Jarl Coolgruuf — Roleplayer Guild

Name: Jerricho D'Lorin
Age: 48
Gender: Male
Race: Human
https://youtu.be/JivejZJ4Gos

Appearance:

He stands at roughly 190 cm (6'2) and weighs 89 kg (196 lbs). His caucasian complexion has seen the sun with somewhat regular frequency and his face, limbs, everything really, is marked with scars of all manner of shape and size. His hands resemble leather gloves that just barely won a fight with a box cutter. The calluses on each of his 11 fingers alone could sand wood.

His scarred and battered face might beat an ogryn's in a beauty contest on a good day. Just to name a few things, his abnormally large ears face a bit too far forward and his right ear is missing a large chunk from the cuff. A thick, protruding brow ridge juts out from his forehead and ends abruptly at a large, almost pointed, and downward sloping nose with a noticeable tilt that hints at dozens of broken noses that never healed properly. Some kind of crude cybernetic eyepatch with a small camera affixed roughly where a pupil would be stands in place of his right eye while his left is missing entirely. The empty socket stands agape without an eye to fill it or even eyelids to cover it. Most of his teeth are somewhat crooked save for two stainless steel incisors in his bottom jaw.

The smell of cigar smoke and hard liquor hang about him like an unseen warp spawn even immediately after he bathes. His voice is deep and gravely, dragging itself out from a permanent frown and across the ears of all who can hear it like the treads of a Rhino transport slowing rolling over pebbles.

Personality:

Gruff, blunt bordering on abrasive, stoic, surprisingly sentimental, but wholly impatient with those he deems incompetent or guilty of simple mistakes. He knows he knows what he’s doing and doesn’t spare the time for those who don’t. His honesty is helpful when asked for but also brutal and unyielding. Sugar coating is not something he ever has, and likely never will be known for.

His main motivation for joining such rogue trading expeditions is simple as it is comical: he was tired of so many people asking him to fix their messes and figured anyone flinging themselves into the far reaches of the galaxy probably survived long enough to know something about what they’re doing.

History: 

Jerricho was born in dark corner of an obscure city, on a planet no one bothered to know the name of except when tithing day rolled around, to a mother too young, and a father too drunk and too violent. His childhood was bloody and brief and an all out war to survive against his fellow children and street gangs alike. He eventually found it easier to join the gangers than fight them constantly and this proved useful to both. Hardly able to be called a child by this point, his brutality was so unyielding, his acts of violence so obscene, he was throw into the mines of Savlar with a mockery of a trial before his 17th birthday.

He spent 8 long years toiling under rock and noxious poison to fill the ranks left by the dead before him. By the Throne did he hate it. So when the chance to leave the mines came, he seized it like a feral dog clamping its jaws around a starving rat. They gave him a lasgun, ammo, and told him he was now a member of the 29th Savlar Chem-Dogs. He was told he could keep whatever he could carry away from the battlefield as long as he didn't break any more laws. Those orders suited well enough. He spent the next 9 years shipped from system to system fighting everywhere from the jungles of Armageddon, to the chloride-swamps of Moru. It wasn't long before he grew to love it. The carnage, the thrill of looting, the wonder of new exotic battlefields, just a few of his favorite things. 

During his many combat tours, he showed a talent for near Ork level slapdash equipment repair, even for a Chem-Dog. He's been known to cobble together workable firing mechanisms for heavy bolters from rusted scrap he deemed to be “shaped about right”, replace warped sections of (((acquired))) plasma weaponry with pieces that “should hold for a shot or two... probably”, repair tank weapons with parts barely held together themselves, or simply fix jammed lasguns by beating them with his fist until they work. His talents for repairing weaponry were appreciated by all he served with... except tech priests. Such consistent and shameless heresy against the Omnisiah, such hideous defiling of machine spirits often raised the ire of the machine god's acolytes.

His military career came to an end when a wayward piece of shrapnel bisected his one remaining eye. Seeing as this time he lost the eye he used to aim, he couldn't simply put a bandage on this one until it healed and get back into the fight. Much to his dismay, he was now out of a job and blind. At the very least he managed to sell the loot he'd been saving for a rainy day and get himself a crude prosthetic.

From there he managed to land crew positions working on various rogue trader expeditions. Some of them fruitful, others... at least brought back something for the families to bury. This won't be his first rodeo by a long shot and it hopefully won't be his last.

Skills:

> Personal, Crew-Serviced, and Vehicle Mounted Weapon Maintenance and Repair

When even the owner/operator of a weapon doesn't know how to fix what's gone wrong, Jerricho steps in. From Earthquake Cannons to laslocks, if it shoots he can more than likely fix it given tools and time.

> Marksmanship

Although his preference lies with shotguns, he possesses an accuracy well above that of most guardsmen.

> Street Brawling

He came by this skill honestly.

Equipment:

> Bandersnatch-pattern Amputator
In short, the bastard lovechild of a compact hand cannon and a scatter gun. Few things in the Atmos Cluster can match the absolute shock and awe of a pistol that was quite literally designed with the idea that it should be able to reliably severe limbs with the first shot. Reloading is quick if somewhat clumsy, but the ammunition, magazines, and the pistol itself are all rather bulky not to mention the weapon's short range. However, if whatever you’re shooting at isn’t dead after 6 shotgun shells to the chest or chest analogue you’d be better off using your last moments reflecting on what life choices lead you to the moment where you ended up this close to such an unholy terror.

It has a few odds and ends on it as well such as a flashlight, a laser sight, and a custom grip. Just a some things to make it a tad more comfortable to use.

A holy writ of round cycling is scrawled across the receiver as a favor from a grateful tech priest. Jerricho didn't particularly like the man and thought he had the common sense of a pipe in addition to being a tech priest, but thought better than rejecting such a gift.

> 3 extra magazines because you never know what you're walking into when you step out of your quarters

> Big ass knife
10 inches long, handle made of a wood very similar to mahogany but a touch more red in color. Not much to tell.

> Standard issue flak armor
If it's good enough for the Guard it's almost passable for him

Miscellaneous:

He can sing decently if anyone could, by the grace of the Emperor, ever manage to get him to.
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