Post by Marcus O'Terra on May 2, 2012 18:17:26 GMT -5
First Name: Marcus
Last Name: O'Terra
Age: 29
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 160lb (Marcus has lost considerable weight due to injuries, and the recovery there-of
Appearance: : A scruffy bastard, prone to letting his facial hair, such as it is, grow out. Sun-scorched on his fore-arms and around his neck. Usually carries some kind of pistol and a rifle on his back, when permissible.
Two bullet scars on his left leg (grazes, outer calf). He also now has a bullet wound on his arse from one cheek through the other, and in his right foot. An additional scar on his right arm and stretch marks on his left hip where a bullet impact severely bruised him.
A very mean looking brand on his back right shoulder, common to Rim-slaves, which is tattoo'ed over by a BrownCoat Squad insignia. Varous scars on back and front torso from shrapnel surgery. Wears sunglasses.
Persuasion: Independent.
Military Service: Yes, Independents, 2506-2511
During the war served in the Beylix Airborne Militia - 'J-Town' (Junker Town) based out of North Durandal aboard the modified scrapper vessel "Amelia Swift" until 2509 when it was shot down. Spent the last three (2509-2511) years of the war with the 312nd Infantry
General Skills: List some general skills the character have. Capability with weapons, ability to pilot vehicles, or anything you think is a skill that would make them valuable should be listed here.*
Talents: Trained Pilot: Marcus can fly: Shuttles, Light Freighters, Courier class vehicles, and Mid-bulk freighters.
Trained Solider: Marcus can and has, fought in firefight conditions, and can retain a sense of awareness of what is going on. He is also trained in the use of rifles, at middle and long distances. He is trained in the use of pistols in close range combat.
Experienced Mercenary: Marcus knows how to reach contacts for jobs, usually. He has experience with shotguns, but not much, and usually on the receiving end.
Child of a Rancher: In his early years, Marcus learned to ride a horse and is thus acquainted it the basics of saddle riding.
Flaws: Childhood Trauma: Marcus spent six years of his childhood as a slave to Nathanial Burts. He was haunted by nightmares of that time and it drove him to seek out Burts and kill him. Those images will continue to haunt him.
Might Prejudice: Of anyone who fought for the Alliance during the war, but LEFT the service afterword. Anyone who stuck with it is and outright Purple Belly in his eyes.
Personality Traits: Idealistic Survivalist: Marcus aspires to the idea that he is, at heart, a good person. The problem is he keeps making bad choices. Mistakes are made, and people pay the price. But he tries to keep his course.
Sense of Contract: Marcus likes to get paid. More than that he believes in the idea that when two people agree to something, they do it. They walk away. No bloodshed. This doesn't always happen and sometimes Marcus has had to break this sense in favor of his dignity or his life.
Dirty hands, scrapped knees: Marcus knows the value of a hard days work. He also knows the border line between a hard days work and outright slavery.
History: Born on a ship inbound to Whitefall, his mother dying in the process. He was raised there by his father, who was under the boot of the local thugs. He watched his dad shoot oversized vermin and would-be bandits, watching and learning the basics of rifling.
Times got tough, however and he was sold at Six standard years as a debt payment, much to his despair. He showed a bit of grit and a desire to live, when he bit off the finger off one of his new owners and spat it in another ones face, making a mad dash for about ten feet before a heavy boot struck him across the back.
His grit spared him from being diced up for organs, but only as long as he showed 'promise'. He did, fighting other 'payments' and watching them get carted off as he learned to shoot and scrap, while learning the basics of space travel. Four years passed and found his father staring down the barrel of a gun in Marc's hands. A choice of Death or Life, and a commitment to his 'masters'.
He surpassed his father, sparing his life and killing his former owners; or so he assumed, and nearly died for it. But was free, of his 'master' and his father. He used what money they had, which wasn't much, to barter passage off Whitefall; leaving his father in the dust.
Underage and with waning credits, he found himself in the apprenticeship of a group of independent salvagers. Law not being as feared and heavy handed on the rim, there was plenty of debris to scoop up for a good day's pay.
When the war broke out, the ship's captain signed the vessel on for the independents, and the ship was outfitted with a basic turret and tasked with running it's normal duties, as well as smuggling, and carrying out rescue operations once and a while.
Marcus received some basic training, but began to broaden his skills with rifles, often perched on top of the ship and keeping and eye out for Alliance patrols while the rest of the crew searched downed ships for survivors or whatever could be salvaged.
Near the end of the war, however, the ship was shot down, and all but Marcus died either from the crash, or the purple bellies swooping in on them. Marcus recovered, and was placed in the bulk of the infantry for the remainder of the war.
His eighteenth birthday had rolled past by time of the battle of Serenity Valley, little more needs to be said other than he survived, simply because his squad hadn't reached the front by the time the order to pull back had been sent out. He'd been made a First Class Private for his Sniping skills, but the war ended before he could receive anything higher.
His aftermath was like so many other browncoats. He laid down his arms, surrendered, was stripped of what rank and military status he had. His time served in POW camps and prison blurred by, and when he was given his 'freedom'; he found it a bit sour.
Marcus has fallen into the life of a mercenary, and as such wades through jobs that border the grey of morals. Though he sticks to jobs he's likely to keep his blood in his veins.
RP Sample:
Chapter One: Seven days before meeting Bishop Morse on The Logan
One big carnie town... Marcus groaned internally; wading through the crowds. His travel bag was bundled up tight and his side-piece was strapped and safe under his coat. He had no illusions that his pockets and the hands of the brats running about weren’t a might more intimate then he’d like. All his money was safely inside his bag, which wasn’t going anywhere for a time.
Between the ‘blue belle’ and the ‘pepper piper’. What kinda directions are those? he sighed. He was deep in the show tents and it was hard to see anything but the folks calling out to the crowds to try their shows. There were men wearing hats on hats and people juggling ‘laser’ knives; there was even a woman painted blue with spots like a cow, advertising some kind of show from an Earth-that-was folk tale.
Wait a second. Marcus stopped in his tracks and looked at the woman. She was a fair sight to look at, even painted up like a blueberry with plastic horns and a yarn tail. He looked left and right and saw, indeed a man eating peppers in between bouts of eloquent, but erratic, flute playing. Wow. I’m almost impressed at how direct that was...
He shifted through the crowd, keeping his eye on the blue gal.... for sake of reference. Between the two tents there was a narrow ‘alley’ and Marcus picked up his pace to the meeting. Marcus hoped Samuel Montros wouldn’t be as much of a heel as he’d been when he’d waved Marcus for the job.
“Glad you could join us, Brownie.” Marcus wanted to sigh. The man was sitting on a chair, smoking some kind of cheap looking, foul smelling, cigar-ish stub. Marcus was standing, and more than one of the four men around him had a weapon on them, drawn.
“You picked a fine and successful location. Lots of people. Lots of noise. Hard to get a clear guess of anything.” It was true enough. The six were all occupying a space not fit for five, and Samuel’s girth counted for two. “Hope you won’t play on deafness when it comes to my pay.”
“Five hundred up front...” Samuel laughed, not a happy sort of laugh, the condescending sort. “You’re crazy, Brownie. You’re good but you’re crazy.”
“Fifty for four big flunkies, three hundred for your former associate. Minimal Bloodshed; Maximum Profit.” Marcus was used to missi-NO jobs... jobs like these. Shoot the leaders, let the grunts mop up the rest.
“I don’t see no reason for use not to split this half and half like any other job...” Samuel smiled; his colleagues examined their blades. Tight quarters, no room to draw a gun, or the ax... A switch blade would be a smart purchase in the near future...
“I get my money now, I’m honor-bonded to this job. Half and half I can always go ‘Hey, I killed some of them folks’. I’d be able to bolt out midway, and you’d have an angry man looking at you for payback, and muscle to get it.”
It was true enough. Word on the street was that Montros group had split but skewed like. Montros had kept less of the men, but held most of the cash. His former partner in crime, a Lawrence Bigsby, was a more charismatic sort, and had drawn more of the meat but lost out on the bread; metaphorically speaking.
“Honor and five plat will get you a decent time round here.” Samuel growled. He wasn’t smiling any more.
“It’ll get a might more than that, but not the sorta thing a healthy minded man would pay for. How’s this then. I take that money and ditch, and I’ll have you on my tail, and word on the Cortex ‘O’Terra’s a thieving, yellow-belly’ and I can’t stand for that. I mean thieving; Well we all gotta make our way.” He looked around and all the men around him seemed to be thinking that. “But I’m no coward. I do a job. I get paid. The order don’t matter so long as it’s done. This case though. I’d like to get paid mostly now, at least.”
“Two-Fifty now. Three fifty after you’ve lightened my worries a bit. And if you’re quick a bonus ‘fore you leave.” Samuel smiled tossing a small bag that jingled with the happy sound of platinum. Marcus knew the weight, and stuffed it into his bag before the group got down to the gritty details.
Bigsby had a quartet of trusted associates. Right now, they were moving about Paquin, trying to turn Montros’s contacts over to Bigsby’s side of the fissure. This did not sit well with Montros, as Bigsby was thinking of moving more dangerous things through the web Montros wove with his own shady dealings. Substances that mother’s fear their children play at when they get old enough to hold enough credits for them.
These weren’t covert agents, however, they walked under the sun like any other folk, thinking Montros too yellow to fight out in the open. This was half true. He was too something, too smart. A gang war would would bring the Feds down quick, and hard; or so everyone feared. Paquin was rather ‘Corey’ for a Border world.
Marcus had slides and info on his marks. The rest was up to him. Dealing with the lesser punks would be better... if he tried to move to fast, this would fall apart, and onto him.
Do you accept the rules of this site? Yes
Last Name: O'Terra
Age: 29
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 160lb (Marcus has lost considerable weight due to injuries, and the recovery there-of
Appearance: : A scruffy bastard, prone to letting his facial hair, such as it is, grow out. Sun-scorched on his fore-arms and around his neck. Usually carries some kind of pistol and a rifle on his back, when permissible.
Two bullet scars on his left leg (grazes, outer calf). He also now has a bullet wound on his arse from one cheek through the other, and in his right foot. An additional scar on his right arm and stretch marks on his left hip where a bullet impact severely bruised him.
A very mean looking brand on his back right shoulder, common to Rim-slaves, which is tattoo'ed over by a BrownCoat Squad insignia. Varous scars on back and front torso from shrapnel surgery. Wears sunglasses.
Persuasion: Independent.
Military Service: Yes, Independents, 2506-2511
During the war served in the Beylix Airborne Militia - 'J-Town' (Junker Town) based out of North Durandal aboard the modified scrapper vessel "Amelia Swift" until 2509 when it was shot down. Spent the last three (2509-2511) years of the war with the 312nd Infantry
General Skills: List some general skills the character have. Capability with weapons, ability to pilot vehicles, or anything you think is a skill that would make them valuable should be listed here.*
Talents: Trained Pilot: Marcus can fly: Shuttles, Light Freighters, Courier class vehicles, and Mid-bulk freighters.
Trained Solider: Marcus can and has, fought in firefight conditions, and can retain a sense of awareness of what is going on. He is also trained in the use of rifles, at middle and long distances. He is trained in the use of pistols in close range combat.
Experienced Mercenary: Marcus knows how to reach contacts for jobs, usually. He has experience with shotguns, but not much, and usually on the receiving end.
Child of a Rancher: In his early years, Marcus learned to ride a horse and is thus acquainted it the basics of saddle riding.
Flaws: Childhood Trauma: Marcus spent six years of his childhood as a slave to Nathanial Burts. He was haunted by nightmares of that time and it drove him to seek out Burts and kill him. Those images will continue to haunt him.
Might Prejudice: Of anyone who fought for the Alliance during the war, but LEFT the service afterword. Anyone who stuck with it is and outright Purple Belly in his eyes.
Personality Traits: Idealistic Survivalist: Marcus aspires to the idea that he is, at heart, a good person. The problem is he keeps making bad choices. Mistakes are made, and people pay the price. But he tries to keep his course.
Sense of Contract: Marcus likes to get paid. More than that he believes in the idea that when two people agree to something, they do it. They walk away. No bloodshed. This doesn't always happen and sometimes Marcus has had to break this sense in favor of his dignity or his life.
Dirty hands, scrapped knees: Marcus knows the value of a hard days work. He also knows the border line between a hard days work and outright slavery.
History: Born on a ship inbound to Whitefall, his mother dying in the process. He was raised there by his father, who was under the boot of the local thugs. He watched his dad shoot oversized vermin and would-be bandits, watching and learning the basics of rifling.
Times got tough, however and he was sold at Six standard years as a debt payment, much to his despair. He showed a bit of grit and a desire to live, when he bit off the finger off one of his new owners and spat it in another ones face, making a mad dash for about ten feet before a heavy boot struck him across the back.
His grit spared him from being diced up for organs, but only as long as he showed 'promise'. He did, fighting other 'payments' and watching them get carted off as he learned to shoot and scrap, while learning the basics of space travel. Four years passed and found his father staring down the barrel of a gun in Marc's hands. A choice of Death or Life, and a commitment to his 'masters'.
He surpassed his father, sparing his life and killing his former owners; or so he assumed, and nearly died for it. But was free, of his 'master' and his father. He used what money they had, which wasn't much, to barter passage off Whitefall; leaving his father in the dust.
Underage and with waning credits, he found himself in the apprenticeship of a group of independent salvagers. Law not being as feared and heavy handed on the rim, there was plenty of debris to scoop up for a good day's pay.
When the war broke out, the ship's captain signed the vessel on for the independents, and the ship was outfitted with a basic turret and tasked with running it's normal duties, as well as smuggling, and carrying out rescue operations once and a while.
Marcus received some basic training, but began to broaden his skills with rifles, often perched on top of the ship and keeping and eye out for Alliance patrols while the rest of the crew searched downed ships for survivors or whatever could be salvaged.
Near the end of the war, however, the ship was shot down, and all but Marcus died either from the crash, or the purple bellies swooping in on them. Marcus recovered, and was placed in the bulk of the infantry for the remainder of the war.
His eighteenth birthday had rolled past by time of the battle of Serenity Valley, little more needs to be said other than he survived, simply because his squad hadn't reached the front by the time the order to pull back had been sent out. He'd been made a First Class Private for his Sniping skills, but the war ended before he could receive anything higher.
His aftermath was like so many other browncoats. He laid down his arms, surrendered, was stripped of what rank and military status he had. His time served in POW camps and prison blurred by, and when he was given his 'freedom'; he found it a bit sour.
Marcus has fallen into the life of a mercenary, and as such wades through jobs that border the grey of morals. Though he sticks to jobs he's likely to keep his blood in his veins.
RP Sample:
Chapter One: Seven days before meeting Bishop Morse on The Logan
One big carnie town... Marcus groaned internally; wading through the crowds. His travel bag was bundled up tight and his side-piece was strapped and safe under his coat. He had no illusions that his pockets and the hands of the brats running about weren’t a might more intimate then he’d like. All his money was safely inside his bag, which wasn’t going anywhere for a time.
Between the ‘blue belle’ and the ‘pepper piper’. What kinda directions are those? he sighed. He was deep in the show tents and it was hard to see anything but the folks calling out to the crowds to try their shows. There were men wearing hats on hats and people juggling ‘laser’ knives; there was even a woman painted blue with spots like a cow, advertising some kind of show from an Earth-that-was folk tale.
Wait a second. Marcus stopped in his tracks and looked at the woman. She was a fair sight to look at, even painted up like a blueberry with plastic horns and a yarn tail. He looked left and right and saw, indeed a man eating peppers in between bouts of eloquent, but erratic, flute playing. Wow. I’m almost impressed at how direct that was...
He shifted through the crowd, keeping his eye on the blue gal.... for sake of reference. Between the two tents there was a narrow ‘alley’ and Marcus picked up his pace to the meeting. Marcus hoped Samuel Montros wouldn’t be as much of a heel as he’d been when he’d waved Marcus for the job.
“Glad you could join us, Brownie.” Marcus wanted to sigh. The man was sitting on a chair, smoking some kind of cheap looking, foul smelling, cigar-ish stub. Marcus was standing, and more than one of the four men around him had a weapon on them, drawn.
“You picked a fine and successful location. Lots of people. Lots of noise. Hard to get a clear guess of anything.” It was true enough. The six were all occupying a space not fit for five, and Samuel’s girth counted for two. “Hope you won’t play on deafness when it comes to my pay.”
“Five hundred up front...” Samuel laughed, not a happy sort of laugh, the condescending sort. “You’re crazy, Brownie. You’re good but you’re crazy.”
“Fifty for four big flunkies, three hundred for your former associate. Minimal Bloodshed; Maximum Profit.” Marcus was used to missi-NO jobs... jobs like these. Shoot the leaders, let the grunts mop up the rest.
“I don’t see no reason for use not to split this half and half like any other job...” Samuel smiled; his colleagues examined their blades. Tight quarters, no room to draw a gun, or the ax... A switch blade would be a smart purchase in the near future...
“I get my money now, I’m honor-bonded to this job. Half and half I can always go ‘Hey, I killed some of them folks’. I’d be able to bolt out midway, and you’d have an angry man looking at you for payback, and muscle to get it.”
It was true enough. Word on the street was that Montros group had split but skewed like. Montros had kept less of the men, but held most of the cash. His former partner in crime, a Lawrence Bigsby, was a more charismatic sort, and had drawn more of the meat but lost out on the bread; metaphorically speaking.
“Honor and five plat will get you a decent time round here.” Samuel growled. He wasn’t smiling any more.
“It’ll get a might more than that, but not the sorta thing a healthy minded man would pay for. How’s this then. I take that money and ditch, and I’ll have you on my tail, and word on the Cortex ‘O’Terra’s a thieving, yellow-belly’ and I can’t stand for that. I mean thieving; Well we all gotta make our way.” He looked around and all the men around him seemed to be thinking that. “But I’m no coward. I do a job. I get paid. The order don’t matter so long as it’s done. This case though. I’d like to get paid mostly now, at least.”
“Two-Fifty now. Three fifty after you’ve lightened my worries a bit. And if you’re quick a bonus ‘fore you leave.” Samuel smiled tossing a small bag that jingled with the happy sound of platinum. Marcus knew the weight, and stuffed it into his bag before the group got down to the gritty details.
Bigsby had a quartet of trusted associates. Right now, they were moving about Paquin, trying to turn Montros’s contacts over to Bigsby’s side of the fissure. This did not sit well with Montros, as Bigsby was thinking of moving more dangerous things through the web Montros wove with his own shady dealings. Substances that mother’s fear their children play at when they get old enough to hold enough credits for them.
These weren’t covert agents, however, they walked under the sun like any other folk, thinking Montros too yellow to fight out in the open. This was half true. He was too something, too smart. A gang war would would bring the Feds down quick, and hard; or so everyone feared. Paquin was rather ‘Corey’ for a Border world.
Marcus had slides and info on his marks. The rest was up to him. Dealing with the lesser punks would be better... if he tried to move to fast, this would fall apart, and onto him.
Do you accept the rules of this site? Yes
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