[center][u][color=blue][h2]The Radshaw Brothers[/h2][/color][/u] While they seem complete opposites these brothers were once really close. Events in their early teens separated them and now for the first time in years they are within the same town. [hider=Clayton] [color=brown][h2]Clayton 'Clay' Radshaw[/h2][/color] [h3][u]Bad Ass Lycan[/u][/h3] [img]http://i1148.photobucket.com/albums/o567/Holy-Hunter/image_zpsiscszurf.jpg[/img] [hider=Canine Appearance] [img]http://i1148.photobucket.com/albums/o567/Holy-Hunter/image_zps8mburz8f.jpg[/img] 44" in height, 7.5' in length at 180lbs, he has Heterochromia iridium, one eye is a pale blue and the other hazel. He is a lean and agile wolf.[/hider] [i]"'Ain't nothing come for free' "[/i] Clayton is 6ft 180lbs and is naturally fit and muscular due to his lupine blood. [color=brown][i]Age[/i]:[/color] 28 [color=brown][i]Gender[/i]:[/color] Male [color=brown][i]Species:[/i][/color] Clayton is human Werewolf (He despises and neglects his wolf form which stirs the beast within him.) [color=brown][i]Skills:[/i][/color] Brawling Drinking Mechanical repairs Riding motorbikes Running Endurance [color=brown][i]Personality:[/i][/color] Clay, while a bit rough-around-the-edges is pretty care free and easy going guy. He can be a little arrogant and over confident and extremely head strong and stubborn at times. He is pretty quick to resort to violence or at least threats, the strike first ask questions later type. Character flaws aside he has a generally good heart and will make sacrifices for others. Behind his arrogance he doesn't really believe he is worth dirt, often denying his own happiness believing he must suffer for mistakes of the past. He's the kind of guy that trouble is attracted too. [color=brown][i]Biography:[/i][/color] Clayton is currently on the run from only 'god knows what' but that darkness always follows him. So Clayton runs and runs, only stopping to drink, fight and fuck before hitting the road again. [color=brown][i]Likes:[/i][/color] Whiskey Women Motor bikes Leather Fighting Tattoos The number 13 (Roughly in that order) [color=brown][i]Dislikes:[/i][/color] 'Intellectual' conversations Politics Wimps Sleeping His past Cats Constraints [color=brown][i]Weaknesses:[/i][/color] Short temper Pretty women Rejection to self happiness Low self worth Being trapped (claustrophobia) [color=brown][i]Occupation:[/i][/color] What ever pays; from bar tending to muscle work or mechanical repairs. [color=brown][i]Theme Song:[/i][/color] [url=https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Xj2B-R2ok_E]"[i]Made of Scars[/i]" by Stone Sour[/url] [hider=Intro] [b][color=9e0039][h2][u]CLAYTON RADSHAW[/u] District 12.[/h2][/color][/b] The bright light of a rising morning pieced the thin flesh of Clayton's eyelids. Groggily he shook his head trying to hide from the sun as the cool crisp outside air ran along his skin. Shit, he was outside... It seemed to have gotten much brighter by the time Clay opened his eyes again, he squinted as he looked around trying to assess his location and situation. He was by no means feeling ok, but there had defiantly been occasions before were he had woken up feeling much worse. His head was splitting with a pounding headache, he had poor recollection of the night before, the strong residual smell of whiskey hung on his breath and he had the faint taste of blood on his lips. No there was nothing unusual here. Despite all reasonable logic and indicators he still prayed to find himself in a large soft bed with luscious white sheets and an exotic strange girl wrapped in his arms. As his eyes adjusted to and filtered the piercing painful light he quickly looks around and lets out a deep loud long disappointed sigh, reality hit him hard and confirmed the initial thoughts he wanted to hide from. Clay lay outside amongst a rubbish heap in a dirty small back alley. Surprisingly, even though the odds were against him, he was still both saddened and disappointed by this, as it meant there would be no breakfast or morning sex today. With a groan he picks his battered, bruised and injured body off the floor and recollects the night before.... [hr][center]Last Night [i]unnamed pub[/i][/center][hr] There it was, once again, that all too familiar taste of blood swelling within his mouth. [b]"Mother fuc"[/b] he had began to slur before another fist came violently crashing into his face. His head snapped across sending the growing pool of salivate blood splattering across the floor. There came a deep guttural growl from the back of his throat in reply. Clay slowly lifted his head back up so that this punk may see the predatory rage burning within his eyes. [b]"Not a smart move"[/b] a maniacal smile of perfect white teeth follow his words. Clay who was kneeling on the back of some big up-tight tavern regular, releases the the mans head to fall to the floorboards with a heavy thud. Only moments ago Clay had been pounding his head into the ground and now the mans face was silhouetted by a smeared pool of his own blood. Clay turned all his focus to the punk kid who blind sighted him. Ignoring the man at his feet and the other laying on the pool table clutching his leg as he grunted in agony over the half protruding broken pool que. Had there been the only three in the tavern that day, Clay would have walked out a happy man. But NO. Not even nearly. At least sixteen people had squeezed themselves into this little corner pub to celebrate some sporting victory, and nearly all had enough comradery to get involved instead of watching a few of their team mates get the shit kicked out of them. Well at least it felt like all sixteen of them to Clay. ------- Broken bruised and bloody he came crashing into a pile of rubbish as he was thrown out the back door into a dirty old alley way. "Fu'en puthies" he yells back defiantly through a broken jaw, at what must have been the teams pitcher. The coffee pot that came flying at him next was thrown hard enough to have him seeing black. With a sputter he painfully laughs at his own misfortune before passing out. [hr] [/hider] [/hider] [/center] [hider=Dorian] [center][color=red][h2]Dorian Radshaw[/h2][/color] [h3][u]Tavern owner[/u][/h3] [img]http://i1148.photobucket.com/albums/o567/Holy-Hunter/Mobile%20Uploads/image_zpslutwmzpu.jpg[/img] [i]"You do not know of the darkness in which I have walked."[/i] This man is swathed in mystery and seclusion, much is always happening behind those deep intense eyes but that's where his thoughts stay. Dorian is quite tall, his clothes are always in pristine condition and he takes great care to ensure his appearance is always at its best. [color=red][i]Age[/i]:[/color] 26 [color=red][i]Gender[/i]:[/color] Male [color=red][i]Species:[/i][/color] Dorian is human, at least he believes himself to still be. Some bad deals were made with powers that should never be met, let along bargained with, some time ago. [color=red][i]Skills:[/i][/color] Diplomacy Patience Observation Accounting [color=red][i]Personality:[/i][/color] Dorian is actually quite shy and reserved, if not needed he would happily hide away in his office but unfortunately he is also a control freak, needing to keep an eye on the tavern floor. [color=red][i]Biography:[/i][/color] 'Nothing comes for free' the lesson Dorian has learnt from a lifetime of loneliness, clawing against all odds and misfortune to be where he is now. If destiny is truly predetermined then Dorian believes himself to have already defied the fate that the cosmos had laid out for him long ago. He lives his life expecting that at any second the grander powers that be will rectify his defiance. [color=red][i]Likes:[/i][/color] Order Even numbers Fine suits Expensive drinks Control [color=red][i]Dislikes:[/i][/color] Chaos Odd numbers Flaws in his appearance Cheap drinks Being drunk [color=red][i]Weaknesses:[/i][/color] Emotional instability Need for order and control Gambling and debt [color=red][i]Occupation:[/i][/color] Tavern owner [color=red][i]Theme Song:[/i][/color] [url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRGrNDV2mKc&sns=em]"[i]Slept So Long[/i]" from Queen of the Damned soundtrack[/url] [/center] [/hider]