Post by Mr. Deathclaw on Nov 30, 2011 12:28:13 GMT -6
NAME: Marcus
ALIAS(ES): Mark, Raider, Dog
AGE: Thirty
GENDER: Male
SPECIES: Human
FACTIONAL/AFFILIATION: Rectified Fiend/WGS
KARMA: Bad
APPEARANCE:
6' 3" in height.
Caucasian. Dark, tanned skin from staying out in the sun.
Broad shoulders. Middle-weight build from hard work but lean from the lack of food and constant drug abuse.
Will wear Formal Wear when ordered/In the Strip/In Freeside.
Wears Vexillarius helmet, Tribal Raiding Armor if given the option/Out hunting.
PERSONALITY:
The silent type. The exact personification of a classic guard dog. He's docile, quiet, and merely looms to the side when idle.
When given orders, he becomes aggressive, ruthless, persistent, brash; often jumping to conclusions.
He isn't the type to have conversations. It's not that he can't talk, but more so that he is not the most intelligent being.
Dependent on Jet or a Supplier.
HISTORY:
Born out in the Mojave, he was taken from a dirt poor family at a young age by Vipers who used him as bait, a bartering tool, or a simple mule. Not remembering much of his parents, he came to terms with his new life role until a passing caravan and their bodyguards had shot the entire group after they had tried to ransack them. Unable to shoot a child, they coaxed him with food to have him follow them till they reached their destination. Filled with put stops and trading passages on the way, his company with them didn't last long when a few of the members and guards were killed off by wild Nightstalkers. Limited in Caps and supplies, much money was to be had and saved if they traded the kid to a buyer.
Their plan was never carried out as the rest were soon caught by Fiends. Not so much out of pity did the few women traveling with that group of Raiders think they could keep Marcus. In their drugged-out delusions, they figured they could raise a son, scared that raising one by birth was too dangerous and some just incapable of having children thanks to radiation and substance abuse. Their camp grounds were in the South Vegas Ruins. Needless to say, raising anything successfully in the Wastelands takes hard work. Shooting up Caravans for supplies was hard work but good pay. Rearing one child had little benefits. Just like his time with the Vipers, Marcus was subjugated to small tasks he could do, only this time, he was given food and water every so often and they introduced a drug called Jet to him.
Years pass. Teaching him more on pillaging, scavenging, and stealing the Fiends let out a small group to head closer to New Vegas for bigger bounties like Brahmin. Coming too close just as a troop of NCR were exiting, the group was split up in a crossfire. Marcus lost his heading and instead of running back home, he ended up running towards Freeside where he just happened to run into a particular fellow who everyone called Victor. He was dressed richly and smelled of a finer life. But there was also a stink about him that Marcus couldn't quite pin on him. He didn't know why but the man spoke soft words and led him back to the Ultra-Luxe via back door. He had no idea that the man had plans to turn him into the next appetizer. But for whatever reason, the man had changed his mind and instead kept him, teaching him things, better things than what the Fiends could have taught him though he remained in that mindset.
It was here he was trained to be a watchman, a bodyguard for the masked man. He has been at the man's side ever since, often escorting him out of the Ultra-Luxe and even as far as the Wasteland just outside New Vegas.
SPECIAL STATS:
STR — 9
PER — 4 (+2)
END — 7
CHA — 3
INT — 3
AGI — 7
LUC — 4
TAG SKILLS:
Guns - Proficiency at using weapons that fire standard ammunition.
Unarmed - Proficiency at unarmed fighting.
Melee Weapons - Proficiency at using melee weapons.
Writing Sample:
He's back. He always comes back. Always, everyday, every night. Like clockwork. But it's not him that Marcus is interested in. It's what he carries in that black jacket that he wants, needs, hungers for. Words are spoken but he pays no mind. The words 'work' and 'quiet' only stand out. But everything else falls deaf. No, no, no. No work. No deal until the man in black and white hands it over. In his jacket, it's in his jacket. Why does this man continue to talk? Every second felt like his skin was tightening into a dried husk, he could hear the little bit of blood left in him crawl through his veins, making him itch.
The man must have finally noticed the staved and wide look Marcus is giving him because it is only then that he finally stops his constant chattering. Finally slips his hand into his jacket and pull a small pouch out. Before he even tosses it in the air, Marcus is already up on his feet, catching it, and tearing it open for the prize inside. In his rush, the bag splits and they all fall to the ground. Five. Only five. But it's enough. The man comes every day, and every night he brings more. Five is enough. Just enough. Almost in fear of the man taking it back, Marcus gathers them up and hides them in his own satchel, stuffing them in but keeping one out in his shaky hands. He can't wait till after, he must have it now. Like a breathe of fresh air concealed in a small can, he presses it to his mouth and squeezes the contents out, inhaling deeply of a burning aroma that makes his eyes water and throat tighten. He doesn't stop till it's empty and he feels like he could take on the entire NCR by himself, till the small jet bottle is empty and there's nothing left but the dirt saliva left around the opening.
Marcus tosses it aside, laughing now, in a much better and fitting mood. Ready for the game that they play every so often. A game he greatly enjoyed. Killing people. Grabbing his gun, he looks over to the watching man in black and white and waits for that solid white face to give the nod. He was ready to go.
ALIAS(ES): Mark, Raider, Dog
AGE: Thirty
GENDER: Male
SPECIES: Human
FACTIONAL/AFFILIATION: Rectified Fiend/WGS
KARMA: Bad
APPEARANCE:
6' 3" in height.
Caucasian. Dark, tanned skin from staying out in the sun.
Broad shoulders. Middle-weight build from hard work but lean from the lack of food and constant drug abuse.
Will wear Formal Wear when ordered/In the Strip/In Freeside.
Wears Vexillarius helmet, Tribal Raiding Armor if given the option/Out hunting.
PERSONALITY:
The silent type. The exact personification of a classic guard dog. He's docile, quiet, and merely looms to the side when idle.
When given orders, he becomes aggressive, ruthless, persistent, brash; often jumping to conclusions.
He isn't the type to have conversations. It's not that he can't talk, but more so that he is not the most intelligent being.
Dependent on Jet or a Supplier.
HISTORY:
Born out in the Mojave, he was taken from a dirt poor family at a young age by Vipers who used him as bait, a bartering tool, or a simple mule. Not remembering much of his parents, he came to terms with his new life role until a passing caravan and their bodyguards had shot the entire group after they had tried to ransack them. Unable to shoot a child, they coaxed him with food to have him follow them till they reached their destination. Filled with put stops and trading passages on the way, his company with them didn't last long when a few of the members and guards were killed off by wild Nightstalkers. Limited in Caps and supplies, much money was to be had and saved if they traded the kid to a buyer.
Their plan was never carried out as the rest were soon caught by Fiends. Not so much out of pity did the few women traveling with that group of Raiders think they could keep Marcus. In their drugged-out delusions, they figured they could raise a son, scared that raising one by birth was too dangerous and some just incapable of having children thanks to radiation and substance abuse. Their camp grounds were in the South Vegas Ruins. Needless to say, raising anything successfully in the Wastelands takes hard work. Shooting up Caravans for supplies was hard work but good pay. Rearing one child had little benefits. Just like his time with the Vipers, Marcus was subjugated to small tasks he could do, only this time, he was given food and water every so often and they introduced a drug called Jet to him.
Years pass. Teaching him more on pillaging, scavenging, and stealing the Fiends let out a small group to head closer to New Vegas for bigger bounties like Brahmin. Coming too close just as a troop of NCR were exiting, the group was split up in a crossfire. Marcus lost his heading and instead of running back home, he ended up running towards Freeside where he just happened to run into a particular fellow who everyone called Victor. He was dressed richly and smelled of a finer life. But there was also a stink about him that Marcus couldn't quite pin on him. He didn't know why but the man spoke soft words and led him back to the Ultra-Luxe via back door. He had no idea that the man had plans to turn him into the next appetizer. But for whatever reason, the man had changed his mind and instead kept him, teaching him things, better things than what the Fiends could have taught him though he remained in that mindset.
It was here he was trained to be a watchman, a bodyguard for the masked man. He has been at the man's side ever since, often escorting him out of the Ultra-Luxe and even as far as the Wasteland just outside New Vegas.
SPECIAL STATS:
STR — 9
PER — 4 (+2)
END — 7
CHA — 3
INT — 3
AGI — 7
LUC — 4
TAG SKILLS:
Guns - Proficiency at using weapons that fire standard ammunition.
Unarmed - Proficiency at unarmed fighting.
Melee Weapons - Proficiency at using melee weapons.
Writing Sample:
He's back. He always comes back. Always, everyday, every night. Like clockwork. But it's not him that Marcus is interested in. It's what he carries in that black jacket that he wants, needs, hungers for. Words are spoken but he pays no mind. The words 'work' and 'quiet' only stand out. But everything else falls deaf. No, no, no. No work. No deal until the man in black and white hands it over. In his jacket, it's in his jacket. Why does this man continue to talk? Every second felt like his skin was tightening into a dried husk, he could hear the little bit of blood left in him crawl through his veins, making him itch.
The man must have finally noticed the staved and wide look Marcus is giving him because it is only then that he finally stops his constant chattering. Finally slips his hand into his jacket and pull a small pouch out. Before he even tosses it in the air, Marcus is already up on his feet, catching it, and tearing it open for the prize inside. In his rush, the bag splits and they all fall to the ground. Five. Only five. But it's enough. The man comes every day, and every night he brings more. Five is enough. Just enough. Almost in fear of the man taking it back, Marcus gathers them up and hides them in his own satchel, stuffing them in but keeping one out in his shaky hands. He can't wait till after, he must have it now. Like a breathe of fresh air concealed in a small can, he presses it to his mouth and squeezes the contents out, inhaling deeply of a burning aroma that makes his eyes water and throat tighten. He doesn't stop till it's empty and he feels like he could take on the entire NCR by himself, till the small jet bottle is empty and there's nothing left but the dirt saliva left around the opening.
Marcus tosses it aside, laughing now, in a much better and fitting mood. Ready for the game that they play every so often. A game he greatly enjoyed. Killing people. Grabbing his gun, he looks over to the watching man in black and white and waits for that solid white face to give the nod. He was ready to go.