SgtEasy

Volæria: An Alt 1920's Steampunk Story (name WIP)

@Dynamo Frokane

Oomph, I was going for that. Hm. I could change if you'd like? A Second in command wouldnt be too far off for my character, would just have to change one of his skills

Edit: Actually sounds like a better idea for my character. Nevermind, no conflict xD

Second Edit: WIP so far, I need to head to sleep but this is what I got, just posting to see if there are any changes to be made. I'm hoping to make his bio relatively detailed but leave his personality to be a bit of a mystery due to his fallen soldier status. Still pondering on how much that could ruin such a prideful man.

Ali Hassan-zadeh

^{"By God, I deem the firearm His greatest creation."
Theme(s): To Be Decided - Placeholder}

_{B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N}

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Full Name: Ali Hassan-zadeh

Nickname: Ali

Date of Birth: 17^th January 1869

Place of Birth: Tehran, Persia

Gender: Male

Race, Ethnicity: Half-Persian, Half-Russian

Eye Colour: Grey

Height: 5' 8"

Weight: 156lbs

_{D E T A I L E D I N F O R M A T I O N}

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Titles: Jenaab - Title given to someone who should be respected higher than normal. Does not apply anymore due to tarnished honour.

Appearance: A military man through and through, the former Cossack certainly looks the part as a commissioned officer. Ali exhibits no fear, a noble expression on his face at all times. But one could see the slight droop in his shoulders, clear signs of aging and the downward turn of his lips. He is not the charismatic man that he used to be but still holds some of the fire from his youth. His piercing grey eyes, carefully combed hair and furrowed eyebrows are telling of his past official duties. His strides are still powerful, even steps showing a swagger only years in the military can bring. His deep, baritone voice could be heard throughout the ship with echoes as loud as thunder. He speaks with a weird mix of Russian and Arab accents that come through his Italian, them being his two native languages. Though in no position to lead, he certainly sounds like it and is as fervent as a priest when talking about weapons. He dissolves into jargon, his alien speech only familiar to those with a deep understanding of weaponry. He is a lithe man, the fierce amounts of fighting he has experienced over the years keeping his belly in check despite age. His stance is wide and feet firm, something he carried over from his Cossack years. He looks every bit of the soldier he used to be, dress uniform and all.

_{O C C U P A T I O N A L A N D F I G H T I N G A B I L I T I E S}

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Past Occupation: "подъесаул" or "Podyesaul" in the Persian Cossack Brigade; equivalent to "Kapitan"

Current Occupation:
Second In Command

Equipment:

• Winchester Model "Russian 1895" which he carries with a strap
• Webley Revolver Mk VI, holstered on his right hip
• A gold-trimmed shashka, held on his left hip
• Oud, an Arabic lute that he keeps on hand when bored
• A tattered notebook in his backpocket
• Rusty horseshoe, does not keep on his person

Notable Talents/Abilities:

• Leadership Skills - As a former officer, the first son of Hassan felt comfortable in leadership roles and excelled in them. Leading men into the jaws of death, he often led them to victory. He can distill the quiet whispers of dissent with ease and can offer a solid foundation for any group of people. Although he was never the type to inspire, he was known for his skill in discipline and occasional compassion. He was a stern leader, calming and steadfast in the face of adversity. Often using his voice, he could shout over even the greatest of artillery. He was also known for his skill at analysing men and women for their attributes and skills. As a Podyesaul in the Persian Cossack Brigade, he was a commissioned officer who led a fair amount of men who respected him. Those who did not quickly found that respect or were detached from his lead. He was never "Captain" material but could always serve as a good second in command to someone who was more charismatic than he. After all, stern faces and intimidating shouts can only do so much in leading men.
• Firearms Expert - Albeit not the best of the best, Ali could hold his own despite the stereotypes about COs. He was fairly good at shooting targets while moving and could easily shoot a target a fair distance away when stationary. Used to iron sights, he had no problem using weapons lacking a scope to shoot targets. However, his expertise with his Russian 1895 is nothing but extraordinary. He knew the weapon inside out, the kinks and the modifications. He could shoot faster with his rifle faster than you could say "Persian empire." The Winchester was like an extension of himself and he could rain God's Wrath on whoever dared faced him.
• Impressive Animal Handling - As a cavalryman, Ali was forced to handle animals ever since he joined the military. His newest and former horse Shakira, a chestnut Russian Don breed, had been his for four years and served him well during the Great War. The amount of control he has with every horse he caters to can be found astounding by those who haven't met cavalry before. It was standard to have an expert level of control of your horse, especially during a time when machine gun fire could spell the end of entire cavalry units. To be able to turn your horse away or even halt before you could be mowed down abled a rider to survive. Although the skill is quite useless onboard of an aethership, he is able to handle most animals with care, as long as they were a little domesticated. Easing a wild dog into calm was easier than wrangling a wild steed after all.

_{P E R S O N A L}

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Hobbies/Pastimes:

• Cleaning, maintaining or repairing his Winchester
• Sharpening his shashka
• Taking disciplinary actions
• Overseeing the crew so that orders are carried out
• Playing his oud
• Sketching portraits of people
• Riding horses

Talents/Skills:

• Obscure musical talent - The oud is not a commonly known instrument in the West but can sound exotic in the hands of an expert player like Ali
• Linguistic - He can speak the Persian dialect of Arabic, Russian and Italian fluently while also studying English currently. Known lover of languages
• Impressively long stares - Enough said, the man is intimidating

_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

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The old

_{B I O G R A P H Y}

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Volæria: An Alt 1920's Steampunk Story (name WIP)

@Blubaron45

If it's the Lingua Franca, my character wouldn't have a problem with it :) Great concept for the RP by the way, I like it.

Will be using Reza Shah's portrait by the way so the current Shah of Persia looks different, just clarifying that for any history dweebs (like myself). If anyone else wanted the weapon specialist role, I have no problem discussing.

Volæria: An Alt 1920's Steampunk Story (name WIP)

@Blubaron45

Would there be a problem with writing a Persian character? Perhaps one who served under the Russians during World War 1? Thinking of nabbing the Weapon Specialist role as my character would be a part of the Persian Cossack Brigade before and during the war. A deserter perhaps.

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

Intro post! I hope it captured how Jamal likes to act undercover and a little on the real man himself. I hope its good, a little rusty from being away from rping for so long.

Note: Margaret Delossantos won't be a big deal except for background noise and as a case for Jamal to work on. Mickey boy is someone I wanna bring back though

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

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Downtown Sol City, Undisclosed Location - Early Friday Morning

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Work for a cartel could be one of the more dangerous jobs in the force and showed how varied every police officer was. Some unlucky sobs could be stuck as a traffic officer or bike patrol for most of their career. Those sort of duties were boring but were sought after by the cowardly men and women who shied away from the hard choices and dirty work. And there was a lot of dirty work to be done around here. The mayor, though kind, had allowed some unsavoury characters to fill the urban streets and some of the suburbs due to his own weakness. They were scum of the Earth, as far as most officers went. There was no mercy for many of the criminals here, a hardline attittude adopted by most during their first few patrols. One can easily see the corruption that seeps in the underground of this fair city if one knows where to look. This corruption was headed by several men. Gangsters, hoodlums and cartel snobs that thought the city was ripe for the picking. They were the predators and the citizens were the unfortunate prey. Many active officers wished they could face this corruption and take them down but due to the mayor's own inaction and his leash on the Police Chief, only the undercover officers could do any real work.

Sure, the normal officer can take down a few crooks a day or some detective could link a crime to a top mafia member to bring him down but the undercover boogeymen were the ones who did the work. They brought the evidence, gained the trust of influential criminals and they were the ones who eventually brought them down. They led second lives, strained their existing relationships and went down the loner's path to achieve victory. Sometimes, these lone wolves would fail but the rewards were all too sweet. They were the silent ones, tough enough to stand amongst the worst the city can offer. The negative psychological impacts were plenty, many undercover police could fall too deep in their second lives and were too disfunctional to work in the force. Some fell to the level of the scum they worked with and some... well, some could be found. These unlucky bastards weren't killed. They were maimed, laid broken for the rest of their lives as a reminder to those silent few that dared to infiltrate the ranks of dregs. But that didn't stop them, it merely fed their silent anger. It was here, where the death danced in your shadows and the worthless scum surrounded you, that those brave few thrived.

One such police officer stood under a broken lamplight, arms crossed and gaze forwards. The dark figure had been working as a bodyguard for the Delossantos Cartel. They were a jack of all trades sort, trafficking humans, drugs, firearms and anything of value. They were known for being incredibly strict in their recruitment and as far as the law was concerned, Margaret Delossantos was a clean lady who had little criminal links beside her grandfather. But he knew better. She was shrewd and cunning, able to evade police and keep assets safe without any visible connections with any of her traffickers. She was the figurative Queen around these parts but had lacked the muscle to beef her influence. That was where Jamal came in. His fake name was Jimmy Ray, from the major African American apartment comnplexes in the inner city. He was a thug but smart, knows his way around the city and can talk to the right people to get what he wanted. This disguise piqued Margaret's interest and he was fast becoming a trusted member. The closer he could get, the more evidence he could gather.

Jamal stopped himself from rubbing his eyes. He was given a job to transfer two grey duffel bags from one of the hideouts to a marked car. He wasn't informed of the contents and was warned from opening them by the one who gave it to him. He had just grunted. He knew how this worked, this was a loyalty test, probably issued from Margaret herself. Test if he was going to double cross her. The cop almost snorted in her arrogance. Like any self-respecting undercover officer would fall for a bait so obvious. A blue Honda Civic that has seen better days began tutting down the road he was on. The mark changed every two weeks, differentiating normal cars and cars which were owned by the cartel. Marks differed depending on what the car was used for. A pink 'Hello Kitty' sticker was proudly stuck on to the dashboard of the oncoming car. He grimaced. A money dealer was approaching him and guessing by the weight of the bags, the man was going to be rich very soon.

The officer picked the two duffel bags up, the weight not bothering him the slightest. The Honda pulled up to him, the tinted windows rolling down to reveal a bald, rat-like Latino teen. He looked Jamal up and down and snorted. "So you're the one eh? One of the new muscle pussies that Margie picked up from the hood." The boy snickered, as if amused by the weak insult. "You look like the steroid-filled version of Bob fucking Marley hermano. Raggedy ass motherfucker."

Knowing that he was probably going to have to look tough, responded in a hard tone "You're what, fifteen? Your momma sick of yo' ass sittin' on her couch, watchin' Mickey Mouse? Shut the fuck up, I eat kids like you for breakfast."

Mickey, a nickname he was going to call the kid, just snorted harder. Some mucus escaped his nose and he hastily wiped it away. "'Least I don't look like a fuckin ape hermano. You look like one of those soft types, you know? The weightlifting, grunting types but on the inside, you love the big banana. Mmmmmm, the big banana likey likey, aye big boy? Big banana wanty wanty?"

The undercover officer just sniffed and dropped a bag to open the door. "Fucker, the more you talk about big bananas, the more I think you're obsessed with it. It's like you're a closet puto."

"The only puto here is you, big boy. You look like the sum of the Jackson 5 and a male prostitute divided by Freddy Mercury's AIDS hombre."

"That didn't make any fuckin' sense and you know it Mickey. Pass first grade maths first before you use the word 'sum', dumbass." Jamal retorted back, growing tired of the banter that the teen was encouraging. "Are ya gonna shut yo' mouth or are ya gonna keep yappin' with that mouth of yours? No wonder yo' momma got sick of yo' Mickey watchin' ass, couldn't stop talking about loving Donald Duck at the dinner table."

The boy just glared at him back and turned his nose, a little put out by the last roast. Jamal opened the side door and placed the two bags inside, ignoring the waft of musky smells coming from the backseats. He slammed the door shut and stepped back, expecting the teenage drug dealer to just leave.

Instead, the boy looked at him again with the a challenge in his eyes. "You think you're tough hombre?"

He just nodded, unsure of where this was going.

The bald, Mickey Mouse watching teen took something out of his pocket. A crumpled up police badge was placed in his hand, blood around the edges. A Delossantos invitation. "Margie wants you on her fuckin' pussy parade in the party today. The one that the mayor's hosting for all the people in this shit town. I dunno why, you look like some pussy meathead to me, but apparently you've sucked enough cock to climb the ladder. She's gonna make some beef with the mayor about somethin', something about some ninja pigs sniffing around her territory or some shit. Margie wants some pussy muscle there to project her power while she deals with it."

Marshals? He had heard of some marshals passing through a year ago but Jamal had been so immersed in his cover that he hadn't been in the office for weeks. More of those governmental snobs? He snorted, stuffing the invitation in his jeans pocket. "I'll see what the boss lady wants then. For now, try not to get yo' punk ass caught by the pigs. That dough is important Mickey boy." With that halfhearted warning and a one fingered salute in response, the Honda sputtered to life and sped away. He kept his eyes on the car as it turned the corner before putting his hood up, preparing for tomorrow. He had a serious opportunity and Jamal Jamali wasn't dumb enough to pass it up.

This type of power play was almost unheard of. Margaret Delossantos' arrogance has gone above her head. This could be a mere threat but any further and he might need to interfere, blowing his cover. The officer sighed and decided to play with it. If anything, it was a chance to climb the ranks and gain more trust. Trust he could use to take his target down. It was his time to dress up and play the big boy.

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Centre Point - Friday Evening

^{@PrinceAlexus or anyone in the area}

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The task was simple really. Delossantos' men were to mingle, flexing their muscles while looking as intimidating as possible. They were gonna walk around and make sure that their right sleeve patch, the red cross shield on a black background, could be seen as obvious as possible. She wanted to show that she controlled the downtown, not some weak mayor. Simple power play and a little covert but incredibly arrogant. Jamal exited the black sedan near Centre Point accompanied by three other meatheads like him. He hadn't bothered to learn their names, they were thugs without a doubt. He frowned at the lack of obvious police presence that was in the area but reasoned that it was like this every year. Why would there be? There hasn't been a power play like this since... ever. There hasn't been anyone ballsy enough to try it. Not that the average citizen could tell what the patches actually meant but the mayor did.

The undercover officer wore a black tuxedo, fitted to be as showy as possible. If you asked him, it was almost suffocating in this ridiculous suit. But was fitting in all the right places and he could appreciate a nice suit when he saw one. He ignored the complaints of the three other musclemen in tight suits and quickly swaggered away from them. The sooner he got away from them, the better. This was one of the simpler jobs he has done for the Delossantos Cartel but was also one of the most dangerous. What if the mayor lost his cool at all these thugs present and called for an arrest? Could he handle another officer? Could he fake an arrest and a successful trial or would it be too suspicious for the cartel? He smoothed the creases at the bottom of his jacket and sighed. He couldn't worry about this in a simple job like this. All he had to do was to look intimidating or at least give an imposing impression upon people. And flash the patch whenever he got the chance of course.

'I can settle there.' A lamppost near the bank was where Jamal eventually took place. He noted his companions from the cartel setting up in their own positions, stuffing their hands in their pockets or staring ominously at any wall opposite. He resisted to snicker, they almost looked comical to the seasoned police officer. He crossed his large arms and leaned against the pole, surveying the area. It was quickly filling up with people, dressed to the nines. These were not poor people, he told himself. These were the normal citizens of Sol City, the people he was supposed to protect. He nodded at a few people who passed him but they either shied away from his intimidating presence or just ignored him completely. He noted the pair of girls near the bank, taking a picture of themselves. A selfie, it was called? He found his eyes lingering for a little long on them before averting his eyes. He didn't know if they saw him staring but he hoped not. It would be an easier job if no one approached him. At all.

Knowing himself, he would have no such luck.

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

@The1Rolling1Boy

Fonts such as titles? Fontmeme works great as a site to get those from. And use the img bbcode or the bbcode given when you create the font.

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

@SgtEasy

I love the eccentric, banana-eating man in your signature.

@Furiosa

Thank you, I found a picture of a half eaten banana on my phone and I ran with ut all the way

And I have a good idea for my opening post which includes his undercover work

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

@PrinceAlexus@Pilatus

Thanks ^_^ I'll begin working on an IC post. Is there a quick rundown I can read or should I just skim through the IC?

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

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"I buy many an orange."

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Name:
Jamal Ahmad Jamali

Age:
32

Appearance:
Jamal cuts an imposing figure, intimidating in a way that cannot be easily described. He keeps a stern look on his face, easily turned into a face of anger. Thick furrowed eyebrows, tight lips and piercing brown eyes can break the hardest of criminals. His skin a dark chocolate, calloused in many places but clean of wrinkles. Small, immaculate silver studs adorn his ear with a dull golden stud in the helix of his right ear. A clenched jawline with stubble leads to broad shoulders and an athletic figure. Not enough to be out of place but enough to set him above a crowd. He has an even pace and large strides, when undercover he walks with a swagger that makes him seem untouchable. Bulging arms seem to tighten every sleeve he wears while large hands which make finding gloves that fit a trying process. Long, thick legs let him cover far distances in a shorter time period but becomes problematic when buying jeans. Large feet only serve to indicate that everything about him is indeed larger than life.

Height:
6'2"

Weight:
210lbs

Likes:

• Oranges
• Acting
• Crossing his arms and staring really intensely
• Betraying unsuspecting criminals
• Training, whether in the firing range or his holy temple (the gym)

Dislikes:

• Anything negative surrounding oranges
• Weakness in himself
• Unnecessary humour
• Fire
• Corruption in the force
• Racists, sexists, islamophobes, homophobes, etc.
• Politics
• Apples
• Laziness
• Liking things

Zodiac Sign:
Taurus

Special Talent:
An almost uncanny ability in acting like the type of people he hates, a criminal.

Profession:
Undercover police officer and has been in the force since the minimum age of recruitment.

Bio/Personality:
Jamal was born to a Pakistani father and an African American high school graduate, birthed in Punjab province in Pakistan. His grandfather, Muhammad Jamali, disapproved of the relationship between his father Ahmad and his mother Arya and as the elder of the house, told the pair to either get rid of Jamal or get out of his house. Poor, broke but still madly in love, they fled to the big city to earn for the family, carrying a newborn Jamal. Ahmad was forced to work as a bus driver in Lahore while Arya earned as much money as she could selling oranges delivered from the a friend's orchard outside Lahore. The newborn often stayed to accompany his mother while she worked in the market, selling the citrus only for most of the money to go back to the providers.

Jamal had most of his early, formative years in the beautiful city of Lahore. It was the second most populous city in Pakistan behind Karachi and was also one of the wealthiest. Even as a "poor family", he could not recall any times in which food or water was difficult to find. They lived in an adequately sized apartment near the old, walled city. They were not a broken family either, his parents loved each other and the family was together quite frequently. If he could recall, he would remember smiles and happy faces. They prayed together and slept near each other. His father was a humble man who did not speak much and earned little but was easy on the smile. His mother had always been his favourite however.

Arya frequently told stories of Sol City to her child as he grew up, having been born and had met his father there while studying at the university. She told him of the abundance of lights in the city skyline, the fast moving cars, the money that flowed with easy. She lovingly recalled meeting his father, something that made baby Jamal's face contort in childlike disgust. She also bitterly told him about her move to Pakistan upon Ahmad's insistence, ending up in the situation they were in. But she had always ended the stories with a kiss and a youthful smile, popping an orange piece in his mouth. It was where he got his near-addiction to oranges as a child that carries on to this day to a lesser extent.

It was not until his first day at high school when everything went wrong. Up to that point in his life, Jamal had it perfect. His father and mother joined their efforts to create an orange juice stall in their own market, packaging and delivering fresh, cool orange juice. The family had become popular, his mother doubly so due to her kind words in the marketplace. Although initially thought of as foreign due to his skin colour, his steadfastness and loyalty to friends had gained him popularity amongst his peers. His first day as a grade nine student had just ended, walking towards the general direction of his parent's store with his group of friends. He had promised them cheaper prices for his parent's famous fresh orange juice in the tough April heat.

As Jamal rounded the corner, the smell of fire filled his nostrils. He turned to see a market ablaze, onlookers staring at the plumes of smoke and burning tapestry covers. He sprinted, ignoring his shouting friends and brushed past escapees to enter the market. Shouts and a sounds of general panic filled his ears as he searched frantically for his parents, navigating through the smoke filled pathways. He covered his mouth with his sleeve, blinking the tears in his eyes away. The stall that his parents had set up was near the middle of the market, covered in beautiful purple tapestry. Pushing past more and more escaping bodies, he began to see source of the fire. It was raging, untamed and violent. People burned from head to toe, doused in uncontrollable fire. The purple tapestry, the finely carved wood his father made, the chair his mother used to place him on as a baby, burned wildly. It would soon be turned to ash.

The sound of pain and grunting had broken his stupor, his attention turned to a collapsed piece of wood and the woman who writhed under it. "Mother!" called Jamal and stumbled towards her in shock. She smiled at him kindly, the sweat glistening on her forehead. Most of her was covered under the large piece of wood except for her head, shoulders and one arm. He grabbed ahold of the wood and pushed as hard as he could to no avail. He tried and tried again, even with his tired mother's help he could not lift the damnable piece of wood. Tears ran down his cheeks, frustration and sadness whirling inside him.

"Do not worry so much my boy. I will be in the sky, with God's righteous followers." Arya stroked Jamal's hair lovingly and then traced his jaw with delicate fingers. She wiped his tears away and lightly scolded him for crying. She pushed him away as more structures burned around them. "Go! she cried, fire tracing its way up the plank that crushed her "Go with haste, my son!"

Jamal turned and ran, faster than he had when he entered the burning market. Smoke mades his eyes burn, the intense heat of the blaze sweltering his skin. He escaped to a clear blue sky and a shocked bunch of friends. His uniform was torn and ruined, burns adorned his body while his palms were torn by hard wood. He turned towards the market entrance as it crashed down, burning fiercely. He went down on his knees, watching the market burn with his silent companions.

The fire was started by a pyromaniac criminal, a serial killer who was known for starting several fires across Punjab itself. Jamal clenched his fists and shook with rage as he watched him stand trial, glaring vehemently at the man who caused the death of his mother and so many others. His father served to cool and stem his rage before it could burst out, a firm hand on his son's shoulder to prevent any outbreak of frustration. As they went home that night, driving under a cloudy dark night, Ahmad broke the silence in the car. "Your mother wouldn't have approved of your attitude Jamal."

The boy just looked to the side, clenching jaw tighter. Ahmad sighed and continued to drive. This would serve as an indicator of how their relationship would be like in the coming years. They moved to Sol City soon after the accident, an apparent birthday gift that his parents had planned for him. It struck Jamal harder than it should have, he always told himself. The boy changed, his frustration and anger turned into silent and grim acceptance. He began to go to the gym, vowing that he would never become a weakling again, building his strength and athleticism. While his father approved, the ageing was always worried that his son pushed himself too hard and partially blamed himself for his mother's death.

Life soon became a blur. School only served as a distraction to his training and Jamal would only focus on subjects that he deemed important to himself He joined the police academy as soon as he could, believing that he could become someone who could actually make a change in the world. This idealism and hope would be soon crushed as his service record increased within the force. He was exposed to the most vile of criminals, the worst that humanity could offer. Some were worse than that pyromaniac who killed his mother, a thought that disgusted him to no end. He began to look upon the world with a grim look. He could only see black and white, the good and the bad. There was no in-between, there was only justice and law. He rose through the ranks, proving worthy of each promotion. His resolve and loneliness within the force caused the head officer to switch him from normal duties to undercover work. He started his second life as George Smiths, a lowly hood rat bouncing for one of the major cartel clubs in the city. He thrived.

Your character's favorite song:

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What can we call you?
Sgt, Sarge or Gio is fine

Your age:
Sorry, usually not comfortable sharing this part of myself xD

What part of the world are you from?
New Zealand but originally from the Philippines :)

How many years have you been writing/roleplaying:
3-4 years now? The years have gone by quick

How often do you have time to post?
Its the holidays now so I have a lot of free time

Do you like oranges?
Yep