigger and methodically empty his clip as he strafed the bedroom door and wall. The gunfire was incredibly loud and Fisk knew all pretense of secrecy was certainly blown now - he would have to switch safe house. Yet a move was entirely preferable to death. As his clip emptied, Fisk listened for more noises as he quickly reached for one of the magazines kept in the drawer of the nightstand. Before he had a chance to react, another bang - this time from the other side of the bedroom wall - rang in his ears and he felt a dull ache in his arm. He'd been shot. Instinctively, Fisk knew that if he had been a normal sized man, that bullet would have hit his head rather than arm. He managed to grab a hold of a magazine and tried to reload, when the bedroom door suddenly burst open.

The man in front of Fisk looked like nothing he'd expected. Geared in black and white tights and armed with two pistols, the man positively looked like a clown, much like the costumed super heroes. This guy was obviously no hero, however. Impossibly fast, the man leveled his guns at him and fired. Fisk felt at least one, possibly more, bullets hit him as he reflexively threw the baseball bat at his attacker. It hit, causing the intruder to stumble and drop one of his guns. Fisk was already on the move, and before his attacked could fire again, Fisk took dropped his empty gun and grabbed the nightstand next to him, hurling it straight at the man. It hit him square in the chest, causing the man to fly back out of the room along with the nightstand. Fisk lunged after.

As he exited the bedroom, he saw the intruder lying on the floor. Yet before Fisk had time to assess the situation, the man threw a leg from the broken nightstand at his head. The impact was surprisingly hard, given the man was of average size and had thrown it while lying down. It was also accurate, hitting Fisk square on the nose. Fisk felt it breaking.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed, before simply jumping at the man. The intruder tried to roll away, but Fisk managed to grab his leg, meaning the fight was all over. He quickly pulled the man towards him and him him in his chest once with his free hand, feeling the ribs breaking underneath his fist. Yet somehow the attacker didn't relent, pulling out a stun gun from his belt. Fisk knocked it out of the man's hand with a backhand.
"Enough!" he exclaimed and sat on the man, breaking any resistance. "Who are you and who sent you?" The man beneath him seemed to have trouble breathing, but after wheezing a little and giving off a weak chuckle, he answered.
"Why, I'm Bullseye, and I was sent by someone who doesn't like you very much. For some reason though, they neglected to mention the fact th-*cough*-that you're a fucking monster." he said with a strained voice, forcing himself to stifle another giggle as it seemed to hurt. Fisk looked at him incredulously.
"Who sent you? Give me a name and you may survive this yet."
"Would-would you please stop squeezing me to a puddle? So that I can answer with-without fucking dying." Fisk slowly release the pressure, pinning the man's arms instead. "Ahhh, much better, thank you. Listen pal, I don't have any loyalties to the guy employing me. I'm a freelancer. How 'bout you give me a better offer, and I'll kill him for you instead."
"And why should I trust a word coming out of your mouth?"
"Pick my left pocket, there's a PDA there." Fisk carefully put Bullseye's arms in one his left hand before reaching into the man's pocket, pulling out a little electronic device. Bullseye navigated him towards a folder.
"Silvio Manfredi?"
"That's the guy. "Silvermane" they call him. He's heading up the Maggia on the east coast. Real big shot. He hired me to kill anyone I found on this address, this apartment. Told me there'd probably be a big guy there. Again, though, he didn't say you're this big." With the man seemingly finished, Fisk tried to take it all in.
"You certainly do not seem to have a problem divulging information you should not share, Bullseye."
"Well, the way I see it, I'm dead anyway if I don't give you something, right? Plus, more importantly, you seem like a hell of a lot more interesting employer than that old self-conceited fuck. Oh, and I know you're the one behind the massacre of New York's Eve of course. I'd love to be a part of something like that. So what do you say, Wilson?"

Absolute Comics: A Brave New World

You could try something like this? IDK.

Absolute Comics: A Brave New World

P R E S E N T

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P R O L O G U E

P A R T I

Burning the midnight oil

N E W Y O R K CITY

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^{December 31st, 2015 - 23:53 | Essence, a gentlemen's club in Midtown, Manhattan}

The reception was unusually crowded, Samuel noted, though perhaps not unusually so for New Year's Eve. He had just stepped through the door, the blissful warmth already thawing his frozen face. It was a decidedly unusually cold night, the temperatures dropping as low as 10 degrees, according to the radio channel Samuel had been listening to while getting himself ready for tonight. Having walked from his lodging to Essence, Samuel had no trouble believing it. He smiled innocuously as the club's patrons turned their heads at the new arrival, and proceeded to walk towards the dressing rooms. Normally the staff entered the building through a back entrance, but that door was locked and under guard per request of the firm which had hired the club. Samuel didn't even want to know what it would cost someone to book up the entire club on New Year's Eve.

With the bow tie in place, Samuel took a final look in the mirror to make sure he looked appropriate. He did. Dark, tall and lean with a clean-shaven, warm face and not as much as a wrinkle on his clothing. Just as he was leaving the restroom Mr. Cox popped his head through the door.
"There you are, Samuel!" The old man entered the room, his posture impeccably straight as always. "Have the others told you what you will be doing tonight?"
"Yes sir." Samuel answered. "I am to serve the company leadership on the top floor."
"Just so. These are important guests, so I want you to be even sharper tonight, if possible." Mr. Cox said, looking at him. Samuel nodded and smiled. His boss left the room, Samuel following soon after.

With the elevator reaching the top floor, Samuel stepped out. The top floor was furnished much like the rest of Essence - traditionally British, dark mahogany, with elements of alder, zebrano and even Indian laurel. Wood, basically. The decor was sparse and tasteful, the intent to look as luxurious as it was. Yet the top floor was more extravagant than the others. Perhaps not obviously so. The furniture was the same as the others, the colors the same if perhaps using a slightly lighter palette, and the art of a similar nature. It wasn't the prices but rather the design of the floor that made it luxurious. The symmetry, open spacing and lines in general were incredibly tasteful, Samuel thought. Pretentious, clearly, but also appreciated amongst those who understood interior design. Samuel was very impressed by the state of the club in general, but this floor in particular was extraordinary.

The top floor was unsurprisingly less crowded than the others. Most of the tables had been removed for the night, only a handful remaining. Samuel went to the bar and was greeted by the other staff, before being asked to deliver an order to a side table.
"Where you waiting for me to take this?" Samuel asked.
"We heard you where on your way up." the woman in the bar answered. She hesitated. "Sam, we're pretty sure these men belong to the mob. They have armed guards on every floor. This order is for their boss." She looked worried, but Samuel laughed it off. Even though Samuel had only worked at the club for a few months, the staff was already looking up to him. He was handsome, confident and above all very good at his job. Dealing with important individuals came exceedingly easy to Samuel. He had noticed that several men in the club where armed, primarily those located at exits and the elevator. He was hardly surprised.
"It doesn't matter who they are Beth. Tonight they're just here to enjoy themselves. It's perfectly fine. We have guests like these often, if perhaps not occupying every floor."

Nevertheless, Samuel did take the order. A salmanazar of very fine champagne. He looked at his watch. 23:55. The midnight toast, he figured. He put the champagne in a large bucket of ice. It was a tight fit. He then placed it on a silver plate along with glasses, turned the corner and went for the table.

---

Lightly puffing on his cigar, Wilson Fisk turned his head. A waiter approached the table, putting champagne in front of him.
"Would you like me to pour, gentlemen?" the man asked.
"If you don't mind." Fisk answered, smiling. The waiter nodded and set two glasses for them before filling them. "That is all." The waiter nodded again and left. Fisk looked at the young woman opposite him once again. Maya Lopez was a mere sixteen years old, but she carried herself with a grace that far surpassed her young age. Her father, Jensen Lopez, had been a trusted worker of Fisk's, before falling victim to drugs. The man had become a problem, and Fisk had him killed about four years ago. With the rest of her family already gone, Fisk had opted to take Maya under his wing. Perhaps it was out of a feeling of guilt, but Fisk felt more inclined to believe it was due to Maya herself. She was a remarkably talented musician and dancer, intelligent and incredibly likable. She had a way of appearing casual and proper simultaneously, effortlessly mingling with any crowd and winning over anyone to her side with nothing more but a glance and a few words. It was a quality Fisk respected and deeply envied at the same time. The dress she was wearing tonight was hardly appropriate for her age, but Fisk had already learned that trying to control Maya was the quickest way of losing her trust.

"What are you thinking of?" she said, while lifting her glass. Fisk dropped his thoughts and met her gaze.
"Tonight, my dear." Fisk lifted his glass and swirled it lightly before taking a whiff. Very good stuff. "To tonight!" he said, and took a swig. Maya echoed his words and followed suit. She gave him a curious look.
"Aren't you worried? I'm practically shaking." She clearly wasn't. Fisk offered a weak smile and put the cigar back in his mouth.
"A man, or indeed woman,-", he nodded, "-is only ever worried if they lack faith in their planning, or lack a plan entirely. I am never worried."
"Well well, boasting much are we?" she answered with a light giggle.
"No, I believe we are toasting, Maya." He took another swig and checked his watch. 23:57. "I think it's time we head for the patio, no?" Smiling and nodding, Maya rose from the table. Fisk did the same and headed outside.

The cold outside hit Maya like a truck. Fisk didn't feel a thing. He took off his white jacket and wrapped it around Maya's shoulders. It was a comical sight. Other than the two of them, the patio was empty save for Jack Rose, one of two men Fisk had planned tonight's engagements with. They were located on the 26th floor, with a very decent overview of Midtown. The snowfall had subceeded, but a few snowflakes were still falling. Thankfully, it was not very windy at all, even at this height. Fisk inhaled, filling his mouth with the taste of the cigar and the cold of the evening.
"Mr. Fisk." Jack Rose was one of very few people in the organization who called Fisk by his name. Hell, he was one of few who even knew it. Others simply referred to him as "the Boss". "All teams are a go. They are ready to move when you are." Nodding, Fisk looked at his watch again. 23:59. Fireworks were already blazing across the city.
"Why then, Mr. Rose, I do believe it is time to allow the proper fireworks to commence. The operation is greenlit."

---

"The operation is greenlit. I repeat, the operation is greenlit." The words buzzed in Samuel's ear piece as he approached the table. Five men were seated along it. He recognized two. One was Jamie Carr, the newest member of the made men of the Maggia as far as Samuel was aware. Their paths had crossed plenty in the past, as they used to attend the same high school. Carr had certainly risen fast through the ranks. The other man he recognized was Damian Adelardi - the very top leader of the New York Maggia. Samuel drew a deep breath. He reached down in the ice bucked and grabbed hold of a sub-machine gun. His eyes met those of a couple of the other servers. They nodded in response. Unceremoniously, Samuel dropped the bucket and lifted the weapon. Without saying as much as a word, he turned off the safety and squeezed the trigger.

---

Fisk's eyes were intently focused on a building a few blocks west from the patio they were standing on. It was a splendid building, called Enterprise State. Not the exterior perhaps, but the building housed some of the most exclusive organizations and clubs in New York. Too exclusive for Fisk, apparently. The foremost establishment of the building was a gentlemen's club called Essence, which took up twelve floors of the building, including the bottom floor and the top floor. The fact that the Maggia had effortlessly hired the entire building - not just Essence's twelve floors, but the entire skyscraper - at an extortionate amount that Fisk would never dream of paying irked him. It irked him very, very much. Right now, he was watching that top floor. He was just about to say something to Jack Rose, when the top floor suddenly lit up. The flashes where sudden, bright and above all silent, but there was no mistaking the gunfire. Fisk continued to watch with Maya on his arm and Rose speaking on his communications device. And then, windows of various floors of Enterprise State shattered as explosions lit up the night. "Now those, Maya, are the fireworks of progress."

---

Samuel wiped his brow. Fire was enveloping the floor, and the heat was already palpable. He couldn't help but feel a tingle of grief knowing that the exquisite designs throughout the place were about to go extinct. Luckily, they weren't the only things about to go extinct.
"Who-who are you?" he heard someone wheeze through their pain. Samuel looked down. In front of him Damian Adelardi lay sprawled on the floor. Judging by the amount of blood, Samuel had probably hit the man all over, but it was the gun shot wound in his throat that caught Samuel's attention. It was impressive that the old fart was able to speak in spite of it.
"I might as well be Jack-in-the-box for all you care, Adelardi." He cleared his empty magazine and started reloading. "In fact, I suppose I indeed am." Adelardi looked at him incredulously. "I jest, old man. I am Samuel Silke, and you - I believe - are dead." He raised his weapon once more and snuffed out Damian Adelardi's life.

Absolute Comics: A Brave New World

EDIT: Site's being a shithead, accidentally posted my post before it was done. Will edit it back in when it is.

Absolute Comics: A Brave New World

<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>

I want a Kingpin/Parker team up now.

@Byrd Man

Man, when I was reading your sheet I thought "who the hell is Parker?", but after reading this comment and going back it dawned on me, lol. Been like 7-8 years since I last read a Westlake-novel (or "Stark").

Anyway; yeah, that does sound like something that'd be fun.

Absolute Comics: A Brave New World

THE KINGPIN

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^{"Men like us, we serve a very valuable role for this city. The reluctant rulers. The benevolent "bad guys.""}

^{WILSON GRANT FISK ♦ JANUARY 21, 1984 (33) ♦ MALE ♦ LAWFUL EVIL}

C O N C E P T A B S T R A C T:

---

There are many types of characters that is fun to play and/or write, and one of my favourites is the character vying for control - whether it's over people, resources, themselves or the elements. Wilson Fisk is one of those, and on top of that he has in later years been canonically developed in an interesting way. Rather than just a simple (if a 400 lbs criminal genius can ever be called "simple") villain, Fisk is a conflicted character with added depth. This is the route I'll be taking as well. After all, if it's "just another villain", they might as well be left an NPC.

In this story, Wilson Fisk is a still relatively young man who is just now hitting their stride in the underworld of New York. Fisk cares much about the city of New York and is very displeased with what he thinks the criminal element has done to the city. He wants to take control of said element, with the intent to dismantle it. His own criminal organization has developed considerably the past few years, and Fisk is now looking to challenge his peers in the top of New York's food chain, as well as further engage himself in both legal businesses and politics. He has yet to meet Vanessa (time will tell whether he will or won't), and his run-ins with superheroes and their ilk have as of yet been few.

The first story arc serves as a prologue of sorts, will be set a few years ago (2015/16) and deal with Fisks war against the ruling criminal entity of New York - the Maggia - and the acquiring of the moniker Fisk will commonly be known by thereafter - Kingpin.

N O T E S:

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I was hesitant when picking alignments. While I ultimately picked Lawful Evil, I would like to note that the Kingpin would categorize himself as Lawful Neutral, and perhaps he should. This is a man who doesn't consider himself the bad guy, but is well aware that that is how he is perceived by others. He doesn't harbor ill will towards others and takes no pleasure in "evil" acts, yet does what he considers necessary. Wilson Fisk is very utilitaristic - all is for the greater good, and lives are worthless in the grand scheme of things.

As for other characters, the only one of note I've so far planned to include in the first arc is Bullseye, serving as a hitman for Fisk and to be employed against, primarily, the Maggia.

Timeline

T I M E L I N E:

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1984: A child is born to Russian immigrants Anatoly and Ludmila Fyskov (later anglicized as Fisk) and named Wilson.

1992: Wilson suffers severe abuse from his father while growing up and is in -92 hospitalized after one particularly violent dinner. Charges are pressed against Anatoly, but with Wilson and Ludmila both refusing to testify the charges are dropped.

1995: Anatoly dies. The death is ruled suicide, although persistent rumors claim Wilson killed his father. Wilson is heavily bullied in school, primarily for his weight.

1999: Now attending high school, life changes for Wilson. With his height catching up to his weight, Wilson transitions from bullied to bully.

2002: Fisk becomes involved in criminal activities along with class mates from school respecting the physically imposing young man. An altercation with a teacher results in Fisk being expelled from high school three months shy of graduation.

2006: Following his expulsion, Fisk went from criminal juvenile to career criminal. His clique of followers grew, and the ambitious young Fisk became increasingly interested in acquiring leadership and organizational skills. Because of this, Fisk starts educating himself - primarily by reading book after book in libraries, much to his comrades' dismay.

2008: Fisk's gang continues to grow, and his rise is noted by Matt Righetti, a henchman of Don Rigoletto, one of the major crime bosses in New York. Righetti offers Fisk employment, which Wilson accepts.

2010: The time served under Righetti's wing is very successful, eventually leading to Don Rigoletto himself taking on Wilson as a bodyguard and right hand man. Thus, rather quickly, Wilson Fisk has become involved in the upper echelons of New York's criminal enterprises.

2013: By now Wilson has acquired quite a reputation, yet few know the giant's name. His enormous physical frame alone is enough to be the talk of various criminals, while the bosses recognizes his intellect. Wilson is increasingly frustrated with Don Rigoletto's management and lack of ambition, and in a decisive power move murders Rigoletto, taking over his organization in the process. Most of Rigoletto's men willingly follow the impressive Fisk, with those who don't quickly skipping town (or life). Fisk retreats from the limelight, preferring his own persona to be protected from the public.

2015: Under Wilson's seemingly unbridled control, the organization has expanded violently - figuratively and literally. Simultaneously, Fisk has raised the stakes in legal enterprises and started rubbing shoulders with the political and social elite of New York. He has become a thorn in the side of New York's crime bosses, and fears someone will make a move against him. Wilson Fisk decides to strike first.

2017: Present day.