TemplarKnight07

K9- Nine Killers (Modern/PvP/City rp)

*Name: Ezekiel "Zeke" Debelzaq

*Alias: "The Lead-Lord"

*Age: 30

*Height: 5' 6"

*Weight: 150 lbs

*Appearance:
Zeke in action. His outfits usually range from hooded coats to dusters, but he always prefers black. He likes to pay homage in his attire to famous gunslingers, or the grim reaper, as those are the main people he feels like when he mows down scores of targets. Whatever outfit he's wearing, its always festooned with holsters of all kinds for his guns.

*Physical Abilities/Skills:

-Master of all Firearms: If it has a trigger and even remotely looks like some kind of gun, Zeke can use it with prodigious skill. His aim and speed are unparalleled, so unless someone's got something between them and Zeke's bullets to protect them, they're dead.

-Strong back: Though Zeke never relies on his strength to kill anyone, he does possess the strength to carry dozens of firearms and spare ammunition on his person. After all, what's the fun of carrying a lot of guns, or even calling yourself the Lead Lord if you constantly run out of ammo?

-Master Gunslinger's reflexes and awareness: Zeke's fast with drawing guns and in being able to think fast enough to try to move out of the way of them before they start shooting. Plus, having watched dozens of shooter and gunslinger films, hundreds, if not thousands of times, he knows most traps that famous gunslingers have fallen for, and how to be aware for them.

*Personality: Being a prodigy with firearms has made Zeke vain. He cannot resist an opportunity to show off his prowess, and always relishes a new challenge. This vanity borders on Narcissism, as this striving to be known as the best shot on Earth can make him very touchy about working with other shooters he doesn't consider to be "up to his caliber". Otherwise, he's obsessed with collecting guns of all kinds and trying them out, and will often scour scenes after shoot-outs if he witnessed guns in action he didn't recognize. His apartment holds enough ordinance to outfit an army, is how much he takes it seriously.

*Background: Ezekiel Debelzaq was born in a rural farmstead in the American Midwest (Kansas, specifically) to parents of little but stable means as a middling sibling out of 6 siblings. Raised on old classic cowboy movies that he'd watch between bouts of labour on his family's property, he grew to want nothing more than to be a gunslinger, the best gunslinger in the world, in fact. His parents, like many do, enabled his fantasy to some extent by letting him try his hand at shooting some of their old firearms when he turned 14, to their surprise, he proved to be a natural prodigy with not just handguns, but also shotguns and rifles, hitting targets with precision and pulling off feats of terrific speed. He was so good that he even competed in the local shooting competition and beat men over 4 times his age when he was barely 16.

As he grew up, he also grew tired of farm life and left out to Kansas City to try and find a job he liked that also suited his prodigious skills. He managed to land himself a job as a gunsmith's apprentice, the closest thing to something he liked. He learned all of the ins and outs on firearms of all kinds, and slowly started collecting a small arsenal. He also took to scaring some of his neighbours at the local firing range with some of his crazy antics to try and push the limits of his skills. Though other more secret informants were watching him then, and saw the potential asset he posed.

Around this time, at the age of 20, Zeke was approached by representatives of the secretive Midwestern Mob Families, far more reclusive than their fellows in New York, Las Vegas, or California, but still members of The Commission, they held great unspoken power in the criminal underworld of the American Midwest, and they were looking for talent. For Zeke, whose parents' Christian morals never really stuck with him anyway, didn't find many qualms with being offered the opportunity to be a hired killer for the mob, as far as he was concerned, those stupid enough to cross the families shouldn't expect anything less, and they offered to pay him a fortune in wages. After shortly mulling the offer over, he accepted.

Thus began Zeke's career as a hitman for the Midwest Mob, quick and efficient, he was a cold and quick killer at first, gradually becoming more vain and bombastic as his skills outmatched most of those of the hicks and suckers he was assigned to kill, if they even put up a fight. The police never came after him, as they were too afraid of him and ever more expanding arsenal to try, and so long as he didn't murder any big popular figures too loudly, the cops didn't really care about who he killed either. Zeke felt invincible, and he begged for ever greater assignments, to the point where he'd led one-man shoot-outs of whole buildings and bars himself, murdering all of his targets and leaving the ground covered in spent ammunition as his calling card. With Zeke himself taking on the monicker of "The Lead-Lord" as he reputation and obsession for guns grew.

When the time came to induct members into the Mob's secret organization of professional and elite killers, K9, the Midwest Families found that they had the perfect candidate. Even if the years of service had turned Zeke more louder and carefree in his usage of ordinance to carry out assignments, he was the still one of the best one-man armies in terms of gun specialists in the business, and most certainly sent the message that his employers were not ones to be fucked with.

*Theme Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QAl9kZCwOPE "Bad Company" by Five Finger Death Punch
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2ZIdmfMc5o "Gun locker theme + Mansion theme extended" - Nuclear Throne OST
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LUUQ4c7Wdk "Boss Battle Beating" By Doseone for Enter the Gungeon OST

[OPEN AND ACCEPTING] HALT! Life of the City Guard.

Prospector's Rest Public House, several blocks away from 22nd Cleaver St. in the Lost Slums

Yarik was sitting at one of the bar stools of Miner's Rest, a Dwarf-run and mostly Dwarf-catering Pub that had for several decades been declared as "Neutral Ground" by the major Dwarf Street Gangs, it was one of the places where the Gangs tried to settle interpersonal conflicts without violence (didn't usually happen), and where anyone could go and largely remain unmolested (until they walked out the door). The pub was run by an older Dwarf named Thorr Drakkenborg, a man who prided himself on his establishment, in the middle of one of the shittiest quarters of the city as it was, but then he also wasn't a Dwarf of particularly high expectations. Though he was respected for keeping hot food and alcohol plentiful, and for keeping his mouth shut about "Dwarf business" from curious outsiders.

Though he wore the City Guard uniform under his heavy cloak, Yarik most certainly was not in the pub on official business, he was there to get drunk and get a bite to eat before stumbling back to his bunk at the post on 22nd Cleaver St. He was currently on his second shot of Coal-fire, a Dwarven-brew brought with the descendants of the Miner King's Throng that had become a City-Dwarf delicacy. Most other races could stomach it, though Yarik had heard that Thieflings could drink it like water if they wanted to, must be something to do with their daemon blood. Beside the shot stood a tankard of Drakkenborg's house ale, and a a plate of overcooked pork steak with turnips. Yarik was slowly chewing his food in between swigs of his drink, the alcohol already starting to affect him. The pub wasn't really the best place for lunch, and not that many patrons had come in yet, so the floor was relatively empty. Thorr looked over from tossing a couple fresh pieces of wood in his oven.

"Here I thought getting a job in the City Guard would have sobered you up."

Yarik glowered over at the old Dwarf. He was probably of a similar age to him, he thought. He swallowed his current mouthful before replying.

"And here I thought you weren't in the business of getting rid of easy customers."

Thorr responded as he walked back over to where Yarik was sitting, leaning against the counter.

"Customers pay. You run up tabs and tell me to take them up with the City Guard's Exchequer. They subsequently refuse to pay me. You not being sobered up means you just continue to drink me out of a business."

Yarik responded by downing the second shot of Coal-fire exhaling sharply as he put the glass down to fill another from the waiting bottle next to him.

"Ah, you know I'm good for it, Drakkenborg. Business is just slow in the Guard is all. Look, just wait, if I find anything nice to "confiscate" I'll send it your way. You sell it to a fence, my tab gets clear again eh?"

Thorr sighed, taking out a short pipe that was smouldering in a small ash tray on the counter and took a drag from it.

"Aye . . . keep forgetting most of you coppers are almost as crooked as the rest of us."

Yarik buzzedily nodded in agreement as he put another piece of pork in his mouth.

"I like to think of it as the cost of doing business. If the Exchequer won't pay for half-way decent food, what does he expect? I'm not dying of the fuckin' shits like Flinkfinger."

Suddenly the sound of an explosion boomed outside and the whole tavern shook slightly from the shockwave, causing Yarik to start as he lifted his tankard of ale, spilling some on his beard, and for Thorr to drop his pipe. Yarik swivelled in his stool to look out the window and see the smoking bellowing up from the general direction of the Necropolitan District.

"Fuckin' shit. There goes my excuse for a day off."

Yarik then stuffs the rest of the pork steak and a handful of diced turnips in his mouth quickly, downing them with some of the ale left over before grabbing the bottle of Coal-Fire and jogging off as fast as his legs could carry him up the muddy street, his buzzed state making his jog only slightly wonky.

Thorr yelled at Yarik as he ran out the door with the bottle.

"Hey, that's going on your tab too!"

Yarik could care less, he was more concerned about his heaving after jogging several blocks to the scene of the explosion. He really needed to get some more exercise and lay off the smoking he thought idly as he shoved his way through the gathering crowd of onlookers near the blown up crypt. He comes in from the intersection to the right of his fellow guardsmen, idly recognizing the young Thiefling and Gnome talking. As he stopped to catch his breath, he spied a small shape moving from the rooftops towards them, probably that damned Goblin who liked explosions on his way here, little fucker was going to have a hey-day.

Walking over slowly, his breath still heavy, and the bottle of Coal-fire still in his right hand, he interjected into the Gnome's statement.

"No, I spied the little fuck's on his way here now, or some other goblin or hobbgoblin hopping over the roofs at any rate . . ."

[OPEN AND ACCEPTING] HALT! Life of the City Guard.

Just out of curiosity, what is the general technological cap here? I understand there's magic and fantasy, but are there like primitive blackpowder weapons as well entering usage, or is it firmly high medieval weaponry and gear?

Blackshields [Warhammer 40K, Horus Heresy]

Posted my CS, just let me know if its good or requires changing.

Blackshields [Warhammer 40K, Horus Heresy]

Character Sheet

Name: Hephaistos Akhenaton
Age: 205
Legion:The Thousand Sons
Planet of Origin: Terra (Achaemedian Empire Citizen)
Physical Description:

(The sorcerer being Hephaistos)

Skillset:

C

Telepathy, Standard Combat training with a focus on fencing, and skills in diplomacy and subterfuge.

History:

As one of the thousand survivors of the first generation of Astartes made for the XVth Legion, Hephaistos has lived to see his legion go through some of the toughest trials of any of the Emperor's beloved children. Having practiced both the art of warfare and his newfound powers on the surface of Terra and on some of the first worlds they encountered in The Great Crusade, he saw the ravages of the "Flesh-change" consume many of his brethren before they at last found their genetic father, Magnus, on the desolate and isolated world of Prospero.

Their father, with his great powers over the psychic energies of the Warp far surpassing even the greatest sorcerers remaining in his legion, managed to stop the mutations ravaging his sons, saving Hephaistos and his remaining brothers from a horrific fate, and enabling them to continue to use their great and terrible powers in the service of the Emperor of Mankind.

Dozens of worlds were brought to Imperial Compliance by guile or warp-fire through the legion's work, and not even the ire of several of the other legions was enough to stain the pride of Hephaistos or the other Thousand Sons. Though the Council of Nikaea eventually banned them from using their powers as a legion, they would continue to work to expand their knowledge of the sorcerous arts in secret over the centuries.

When Magnus foresaw the great betrayal of his brother Horus, he did everything in his power to try and avert it, and the legion's greatest sorcerers worked beside him to try and defy fate again, but to no avail. He could not save Horus, his father the Emperor could not believe his warning, and he saw the doom of his legion looming.

In despair and one last attempt to avert the will of the dark deity that had sought to take him and his legion, Magnus did not prepare any defences nor give any warning to his world of Prospero of the Imperial forces coming to destroy them, he dispersed the Thousand Sons' fleet far away from Prospero, for those elements to look on in horror as the massive fleet with the Space Wolves at their head coming to bombard the planet.

Hephaistos was one of those aboard the vessels, the lone sorcerer aboard a small frigate far away from the terrible scene at Prospero acting as its messenger given his status as a member of the Athanaean Cult, he watched as his planet burned and the Imperial forces touched down to assault Tizca, to at last hear one last psychic transmission from his father, presumably sent to any other sorcerer aboard vessels within range of Magnus's mighty power. The message was simple: escape and warn the Imperium, Isstvan III and the disasters to be inflicted there must not be the death of the Imperium, and those that remain will need aid if they're to avenge their fallen brothers and comrades. Do whatever it takes to earn their trust, and do not let the sacrifice of the Thousand Sons be in vain.

So, Hephaistos fled, along with any other ship that managed to get away that had a Thousand Sons sorcerer with the ability to hear the same message. The Warp was turbulent however, and it took a long time before they could exit out, and when they did, the crew of the ship found themselves far off their mark, but in Imperial territory at least. The ship was swiftly seized by local imperial forces with the assistance of a detatchment of Imperial Fists after they found where the vessel had come from, where they found the sorcerer Hephaistos waiting for them, his weapons removed and armour put aside in expectation of their coming. He was arrested and interrogated, where he told them what had happened and what his last orders had been.

Though disbelieving at first, news of the devastation at Isstvan III travelled fast as numerous survivors of the incident from various legions made their escapes via various means, and Hephaistos and by extension the Thousand Sons' actions were verified (though obviously too late for the Thousand Sons, but not too late for Hephaistos). Moved out from his containment cell, Hephaistos was set free to do as he wished, though they urged him to continue to abide by the proclamations of the Council of Nikaea, and gave him advice that perhaps one of the legions nearest Isstvan could use his assistance.

In his travels towards the center of this conflict, he encountered the Rogue Trader Blaxius Kyros, and leaving the frigate and the crew that had loyally followed him to do as they wished, he packed up his gear and came along with him upon hearing of a proposition which the trader had for any "rogue" Astartes.

Psychological Profile: A cunning and subtle mind to compliment his powers, Hephaistos has learned to be cautious and careful around others, weighing his responses before giving them, and not to give himself away when secrecy and deception could be just as effective tools as honesty. Though his psyche sustained heavy damage upon seeing his legion basically be ruined twice over his lifetime, and now left fatherless, homeless, and legionless, he keeps to the duty charged to him by both Primarch and Emperor as best he can.

Equipment:

• Bolt pistol and Energy Sword
• Mark IV Maximus Power Armour
• Psyker Staff

[OPEN AND ACCEPTING] HALT! Life of the City Guard.

Character Sheet



Name: Yarik Maugrim

Race: Dwarf

Appearance: With weathered and cracked skin like old fractured stone, Yarik's age is betrayed by more than just his long and silvery beard. He stands at roughly 4'4' and weighs a stout 170 lbs. His eyes are grey and the top of his head is balding, while his teeth are yellowed from prolonged tobacco smoking. Under his clothes, his body is marked with the tattoos of his former street gang, also marking out his former position as an enforcer, as well as being covered in the scars of dozens of skirmishes and fights. His clothes are sodden and muddy messes from prolonged use, his heavy boots and gloves are worn and stained pieces of leather held together by old stitchings, and he's covered by a heavy dark grey hooded cloak that isn't in much better condition. He doesn't have a single piece of jewellery on him.

Age: 62

Former Profession: Smith's apprentice, Hired Muscle, Builder, Gangster Enforcer, Drunkard and Gambler.
Skill:

Criminal Contacts -Having spent the later part of his life as an Enforcer in a now disbanded Dwarven Street Gang, Yarik has several associates and friends in various elements of Kings Knell's underworld, with his seniority bringing him a measure of privilege among some of the older elements.

Basic Tactician -Working as private protection and overseeing Gangster crews separately over the course of several decades has given Yarik a fair bit of knowledge of how to plan and organize people. Though he'd never make commander material in any army, he knows more than most of the wetbacks and prospects who think they can just run into a fight axes and swords gleaming and have everything turn out well.

Iron Will to Physical Pain - Could also be classified as learned stubbornness, the process of taking beatings, dishing them out, as well as taking part and being the subject of various "creative" means the gangs come up with to initiate prospects and deal with rats or debtors has made Yarik exceedingly tough when it comes to dealing with physical pain. He'll suffer enormous injury before giving up what he knows to an enemy.

Personality: When sober, Yarik's mostly an old curmudgeon and does not possess a very friendly or inviting personality. He generally likes to keep to himself and is suspicious/cautious around most strangers, but even around those he knows he's generally considered to be a grumpy old bastard who's either to be respected or feared, but certainly not loved. When drunk or otherwise intoxicated, he generally either becomes nostalgic and depressed, or nostalgic and slightly more jovial depending on the situation he's in.

History: Born like most Dwarves as a descendant of those of stayed behind out of the Miner King's Throng. With his father setting himself up as a blacksmith forging construction materials and military grade of mostly middling qualities to support him and his family. Facing discrimination and eventually gang protection rackets to keep said bigots away, early life for Yarik's family was hard but relatively stable as work was plentiful for a Dwarf of even middling smithing skill in a city that constantly needed tools, weapons, or equipment. Yarik himself started out as his father's apprentice, but found that although he had the ability, he hadn't the patience for the work to become extremely skilled or the tolerance for constantly having to live on a constant treadmill of paying protection rackets. This led to conflict with his parents and other siblings, and eventually with Yarik striking out on his own right before he turned 20, his family subsequently disowning him as well.

Now without clan and with little money, he decided to apply for a position that his garnered strength from beating iron anvils and working bellows might prove useful: hired protection for merchants. With numerous traders working moving goods from the Twinkling Mountains and surrounding territories along the River Knell to King's Knell to sell, they were always looking for muscle to deter trouble and for Dwarves particularly out of the partially misguided belief that Dwarves in the Twinkling Mountains wouldn't try to mess with their own kind. Many would even pay to equip their crews if it meant protecting their cargoes, the only condition being that the muscles signed on for several months of service before getting their pay checks (if they lived long enough, or didn't break any other fine print in the contracts that is). In any case, Yarik fit the bill well enough and signed on as a member of a crew for a goods merchant moving cargo up and down the River Knell.

Work was interesting at first as he left the city and got to see the lands up and down the river, though would eventually become as monotonous as most jobs become, broken up by the occasional skirmish with bandits, thieves, or gangsters trying to steal money or goods off his employer when he otherwise wasn't a short and stout scarecrow. After one round of his contract (7 months!) Yarik got his paycheck of a hundred and forty crowns. Frustrated, but not seeing much of an option towards what he saw as a "decent" job like this, Yarik stuck it out for two more contracts before his employer lost his boat as collateral for debts and subsequently went out of business as a trader. After he and his fellow formerly hired muscles had beaten their last pay checks out of the poor miser, Yarik went his own way again, now back to square one in King's Knell, out of a job with only a little money to his name.

So, Yarik went into another typical profession for Dwarves in the city, as a builder, or more specifically a labourer. He and the crew he was assigned to build and repair several houses, temples, and public structures, but never the palaces. That work was for more professional craftsmen than he and the crews he was with. While working in construction, he ran into familiar faces from his old family's smithy, gangsters. Specifically Dwarven gangsters, since they had among other things, a monopoly over most of these low tier construction crews, not only taking cuts of the workers' meagre pay checks, but also ordering them to sabotage projects they were working on when they felt like screwing clients who wanted to play hardball with money. Yarik, though pissed at having to deal with these same scum again, noticed something very particular about the whole situation: the gangsters never had trouble getting their hands on money, and next to nobody tried to mess with them, not even the increasingly poorly equipped and trained guardsmen in most sectors of the city. It dawned on Yarik that in this city of bigots, thieves, liars, gangsters, mercenaries, and pompous rich folks, it payed to belong to a group that actually had a degree of control over their futures and be their own bosses than to constantly scratch about for scraps. To this end, he approached the nearest Dwarf Street Gang he knew that he didn't consider to be total pricks and treated their members well, the Salt-Packers, based out of a namesake Salt processing warehouse on a particularly dark branch of the river.

Like most gangs, Dwarven gangs were only open to those of their own race, but not everyone could just get in, first the gang had to be "prospecting" for " new and rich material". Then the prospects had to prove themselves capable of actually being valuable and loyal members. In the case of the Salt Packers, initiation was very symbolic. The Prospects first had to beat up an assigned target for the gang til they passed out, get them back to the gang's warehouse, then proceed to chop up the victim into pieces. They would then pack said pieces into salt for preservation and to be sent by couriers to the victim's relations, the heads to be packed in salt as trophies, and disposing of the rest into the river. If they'd done this to the gang's satisfaction, they'd be personally initiated next, with the prospect taking a beating from every member of the crew that was there until they bled, upon which they'd then rub salt into the wounds. If the prospects didn't pass out, whimper, or hit back, then they were in for life as a member and celebrated with a night at one of the locally gang-overseen taverns. Yarik passed through his initiation with distinction, his will to get out of the rut he saw his life becoming worth the pain and macabre work, he was 25 years old.

For the next 30 years, Yarik worked as a made member of the Salt-Packers Dwarven Street Gang. Working protection rackets, carrying out hits, and doing the grunt work for the gang alongside his fellow members, and all the while making decent money almost every day off of suckers who hadn't shown the same will to succeed as he had. His earlier despise for gangsters melted over the years as he lived and worked alongside them, coming to understand how and why they did what they did. Sure some were sick bastards who got off to killing whoever they pleased and acting untouchable (as many actually were on the streets), but at heart they all shared one thing in common: a desire to make the best of the shitty hand dealt to them by fate, and not caring about screwing over others who didn't share the same conviction.

Rising to the rank of Enforcer at the age of 38 due to his increased age and experience, Yarik was put in charge of personally overseeing a section of the gang's territory, and various rackets, as well as its members, associates, and potential prospects that resided within it. This was the life for Yarik, as he was now master of his own tiny domain within the city, and only had a couple bosses whom he could deal with to worry about. He ran his territory and crew with a hard but fair hand in most cases, but carried on the gang's zero tolerance for rats, snitches, and of people who thought they could sneak out of paying what they owed. He amassed a fair fortune by criminal standards over the years and enjoyed the pleasures of life within this city in his prime.

Nothing lasts forever though, and when he was 55, Yarik's world turn on its head as new movements in the criminal underworld took place. Fresh gang wars ignited and the fight for territory was on again as new hot-heads sought to carve their own piece of the pie in King's Knell's criminal enterprises. The Salt-Packers became embroiled with wars with other gangs over territory as well, and lost many members in the process, faster than they could replenish them, and soon their enemies were nearing their old warehouse of a base. Appealing for aid, the boss of the Salt-Packers, Zargruff Holmstein, made a deal with a new up and coming Dwarven gang, the Iron-clad Kings, and their boss Valton "Ironhide" Fergus. The deal being that if the Iron-clad Kings came to the aid of the Salt-Packers, Zargruff would hand the gang over to Valton and work for him as an underboss, uniting their gangs and making Valton and the Kings even more powerful in the ongoing gang war. Valton agreed, saying his crews would come once fighting began. The enemy crews came in force on the warehouse, and the area became a battleground as Dwarf fought Dwarf in brutal street-fighting that mocked the wars of their clans of old. Yarik and his crew along with other fought hard, but were slowly overrun, beaten back to their very gates, they cost their rivals every inch in blood. Using desperate measures, their enemies set fire to the very warehouse they were in, engulfing it and the nearby streets in flame. Tons of Salt-Packers died in the fire along with their enemies, while those that could dived into the river for safety, their boss not among them. City Guard came after the fighting to extinguish the flames with the help of river boats and clean up the mess of looted bodies.

The remnants of the gang found out later that the Iron-clad Kings had arrived and smashed the fleeing gangsters of their enemies, but only after the warehouse was in flames and most of the Salt-Packers were dead. Valton had proved to be a pragmaticist and thought it better to send a message to the rival gangs by eliminating several of his potential rivals and enemies with one stroke, and showing what he thought about the idea of sharing power with leaders of other gangs. All the same, he offered the remaining Salt-Packers homes as Iron-clad Kings, though Yarik and many older members refused, their distaste left unstated but apparent.

Ever since, Yarik has dwindled away what remained of his fortune, drinking away the memories of how his life has gone, and peddling his money away on small pleasures. He still has many friends among criminals, but he has never joined a gang since, none of them are like they once were during his time in his eyes, and he has never been sober or bold enough since to form his own. With gambling debts accumulating his options have grown slim, but unwilling to die yet, he knows of one route to at least temporary salvation for one such as him, oddly enough: a city guardsman.

[OPEN AND ACCEPTING] HALT! Life of the City Guard.

Character Sheet



Name: Yarik Maugrim

Race: Dwarf

Appearance: With weathered and cracked skin like old fractured stone, Yarik's age is betrayed by more than just his long and silvery beard. He stands at roughly 4'4' and weighs a stout 170 lbs. His eyes are grey and the top of his head is balding, while his teeth are yellowed from prolonged tobacco smoking. Under his clothes, his body is marked with the tattoos of his former street gang, also marking out his former position as an enforcer, as well as being covered in the scars of dozens of skirmishes and fights. His clothes are sodden and muddy messes from prolonged use, his heavy boots and gloves are worn and stained pieces of leather held together by old stitchings, and he's covered by a heavy dark grey hooded cloak that isn't in much better condition. He doesn't have a single piece of jewellery on him.

Age: 62

Former Profession: Smith's apprentice, Hired Muscle, Builder, Gangster Enforcer, Drunkard and Gambler.
Skill:

Criminal Contacts -Having spent the later part of his life as an Enforcer in a now disbanded Dwarven Street Gang, Yarik has several associates and friends in various elements of Kings Knell's underworld, with his seniority bringing him a measure of privilege among some of the older elements.

Basic Tactician -Working as private protection and overseeing Gangster crews separately over the course of several decades has given Yarik a fair bit of knowledge of how to plan and organize people. Though he'd never make commander material in any army, he knows more than most of the wetbacks and prospects who think they can just run into a fight axes and swords gleaming and have everything turn out well.

Iron Will to Physical Pain - Could also be classified as learned stubbornness, the process of taking beatings, dishing them out, as well as taking part and being the subject of various "creative" means the gangs come up with to initiate prospects and deal with rats or debtors has made Yarik exceedingly tough when it comes to dealing with physical pain. He'll suffer enormous injury before giving up what he knows to an enemy.

Personality: When sober, Yarik's mostly an old curmudgeon and does not possess a very friendly or inviting personality. He generally likes to keep to himself and is suspicious/cautious around most strangers, but even around those he knows he's generally considered to be a grumpy old bastard who's either to be respected or feared, but certainly not loved. When drunk or otherwise intoxicated, he generally either becomes nostalgic and depressed, or nostalgic and slightly more jovial depending on the situation he's in.

History: Born like most Dwarves as a descendant of those of stayed behind out of the Miner King's Throng. With his father setting himself up as a blacksmith forging construction materials and military grade of mostly middling qualities to support him and his family. Facing discrimination and eventually gang protection rackets to keep said bigots away, early life for Yarik's family was hard but relatively stable as work was plentiful for a Dwarf of even middling smithing skill in a city that constantly needed tools, weapons, or equipment. Yarik himself started out as his father's apprentice, but found that although he had the ability, he hadn't the patience for the work to become extremely skilled or the tolerance for constantly having to live on a constant treadmill of paying protection rackets. This led to conflict with his parents and other siblings, and eventually with Yarik striking out on his own right before he turned 20, his family subsequently disowning him as well.

Now without clan and with little money, he decided to apply for a position that his garnered strength from beating iron anvils and working bellows might prove useful: hired protection for merchants. With numerous traders working moving goods from the Twinkling Mountains and surrounding territories along the River Knell to King's Knell to sell, they were always looking for muscle to deter trouble and for Dwarves particularly out of the partially misguided belief that Dwarves in the Twinkling Mountains wouldn't try to mess with their own kind. Many would even pay to equip their crews if it meant protecting their cargoes, the only condition being that the muscles signed on for several months of service before getting their pay checks (if they lived long enough, or didn't break any other fine print in the contracts that is). In any case, Yarik fit the bill well enough and signed on as a member of a crew for a goods merchant moving cargo up and down the River Knell.

Work was interesting at first as he left the city and got to see the lands up and down the river, though would eventually become as monotonous as most jobs become, broken up by the occasional skirmish with bandits, thieves, or gangsters trying to steal money or goods off his employer when he otherwise wasn't a short and stout scarecrow. After one round of his contract (7 months!) Yarik got his paycheck of a hundred and forty crowns. Frustrated, but not seeing much of an option towards what he saw as a "decent" job like this, Yarik stuck it out for two more contracts before his employer lost his boat as collateral for debts and subsequently went out of business as a trader. After he and his fellow formerly hired muscles had beaten their last pay checks out of the poor miser, Yarik went his own way again, now back to square one in King's Knell, out of a job with only a little money to his name.

So, Yarik went into another typical profession for Dwarves in the city, as a builder, or more specifically a labourer. He and the crew he was assigned to build and repair several houses, temples, and public structures, but never the palaces. That work was for more professional craftsmen than he and the crews he was with. While working in construction, he ran into familiar faces from his old family's smithy, gangsters. Specifically Dwarven gangsters, since they had among other things, a monopoly over most of these low tier construction crews, not only taking cuts of the workers' meagre pay checks, but also ordering them to sabotage projects they were working on when they felt like screwing clients who wanted to play hardball with money. Yarik, though pissed at having to deal with these same scum again, noticed something very particular about the whole situation: the gangsters never had trouble getting their hands on money, and next to nobody tried to mess with them, not even the increasingly poorly equipped and trained guardsmen in most sectors of the city. It dawned on Yarik that in this city of bigots, thieves, liars, gangsters, mercenaries, and pompous rich folks, it payed to belong to a group that actually had a degree of control over their futures and be their own bosses than to constantly scratch about for scraps. To this end, he approached the nearest Dwarf Street Gang he knew that he didn't consider to be total pricks and treated their members well, the Salt-Packers, based out of a namesake Salt processing warehouse on a particularly dark branch of the river.

Like most gangs, Dwarven gangs were only open to those of their own race, but not everyone could just get in, first the gang had to be "prospecting" for " new and rich material". Then the prospects had to prove themselves capable of actually being valuable and loyal members. In the case of the Salt Packers, initiation was very symbolic. The Prospects first had to beat up an assigned target for the gang til they passed out, get them back to the gang's warehouse, then proceed to chop up the victim into pieces. They would then pack said pieces into salt for preservation and to be sent by couriers to the victim's relations, the heads to be packed in salt as trophies, and disposing of the rest into the river. If they'd done this to the gang's satisfaction, they'd be personally initiated next, with the prospect taking a beating from every member of the crew that was there until they bled, upon which they'd then rub salt into the wounds. If the prospects didn't pass out, whimper, or hit back, then they were in for life as a member and celebrated with a night at one of the locally gang-overseen taverns. Yarik passed through his initiation with distinction, his will to get out of the rut he saw his life becoming worth the pain and macabre work, he was 25 years old.

For the next 30 years, Yarik worked as a made member of the Salt-Packers Dwarven Street Gang. Working protection rackets, carrying out hits, and doing the grunt work for the gang alongside his fellow members, and all the while making decent money almost every day off of suckers who hadn't shown the same will to succeed as he had. His earlier despise for gangsters melted over the years as he lived and worked alongside them, coming to understand how and why they did what they did. Sure some were sick bastards who got off to killing whoever they pleased and acting untouchable (as many actually were on the streets), but at heart they all shared one thing in common: a desire to make the best of the shitty hand dealt to them by fate, and not caring about screwing over others who didn't share the same conviction.

Rising to the rank of Enforcer at the age of 38 due to his increased age and experience, Yarik was put in charge of personally overseeing a section of the gang's territory, and various rackets, as well as its members, associates, and potential prospects that resided within it. This was the life for Yarik, as he was now master of his own tiny domain within the city, and only had a couple bosses whom he could deal with to worry about. He ran his territory and crew with a hard but fair hand in most cases, but carried on the gang's zero tolerance for rats, snitches, and of people who thought they could sneak out of paying what they owed. He amassed a fair fortune by criminal standards over the years and enjoyed the pleasures of life within this city in his prime.

Nothing lasts forever though, and when he was 55, Yarik's world turn on its head as new movements in the criminal underworld took place. Fresh gang wars ignited and the fight for territory was on again as new hot-heads sought to carve their own piece of the pie in King's Knell's criminal enterprises. The Salt-Packers became embroiled with wars with other gangs over territory as well, and lost many members in the process, faster than they could replenish them, and soon their enemies were nearing their old warehouse of a base. Appealing for aid, the boss of the Salt-Packers, Zargruff Holmstein, made a deal with a new up and coming Dwarven gang, the Iron-clad Kings, and their boss Valton "Ironhide" Fergus. The deal being that if the Iron-clad Kings came to the aid of the Salt-Packers, Zargruff would hand the gang over to Valton and work for him as an underboss, uniting their gangs and making Valton and the Kings even more powerful in the ongoing gang war. Valton agreed, saying his crews would come once fighting began. The enemy crews came in force on the warehouse, and the area became a battleground as Dwarf fought Dwarf in brutal street-fighting that mocked the wars of their clans of old. Yarik and his crew along with other fought hard, but were slowly overrun, beaten back to their very gates, they cost their rivals every inch in blood. Using desperate measures, their enemies set fire to the very warehouse they were in, engulfing it and the nearby streets in flame. Tons of Salt-Packers died in the fire along with their enemies, while those that could dived into the river for safety, their boss not among them. City Guard came after the fighting to extinguish the flames with the help of river boats and clean up the mess of looted bodies.

The remnants of the gang found out later that the Iron-clad Kings had arrived and smashed the fleeing gangsters of their enemies, but only after the warehouse was in flames and most of the Salt-Packers were dead. Valton had proved to be a pragmaticist and thought it better to send a message to the rival gangs by eliminating several of his potential rivals and enemies with one stroke, and showing what he thought about the idea of sharing power with leaders of other gangs. All the same, he offered the remaining Salt-Packers homes as Iron-clad Kings, though Yarik and many older members refused, their distaste left unstated but apparent.

Ever since, Yarik has dwindled away what remained of his fortune, drinking away the memories of how his life has gone, and peddling his money away on small pleasures. He still has many friends among criminals, but he has never joined a gang since, none of them are like they once were during his time in his eyes, and he has never been sober or bold enough since form his own. With gambling debts accumulating his options have grown slim, but unwilling to die yet, he knows of one route to at least temporary salvation for one such as him, oddly enough: a city guardsman.

K9- Nine Killers (Modern/PvP/City rp)

Interested.

[OPEN AND ACCEPTING] HALT! Life of the City Guard.

Still looking for apps? I may be tempted to try my hand at making a Dwarf character.

Warhammer 40K: Blackshields [Horus Heresy]

Interested.