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    1. Magister 7 yrs ago

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Full Name: Roderic Alder Mayburry Montana

Nicknames/Aliases: The Asp, Will Of the Wisp, The Fourth Man, and aliases too numerous to mention, but most often a William Evargrant.

Age: Over the age of 30

Gender: Male, most certainly, though though use of makeup and other assorted items can take the appearance of a woman with sharp cheekbones.

Occupation: A liaison for various interests? Or perhaps a courier, one that worked the odd twilight in the sorts of places frequented by the unsavoury and the high born, delivering all sorts of things, promises, and things both real and conceptual. Or perhaps he is a thief and bearer of false witness.

Description: Montana has a face who's expression are subtle, and rarely extravagant when responding to the stimuli Fallen London provides. Shoulder length, pitch dark hair is often swept back, tucked behind the ear. This dark colour is mirrored in his eyes, where the darkness of the pupil is matched, and swallowed by the darkness of his iris.

His most recognizable article of clothing is a wide brimmed hat. What one needs a hat for in a sunless land is mystery itself.



Personality: A gentleman in the traditional sense of the word, but perhaps only in word, as what is his true personality is likely hidden behind the mask of gentlemanly conduct. There is a touch of idle fancy within his person, or perhaps it's just an abstract world view that influences the way he moves. Sometimes he can be anything. Would that make his personality a series of well rehearsed roles? Who can tell.

Skills: A hand to hand specialist, with a variety of obscure, and at times, depending on how his body moves, obtuse movements. An excellent duelist. A linguist. A crack shot. Perceptive, with a head perfect for the art of deduction. Making things disappear or reappear Finding lost things, and losing found things. Not being in the wrong place, and being in the right place. Understanding the difference between being in the right place at the wrong place, and the wrong place at the right time. Replacing things. Not being noticed for long periods of time, and being noticed when he needs to be.

Weaknesses:

Brief History: A British native, but no native of London, Roderic Montana has been in a military campaign or two, spent time traveling and training in the Orient. Has done work for Britain outside of military service, along with a few other nations. Emigrated to fallen London for work.

Other: Doesn't work with the Royal Navy
Makorai gave a respectful nod at their answers. Too early. Sounds like he was the sole career alcoholic on his team. Which suited him fine, someone had to keep a clear head in their Aett, and spirits knew it wasn't going to be him, sake and whiskey deep before ten pm. Dawn being a P.I suited her, from what Makorai could tell. She seemed reserved. Really looked at people, not like how others do the once over, but did that little bit of digging that investigators usually did. All through those beautiful pale eyes.

He rested his hand between Amity's shoulder blades, and gave her a reassuring rub. He wasn't as percpetive as his counterpart, but he could relate to whatever it was she was feeling. He assumed it was loss. Or perhaps powerlessness. Either way, despite his flirtatious nature, it was a genuine gesture. Pain ran deep. It always did.

"All good Amy." He winked, then quickly changed the subject back to his weapon. "Oh yeah, close, long, however you want it, I got it. He paused, then continued, a bit more seriously this time. I got your backs. If I can see it in my scope, I'll keep it off you all, and if it's about to eat me, well. He playfully mimicked a door being thrown in. "Between Dawn's Brain, Your Brawn, collective Beauty and my Booze..." He paused again, and nodded.

Hey, not a bad team name. Brains, Brawn, Beauty and Booze." Boobs, and butt. but he wasn't going to say that out loud. Beauty was enough.

Oren's reply elicited a smile, and a lighthearted shrug. Yeah, can't answer a question I wasn't asked gorgeous,
just thought I'd offer my two cents anyway."


He was just shy of another response, when Mr.Clean Cut & Healthy Eating popped in. There was a bit of a rush in his demeanor this time, but, the coif remained undisturbed. Amazing.

What he said snapped Makorai out of his drunken, sarcastic haze, and into the temporary clarity some alcoholics felt when confronted with something serious.

The North side. He had a lot of friends that clocked in on the North side, the kind of of working class folk that let him drink at the club because of one time or the other he lent a hand, or shot a warg

These green in the face recruits were expected to take on the Jotun? His light brown eyes quickly moved across the room, checking their reactions one by one. His entire joke had been a point he was making. Fighting one should be the last resort. These kids weren't ready. Not for the carnage at least. By the time they got down there, gristle would be the trendy new decoration on the block.

"I don't care what anyone here says, including you." He turned to Clifton. "I know those people, you all do what you want, listen to whatever, I'm gone." He wasn't a hero, Makorai, or at least, he didn't look at himself as one. He was just good at shooting, and he'd lost enough people five years ago, and frankly, he was more scared of having to attend a funeral that wasn't his.

"I'm leaving. I gotta make sure those folk get through. Meet me there yeah? I'll need you guys." He wasn't about to get anyone else killed for his stupidity, but he /knew/ he could get there faster by bike. He knew.

With a wave, and complete disregard for what anyone had to say, he walked out the door.

That's exciting! I was advocating for a violent character death, but I'm much happier that you're back.
I'm down for a discord channel.
Sound had always been the staple of modern man and theirs vehicles. The deep rumble of a diesel engine on a crowded highway, the way a Mustang barked when it gathered speed, the calling card of those who enjoyed their machines furious. All things that would eventually get you killed. All thing that had undoubtedly got many killed, as evidence from the wrecks and reanimated drivers, still struggling to free themselves from their seatbelts.

Montana's military grade truck, sprayed an innocuous dark blue, was stuffed with so much automotive insulation it's once fearsome rumble had been muted to a stifled hum. This was a sound for the contemporary human, just quiet enough to only attract the most inquisitive of the tireless legion. It allowed him to idle in near silence as well. Useful if there were humans lurking nearby. As was true in the old world, humans were still the most problematic species around.

Problematic enough to leave their abandoned cars in the middle of the road. This issue had grown worse the closer he got to Atlanta. His main options were to try and drive through, or to move them manually. If he was lucky, he could simply move them out of park and they rolled on their own. Other times, he'd have to get out and physically push them out of the way.

Luck favoured the man, and the car sitting in his way, an old sun bleached Chevrolet, rolled freely across the road, where it came to a stop against a parking meter.

Back in his truck, the man continued down the road, passing several landmarks of interest, when he caught the tail end of lucid human bodies entering an abandoned gas station. Valuing intel over rashness in this situation, Montana turned slowly into a group of abandoned vehicles, and brought his truck to a slow stop. Had it been anywhere else, he would have kept driving, but since this was his first time in the city, he wanted to speak with some of its inhabitants. How the next few moments played out would effect his method of gaining that information.
Name: Roderic Montana
Age: 34
Looks:
Skills: Weapons Handling, CQC Savant, Espionage, Tactics, driving, field medicine, and entry level mechanics. (can fix a car, but he couldn't build a water pump)
Loyalty: Neither
Rank in Organization: N/A
Bio Before the Outbreak: Prior to the outbreak, Montana was a mercenary who specialized in small scale field missions, single target acquisition, and espionage. His resume included numerous conflicts in the European theater, a few acts of high treason, and several tours on the Dark Continent. He was hunting an African Warlord when the outbreak started. Much to the chagrin of the local government he had been working for, Montana instead turned his attention to the rumors of 'Human Rabies" and tried to find the origin of the disease.
Bio After the Outbreak: His investigation had turned up mixed results, and ground zero was far too hot for even he to penetrate. Using the contacts he had made while in the field, he secured passage to his fathers home country, the United States, rather than his mothers home, and the place of his upbringing, Great Britain.

His fathers ancestral lands called to him. Within his British blood pumped the echos of Indigenous American. Now seemed like a good a time as any to go to his fathers homeland.

By now, it had already spread to the U.S, and upon disembarking had to elude boarder control agents who, by dubious means, were ensuring that no hint of the virus would touch their shores by boat.

Montana's life since then was a smattering of mercenary work, survival, and involvement in several large scale conflicts, the largest being a bloody confrontation between a large group of former military members, and a smaller group of spooks who wanted to topple this rising power.

Fresh off of that final conflict, Montana, and a truck with munitions hidden beneath innocuous looking junk, enteredt of the City of Atlanta.
Sounds good! :D
Name: Roderic Montana
Age: 34
Looks:
Skills: Weapons Handling, CQC Savant, Espionage, Tactics, driving, field medicine, and entry level mechanics. (can fix a car, but he couldn't build a water pump)
Loyalty: Neither
Rank in Organization: N/A
Bio Before the Outbreak: Prior to the outbreak, Montana was a mercenary who specialized in small scale field missions, single target acquisition, and espionage. His resume included numerous conflicts in the European theater, a few acts of high treason, and several tours on the Dark Continent. He was hunting an African Warlord when the outbreak started. Much to the chagrin of the local government he had been working for, Montana instead turned his attention to the rumors of 'Human Rabies" and tried to find the origin of the disease.
Bio After the Outbreak: His investigation had turned up mixed results, and ground zero was far too hot for even he to penetrate. Using the contacts he had made while in the field, he secured passage to his fathers home country, the United States, rather than his mothers home, and the place of his upbringing, Great Britain.

His fathers ancestral lands called to him. Within his British blood pumped the echos of Indigenous American. Now seemed like a good a time as any to go to his fathers homeland.

By now, it had already spread to the U.S, and upon disembarking had to elude boarder control agents who, by dubious means, were ensuring that no hint of the virus would touch their shores by boat.

Montana's life since then was a smattering of mercenary work, survival, and involvement in several large scale conflicts, the largest being a bloody confrontation between a large group of former military members, and a smaller group of spooks who wanted to topple this rising power.

Fresh off of that final conflict, Montana, and a truck with munitions hidden beneath innocuous looking junk, enteredt of the City of Atlanta.
I'm interested in joining as a newer anti-hero, but one who simply stayed out of the circuit for a while.

Like an older character.
"Give em what they want usually." Makorai gave his own answer, rather than wait for the rhetorical point to continue making itself. Spying his other two team mates, he smiles, and gave them a wink. The young man got up from his sitting position, and dragging his chair to where they were standing. "Kinda like the lovely Amity said. If anything stops your clock, it would be one of those. I usually just give em some food if they're hungry. Bit of drink.

Makorai sat down again, but not before offering both Amity, and Dawn, who seemed a bit subdued to drink during training, but assumptions makes asses right? So he offered her some as well.

"No point in fighting over food if there's some to spare."

Makorai produced a sniper barrel, stock, and receiver, plus the trappings from his bag. He worked while he spoke, but kept his eyes on the Jotun body. His sniper was a strange one. The bayonet was longer than normal, and lightly curved toward the tip. there were two fist sized handles on the lower part of the receiver, and various places on the frame were lined with reinforced material.

"I mean fighting them? I'd take three pack of Vargs, close range with just my tactical mauser over another Jotun.

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