Post by Raron on Aug 27, 2008 15:29:51 GMT -5
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Player Information
Handle: Raron
Gender: Male... take my word on it.
Contact Information: Weirdwill@chaostheory.com is my MSN account. Note the e-mail address is a LIE! A LIE SO HORRIBLY. If you send mail to it… it will not go to me… wanna know why? Because.
Other Characters here? None … SO FAR! BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
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Character Information
Canon? Nope… not one bit.
Character Name: Tarsus Ridge
Gender: Male
Age: 62
Species/Breed: Ankyosaurus antrho with a small bit of Utahraptor far back in his gene pool.
Current Occupation: “Repairman” Tarsus exists in a specialty niche in the workforce of the city. He works Above and Below floor level, Will work plumbing and will do jobs big and small. In the darker areas of the city this is a code. It means he works legal and illegal jobs and is not afraid to get his hands dirty. He is a Repairman. He fixes peoples problems for them for the right price.
For... Negotiation purposes: Going unarmed into the armpit of society is Teri mount to suicide. Tarsus does not approve of suicide and is a firm believer in the policy that nothing succeeds like excess and with the help of a local mechanical genius by the name of Boots (worked it out with character’s owner, I has permission to put her name in this and his history.)
Tarsus does not use most of his weapons except as a last resort. Usually when outnumbered. He considers it cheating and messy. He carries a foot long single blade knife in his boot and on his mechanical tail he has a gyroscope mace much like Boots. He does not use his for boarding through. He calls it his “Skeleton Key”, and coupled with his mighty tail, it is a one size fits all entry way for all sorts of situations.
For situations with longer odds then he likes he reaches into his cloths and pulls out a twin pair of what Boots refers to as “The Broomsticks”. A twin pair of sawed off, drum fed shotguns that can REALLY clear a room. Finally in a shoulder holster he has a large pistol, the “Just A Freaking Gun 3000”. It is nothing complicated. Just a freaking large single shot pistol. The barrel is enough to put most people in the mode to walk home and have a good lay down. It normally uses a LARGE caliber armor piercing rounds to leave an impression on people just as holes can leave an impression in walls. He can also load it with small tracking devices to plant them from a distance.
All his guns are simple looking black colored devices of death. No “bling”, no silver brushing. Just something made to make the other guy say “ugh” first.
Personality: If you were to look at this man on the street, you would say “What a kind old man” or maybe “Oh! Its that guy who fixed my refrigerator! Hey!” or maybe even “My god I heard he can roll a cigarette with his tongue!” These things are… mostly true… well, some of them are anyhow. He is, by light, an upstanding citizen, a gentleman, a proud creature with devilish good looks undiminished in his age with a kind of debonair, roguish air about him. He remains an ice-cube even in the heat rising from the streets of St. Lucent. He owns his occupation, in body, mind, and spirit. His days as a private eye in the belly of the underworld are behind him… and now he is one of those awful things that bumps back when things shift in the darkness. When he is calm and at peace with the universe as it stands, he is cheerful, with a radiant personality like the sheen of a sheet of ice in the sunlight, looking as if it might melt at any moment. This side of him is a permafrost, unbending even in the face of terrible odds. There are the things, though, a few things, that can break it, reach into the river of frozen death underneath, a river that knows no limit, knows no end to its fury… until the oblivion of the peace it offers consumes.
Appearance: Tarsus is built like a tank. A very lean, limbre tank that eats nails and pisses gasoline. He’s twice the age of 90% of the punks on the street or older, and equal part tougher and meaner. In the buff, this can be seen clearly. His head is topped with a crown of bone and plated, leathery flesh, the ring of his brow knobbed and rough, the top of his head a heavy dome, harder than stone. His face has a gritty, earthen look to it at peace, and a casual, persistent grin most of the time. His head tapers down to a neck bigger around than the average man’s leg, thinner near the front, but a wider plate in the back, segmented to allow a passable range of motion, which is no terrible thing, considering his age. His bones are thick like rebars, and it shows in his entire composition, from the knobby, thick spine in his back to the meat of his arms and fingers. He has no small bones for fine articulation in his wrists, leaving his hands slightly less mobile than the average fur, but a lot less vulnerable. Many blades have cut into the meat of his arm to find hard, unyielding bone beneath. His body is erect like a humanoid’s, but aligned differently, with more of an outward sort of curve to his spine, made to curl and move into straight alignment quickly. His hands are heavy, with long, thick fingers and bony knobs in the knuckles. His legs are digigrade, semi-raptor like, but with aenkian influences, with little soft movement. On the inside of his feet are dewclaws, short, often dulled or wrapped in little sheathe-like fixtures fit to his boots. His tail, just as hard and heavy as the rest of him, is cybernetic, an old injury only recently remedied. He is not quite used to the fix on him, and it aches sometimes when it gets cold, but the mechanical tail is lively, more so than the rest of his bulk.
The man dresses in the same browned trenchcoat he wore when he worked for the public at large. At the elbows, shoulders, and knees are thicker pads, the modified coat concealing a set of heating pads powered by his own motion and a small battery somewhere inside the garnment. In layers beneath that, a scarf is immediately obvious, what part of it left to dangle permitted only to do so in the front of his coat. There is a long-sleeved shirt, in a dress style and often unbuttoned since muscle produces a lot of heat. Beneath that, a simple white shirt, thicker than normal as it was crafted, during his time in public service as a detective, of Kevlar, old and worn as him, the brace against his chest from the tight, familiar feeling of his pistol. At his hips, somewhat defensively around his groin are his shotguns, the belts held at his sides where they do not jostle his cargo.
Background: There are many sides to each city, many worlds within worlds. Many tales of darkness so deep in the beginning of men’s lives that it consumes their hope, their dreams, all they are. This is no such tale. Tarsus was raised in the ghetto of Lucent. Beneath the notice of Police and even the Angels themselves most of the time. It was as deep into the dark of Lucent as a boy could be and survive. Despite all this he considers his childhood a vaguely happy one. Raised by his mother as a role model and the streets as a opponent he tried to keep to the straight and narrow as a hatchling, in that darkness the hero tends to get beaten down harder then any else. He stood up again and again for his friends, his family. Each time he was beaten down but would not stay there, in time the equation began to change. Tarsus began to shed his naivety about fair fights, about codes of honor. He realized down in the muck there was no fair, no kindness, no honor. Only the winner and the loser… but he could not be who he was not. He could not abandon his friends. Cast them aside, instead he fought harder, fought dirtier. The point came when he stood atop the heap of fallen around him and realized he was still in the muck, still a dreg of society and he wanted to be more, wanted to be something else.
He gathered cash over time from here and there, legal and illegal. He bought himself an office space and set up shop as a private eye like in the movies. He figured that he could rise above there. He could become more then just another thug. Time heals all wounds and cures all illusions.
As the years went on he sank farther into the darkness of Lucent, deeper into the criminal element. He tried to ignore it, to avoid those jobs but times were tough and money scarce. A starving man could not afford morals. People came to him with problems, problems the police and the angels could not help them with. They needed solutions, they need help. He began to recognize what he already knew. He was not a detective, not a solver of mysteries. He was a fixer of problems and was good at it. The sign in front of his office vanished one night and never made a comeback. He became not a gumshoe but a repairman and then a Repairman as his rep spread.
He reconnected with old friends including a trashmaster by the name of Devon. He became his armorer, his weapon maker and consultant. Years past and Devan got a pupil. She was smarter, brighter, and better. When she left Devan to strike out on her own Tarsus’s business followed her. His only comment- “I need the best.”
Boots is now one of Tarsus’s closest friends and best allies.
Password? Danger… DANGER… I SAID DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER! DO YOU UNDERSTAND? DO YOU?!!!
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