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    1. Afro Samurai 9 yrs ago
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9 yrs ago
Don't leave me, baby! Middle of winter, I'm freezin' baby! - It's cold, and Gucci Mane lyrics work for most any context when slightly edited.

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Full Name: Herman Tiller.

Nicknames/Aliases: None.

Age: 17.

Gender: Male.

Primary: Runic magic.

Student.

Secondaries of Interest: Shadow, Weapon Infusement.

Description: White button down shirt, black suitcoat, brown pants, purple tie, black dress shoes, reading glasses.

Personality: Timid, ashamed of his aloof nature. Quirky, a tad reserved, will talk to others.


Skills: He knows how to speak Runic language to invoke his spells.

Weaknesses: He's not skilled at anything else besides the above. He is clumsy.


Brief History: There is nothing outstanding about Herman. He is a regular kid with no real positive or negative qualities. He hopes to learn to control his magic so others will think him cool and/or respect him more. He was average in school and never displayed any excellent talents. He also worked a fast food job for a year where he also displayed no outright great ability, from which he got fired for his inability to service customers in a timely manner.
(Rögdûl the Red Chief, Middle of the Northern Hills, Wasteland)



Shakatrog cleaved off the desert pirate's head. Crimson decorates the coarse sand, a sharp gust slapped the side of Rögdûl's face, the matte black Orc armor shone and reflected golden sun. Screams and gurdles are muffled underneath the crisp wind: the wind passes, screeches ring across the barren desert land, far along the rocks and hills and into the edges of civilization. Metal crushes bone, spikes cleave tendons, arrows javelin hearts. The Red Claw were out in full force; every desert pirate was dead, all twenty of them sprawled across the site of the raid.

"Gather the starkok and feed them to the crows. Take everything you can and load up the horses. Aylob. . ."

"Yes, my lord?" the Hand spoke. Her voice was soft but carried with it a predatory deluge. Her frame was thinner than her male equerry but true to typical female Orc warriors; agile, sturdy, powerful thighs and core muscles. She was far quicker and dexterous than her larger, brooding brother.

"Send word to Nerakghu, tell him to ready the messenger crows. It'll be time to meet with their leader soon enough."

Ayrob bowed and readied her horse; she let out a boisterous warcry before she rode off. Sometimes, I think she was dropped on her head as a child. Rögdûl thought. As she departed, Rögdûl picked up the pirate bandit leader's head and curled a sadistic smirk along his face--then he crushed it in both hands.




(Aylob, Chief's Hand, SIDE. Red Claw Encampment, Northern Hills)

The gargantuan warhorse's hooves beat along the gravel and sand of the desert 'til mid-morning. Aylob halted the abnormally sized beast outside of the camp gates where two smaller orcs armed with bows, arrows, and hoods stood. They swung open the wooden gates and Aylob plodded past both into the heart of the camp. A fire burned and arrows whizzed at targets as archers practiced their craft at the far end of the circular stronghold. Near the back of the base was a medium size tent that was purposefully built without structure so it was easier to take down; in the tent stood Nehrakgu, dressed in silver robes and his wizard hat.

"Is it time?" Nehrakgu broke from his ponder.
"Our timorshai konduuk says send them." Aylob infused a series of chuckles after her retort.
"Your brother is no dog, child."
"You're right--I said he was a great dog. The greatest of them all!" Her chuckling submitted to full laughter.
"Enough." Nerakghu sizzled back a hammering imperative.

Aylob shut up.

Nerakghu moved his hands from his pocket and lay the parchment on the table. Days old ink had settled in and made the eloquent cursive more legible and its words succint: "There will be no fight. We come in the night." He folded up the rustic brown parchment and wrapped it in some linen. As if he had delivered a silent command, one of several black crows flew to Nerakghu's shoulder where it found momentary rest. He put the wrapped up parchment in the bird's beak and it flew off. By mid-day, the crow had reached Fortress Gloria, where he landed next to the ballista battlements. From its beak it dropped the wrapped up parchment before it turned to fly away. The insignia of the Red Claw (a red circle with a talon etched in the middle) was imprinted on the linen.



@BingTheWing Opium, and particularly heroin, was already a popular drug of choice in the 40s. Its popularity on the street doesn't see a massive decline until the early eighties when crack cocaine comes on the scene. Heroin in particular even survives the wave powdered cocaine made throughout the sixties and seventies. All the stories about the mob never dealing with opium/heroin and sticking to alcohol and cigarettes are incredulous at best: how do you think heroin and opium found their way into African-American and Latino neighborhoods with such ferocity? the mob. Sure, some old school dons didn't particularly like their guys getting involved because of the potential heat, but its use on the street was such a new phenomena that it had twice as much street value as cigarettes and alcohol--and what the mob cares about over all else is money. So, yeah it was frowned upon but the leadership doesn't necessarily care so long as they get their cut every week.

Pertaining to the WWII, opium was used as a painkiller (and was used as the painkiller of choice in the nineteenth century as well; opium isn't novel in its use for wounded soldiers on the frontlines). Droves of U.S. soldiers quickly became addicted to the morphine inside it. So yes, opium was a well known and well abused drug by American troops.
@JaceBeleren I meant communication, not location.
Sorry I haven't posted in a bit, will get one up later today.
@VitaVitaAR Oh, haha! If there is any metal equivalent to Adamantium's hardness and he is hit by it, he can be incapacitated. High volumes of toxins can incapacitate him (he only has low level immunity to toxins, regardless of his healing factor), anyone of sufficient strength can incapacitate him if they hit him in the head. There are several ways to incapacitate him for sufficient amounts of time.

“Hey, listen; I forgive you. I ain't so sure about the big fella though, you know what I mean?”


Name
Dominick "Uncle" Pappallo.

Ethnicity

Italian American

Age: 41.

Loyalty

Lombardi.

Rank

Caporegime.

Personality Traits
Extremely loyal.
Quiet and strict.
Authoritative.
Respectful of even his enemies.
Formulaic.

Skills & Talents
Efficient at reading and understanding others.
Patient.
Merciful, perhaps to a fault.
Kind.

Weaknesses
Not the most aggressive person in this brutal line of work.
His softness his often mistaken for submission.
May be easily decieved by someone more cunning than himself.
Sometimes he can be a push-over.

Background Information

Born to Michael and Antoinette Pappallo in the southside of New Jersey in 1900, his father packed his family up and hauled them off to Queens after receiving a new job. It is on the streets of Queens that young Dominick found his way into the unsavory: stealing stereos, boosting cigarettes, stealing from fruit stands. He spent young adult years (21-30) making a name for himself as a local tough guy who worked well with his fists and his mouth.

Eventually he caught the eye of some of the wisemen around Queens and soon was a respected associate of the Lombardi. Pappallo didn't "make his bones" in the same vein as other mobsters--he didn't commit a murder. Pappallo made his bones by earning: he ran bookie and loan shark operations, white collar crimes, money laundering, embezzlement, buying off judges, doctors, and politicians. He established relationships within and outside of the underworld and was soon a rising star in the underworld and within his own respective crime family.

And while Pappallo himself has avoided pulling triggers for most of his criminal career, he is not averse to calling hits when necessary. Even when ordering an execution, he is selective and careful; he does not bring death to those who do not deserve it, or those who have no involvement with the underworld. He also tends to avoid harming insignificant street hoods (petty drug dealers/users, petty thieves, etc.) His good nature, calm demeanor, and intuitive knowledge of humans serve to make him one of the most respected and beloved characters in all of the underworld; it is also the reason he runs a large cell of soldiers underneath Don Lombardi--Uncle Pappallo's legitimate connections in combination with the sheer number of made men and associates under his command make his reach seemingly endless.
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