Barrett

Star Wars Knights of the Old Republic: Jedi Templar (ACCEPTING)

Right, I'll try to get a post up today then.

C.O.P.S. 2031

@LetMeDoStuff
Sorry about that, the site was misbehaving and I resubmitted a form by accident. Think of it as a sign of my extreme enthusiasm.

C.O.P.S. 2031

Double post derp.

C.O.P.S. 2031

New submission for street sweeper.

Samuel King

Name:
Samuel King, often referred to simply as 'The King'

Role:
Street Sweeper

D.O.B.:
January 12th, 2005

Height:
6 foot nothing.

Weight:
180 Pounds.

Nationality:
United States citizen, originally from Baltimore

Appearance:
King has a certain way about him that implies the capacity for violence with every step, smile and wink. Not the essence of a caged beast but that of a loaded gun, one that can go off whenever it pleases. His general manner of affable charm somehow increases this air of friendly menace, not helped by his frightening stare or large facial scar.

Without Gear

With Gear

Personality:
Unlike most men who live violent or dangerous lives, Samuel feels no needs to surround himself in an air of bravado or machismo. He doesn't swagger into a room and starting a dick waving contest with the biggest guy in there or feel the need to tear down others in order to build himself up. In fact, Samuel's upbringing has instilled in him a kind of cold confidence; he knows who he is and what he can do and doesn't feel the need to show anyone unless it's time for some serious business. So Samuel doesn't swear or swagger, doesn't insult or demean others but simply waits until it's time to act. And when it is, he adds another deed to the legend that makes up his street reputation and further shows why the superior man keeps their mouth shut and their gun ready.

Although he has spent most of his life earning money through non-lawful means and has committed many, many crimes, King doesn't consider himself a criminal, exactly. His situation at birth meant he had almost no choice but to engage in criminal activities if he wanted to survive and be able to eat. It wasn't so much a choice but an act of necessity, the only way to survive. But as an adult, almost all of King's marketable skills revolve around hurting people, scaring people or robbing people. It's his luck that he found C.O.P.S., a place where his skills can be used in a manner that is, at the very least, less illegal.

Background:
Son of the legendary Baltimore drug bandit 'Mr. Little', Samuel came up as hard as it gets. Although he had next to no contact with his old man, his shadow touched almost every area of Samuel's life. His father stole drugs from the biggest players in the city and resold them at a profit. In areas of the city where almost everyone had some sort of profitable connection to the drug trade (dealer, mustle, runner, user) Little's activities were causes of public outrage and his son an easy target. But Mr. Little was clever with his money and always sure to donate a healthy percentage of it to various 'worthy causes', meaning that any cop who wanted to solve one his murders were told by their superiors to take the hit to their career and move on. If they didn't they were quickly fired or reassigned, anything to make sure that Little's contributions kept on coming in. Neither the police or the general population of Baltimore could touch Mr. Little (not for lack of trying) and they weren't prepared to potentially bring down his wrath by killing his son, either. But no one had any problem with making his life as difficult as could be.

So Samuel grew up watching his back for watching his back, 'randomly' being the target for stop-searches, getting into scrap after scrap and learning how to give and take hits. By thirteen, he was a rougher type than most grown men, with scarred knuckles and a broken nose, veteran of a hundred fist fights. His mother, god rest her soul, had some difficulty keeping a roof over their heads and Mr. Little sure as hell wasn't sending money their way so Samuel was the breadwinner even before he was a teenager. He robbed other youths, ran quick cons and occasionally took part in larger operations. Frequently, his companions for a larger operation would do their best to make sure he took the blame for the job, be it bank robbery or simple stick up, but King learned quick how to cut and run. Nothing stuck to him any more than it did to his old man.

Unfortunately enough for him, Mr. Little finally caught a bullet during a raid on a hardfront. The date was Samuel's fourteenth birthday. Little's death sent many ripples through the city of Baltimore but the greatest for Samuel was that his many, many enemies no longer feared retribution. Two days after his father's death, Samuel walked away from his first knife fight with a thin scar diagonally across his face. He was able to comfort himself with the knowledge his opponent didn't walk away at all but he knew there were more. Three days after his father's death, he narrowly avoided being shot by the son of one of Little's victims. Four days after his father's death, he went to the Baltimore Police Department and asked for protective custody. They laughed in his face and Samuel realised there was only one option; if the mobsters wouldn't fear his father's name, they'd learn to fear his. Next time someone came looking for a fight, he terminated them with extreme prejudice. The remains that he left publically displayed scared off most potential attackers for the next little while but had another, unforeseen consequence; it drew the attention of the BPD back to him.

Samuel was smart enough not to leave any evidence but that didn't stop the detectives working the case dragging him in to grill him for hours everyday. He didn't crack or give them any ground until a slightly more thoughtful officer realised that having Mr. Little's son playing for their side would be no bad thing at all. This officer, Captain Moreland, offered King a choice; either he could continue having every day interrupted by a gruelling interrogation and be pulled in over every fresh murder (there was a homicide almost every other day at that point in Baltimore) or he could play a little ball with the BPD. Moreland suggested that he become an informant and occasional enforcer, doing the BPD favours when they asked and not making his killings too conspicuous. In return, the BPD would leave alone, for the most part, and not pull him in unless he made them. Most people raised in Baltimore's projects area have a healthy distrust of the police and King was no different but he knew his father previously had a similar arrangement. So he agreed.

Using his well trained combat abilities, talent for intimidation and rapidly growing legend, Samuel helped bring many of Baltimore's most influential and dangerous drug lords to justice or, at least, to prison. For the most part, he acted as an informant who told the police where to go to catch people doing naughty things or who knew what they needed to know. More rarely, he'd make someone who was inconvenient to the police quietly disappear. Occasionally, he even testified in court, earning the public ire of the criminal community. As the saying goes, snitches get stitches and many of Baltimore's criminal element wanted King to pay for his fratinising with the law. But after the first few thugs tried for vengeance and found King to be no pushover, the rest weren't eager to join them in bodybags or at the bottom of the bay with an anchor around their necks.

But nothing lasts for ever and the BPD eventually went the way of most American police departments; it shut down. Now the only law was that of the Mega-corporations and their private security divisions, none of whom gave a damn about the rules, traditions or courtesies common in Baltimore's underworld. Old figures and well established outfits were eliminated or muscled out within a few weeks of the BPDs fall, Baltimore's lucrative drug trade soon being under the sole ownership of the corporations, albeit through a few proxies. Anyone who disagreed or tried to fight back was annihilated and forgotten. A grown man now, Samuel no longer felt any need to stay within the confines of Baltimore, especially not in its current, dangerous state. Instead, he decided to move to a new city, Neo-Bay. His last contact from Captain Moreland had said there was an elite unit there being formed that he might be interested in joining.

Theme Song:
Down in the Hole - Tom Waits

The Runaways

@Liriia
<sub>Uhm... Andy's probably going to be super responsible and sneak out after Jay. You know, to keep him out of trouble.

Boardgames are fun...</sub>

The Runaways

@Write
Surely we should make the jump to the end of Lia's hour before work first? I, for one, was waiting for that before making any posts about the rest of the day.

Ere' we go! Ere' we go! Ere' we go! - WH40K Ork RP [Lookin' for boyz an grotz]

Craw, wheeler dealer Grot

Name:
Craw.

Species:
Grot.

'Rank'/Type:
Entrepreneurial Grot Businessman (read: steals things and sells them on)

Age:
Pretty old, at least five standard years.

Klan:
Deffskull.

Appearance:
Around half the size of the average ork, Craw is a pretty standard looking grot. That's intentional though, standing out means people might remember you and who wants that. His whole appearance has been tailored to make sure he looks either completely unremarkable or eye-catchingly strange. When trying to sell someone 'repurposed goods' he likes to wear clothes they'll be sure to remember and then burn them the second he's out of sight. When going about the actual 'repurposing', he makes sure to look like every other grot so that anyone who sees him will just take their ire out on grotkind in general rather than him in particular.

So upon seeing Craw you might see someone in anything from a bright yellow business suit to a purple raincoat, from a set of camouflage fatigues to the standard grubby rags, all depending on his current activities. There's always one constant though; an ingratiating smile that says "Me, nick yer bike's engine? Ai wouldn't do dat ter you! Ai bet it was 'im over dere!"

Personality:
Like all grots, Craw is a cunning, sneaky, slimy little git who you shouldn't trust as far as you can throw. If anything, it's better just to throw him preemptively before he starts selling you a suspiciously familiar familiar slugga that's still wet with blue paint. Craw is a wheeler dealer, selling shrooms here, scouting scrap for the mekboys there, scavenging left and reselling right. He prefers not to get too familiar with any one ork, knowing well that orks are prone to striking out at the first face they don't won't hit back when in a rage. Instead, he makes sure he's a familiar stranger to every ork in the area, always popping up with a new outfit, a friendly smile and an "Me old mate [INSERT NAME HERE], 'ow you doin'? Lissen, Ai've got sum good gubbinz, fresh frum da fight, shall ai count ya in fer some? Barely cost ya a toof, swear on me legs." or a similar spiel.

Very few greenskins, be they ork or snotling, look out for anyone but number one and Craw is no different. He'll sell you out to save his skin without a second thought. To be honest, he'll probably sell you out just to save himself some momentary discomfort, if he's in a position to do so. It might be a lonely life as the only entrepreneurial grot salesman in the area but Craw doesn't mind. Better dead lonely than just plan dead, ay? Also like most of his kind, Craw views orks as an unfortunate fact of life. Yes, they're big, dumb, dangerous, dumb, oafish, dumb, drunken, dumb brutes but hey, what can you do? You might as well complain about the rain or the wind, they're just as likely to go away. Craw would rather fleece them six ways to Sunday than waste time moaning about how unfair the Greenskin caste system is.

Even so, he's heard some rumblings in the grot community. Crimson stars sprayed on walls, stolen weapons, Rumours of a Red coated grot preaching about justice, freedom and... revolution? Craw isn't particularly interested in improving the lot of all Grotkind, he'd rather concentrate on improving the lot of Crawkind. But a revolution needs weapons and if there's one person who can supply weapons at competitive prices, it's Craw.

"You sayz revolushun, I sayz oppurtunity."

History:
Craw was grown in the same batch of fungi as dozens of other grots, all of whom he subsequently saw die to the perils of life. Or, rather, the perils of being a tiny grot in a world full of huge ork boots, bottoms, fists and occasionally bodies. Some of his siblings were crushed during barfights, some while just walking around. Whatever the case, his siblings died and by his second year, Craw was the lone survivor of a once numerous brood. At that time, he was serving as a Grot Bomb Pilot, ready to guide the weapon down to a furious detonation and a glorious send off. But as he considered this fate, he realised that while he'd certainly go out with a bang, that would be it. There'd be nothing afterwards, no feasting with Gork 'n' Mork, no eternal battling. The orkish religion, such as it is, is very clear that only orks get to go and meet the gods before rejoining the endless cycle of war. Grots just pass on.

So at the last second he hopped out of the rocket, kicked the nearest grot in the shins and pushed him onto it. Before anyone could object, he yanked on the lever and prematurely launched his erstwhile Bomb with its new pilot. Then he set off at a run, dodging a few of the new pilot's chums and the grasping hands of the Ruthenherd to make it to the comparative freedom of the rest of the ship. But he wasn't going to go back to meekly taking orders that would lead him to a sticky end. No, Craw was wasn't going to take orders from anyone now, he'd be his own boss. What he really needed, though, was a plan...

It took him a few days but eventually it struck Craw that as much as you might hate them or want to kill them, everyone needs a salesman because who else will get you what you need? So he set himself up as a bonafide grot gubbinz salesman with a stall and everything. He lasted two days before an ork accidentally crushed his stall and a group of grots stole his merchandise (technically re-stole) and he was ruined. It was a valuable lesson though and Craw took it to heart; anything that's left sitting still can be and will be nicked. Move fast, talk fast, think fast and you might not have to live fast. So now he had a new plan; nick what isn't nailed down, sell it on, deny all knowledge that it was stolen from that big grumpy goff and get out of dodge. It's worked well so far, he's still alive and hasn't had to load a cannon, oil a gun or hold open a patients skull for some time. To facilitate his lifestyle, he often changes outfits, clan colours and even names to make sure no one can pin him down.

Skills:
If it can be nicked, Craw can nick it. If it can be sold, Craw has already sold the deluxe package to the nearest ork. He's very experienced at disguising himself and disguising the origin of other people's equipment. His lifestyle has also given him ample opportunity to practise his sprinting and dodging techniques, making him one of the fastest, slipperiest grots you'll ever see run. Apart from that, he has a few half remembered skills with a slugga that he'd prefer to never have to use.

Equipment:
The clothes on his back and a big bag of other people's stuff. Craw's philosophy of moving fast doesn't really allow him to build up much in the way of personal possessions. He has a stash of teef, for rainy days, but it's well concealed where even the most cunning mind will never look. What? I can't tell you, how do I know you won't go and steal them? I've got my eye on you...

Phantom Crew

@LeonVon
I'm certainly still in, I'm just worried about where everyone went.

All-Star Marvel: Audax Mundus Novus - Season 1 (Completed)

@Sep
Alright, sorry for distracting you from your essay though I'm glad I followed up. I await your PM with anticipation but of course RL issues take precedence.

All-Star Marvel: Audax Mundus Novus - Season 1 (Completed)

@Sep@FacePunch
I got no response from you guys with PMs, should I give up trying to collaboratively work Union Jack into season two?