sasquatch
06-28-07, 05:06 PM
Name: Sidney "Chicago" West.
Age: Looks to be somewhere in his late thirties.
Race: Not your typical undead humanoid.
Hair Color: Greying blond.
Eye Color: Muddy blue.
Height: 'Bout 6 foot even.
Weight: 162 lbs.
Occupation: Ex-sniper, is currently just trying to make sense of the task he has been given.
Personality: Sid is simple-minded, quiet, and kind, with the slow, almost innocent naive mentality of a child. However he is no child, being far more aware of things then most people realize or care to acknowledge, and innocence is not a word those who truly know him would probably want to include in his mental description.
Appearance: He's slender, with little musculature definition to speak of. The entire left portion of his face has been burned and terribly deformed with thick scar tissue blending angry red folds into pale flesh, rendering that eye white, hooded, incapable of sight. These scars continue, grasping his left arm, hand, and abdomen. His hair beneath the dark blue beanie he tends to wear is thin, straight and feathery, keeping close to his head in the process of turning silver as a direct result of the injuries he has sustained.
Sid is partial to a red and black plaid long-sleeved shirt, with an emerald-green undershirt supposedly sporting some sort of Hawaiian floral pattern (supposedly, as usually only the lapels show, bursting over the collar). Over this he wears a grimy old light grey ski jacket that falls to his knees, complete with a lift ticket attached to the bottom zipper (faded beyond recognition), baggy tan pants of some obscure make held by a belt, and bleached brown boots. An underarm shoulder harness remains hidden by his jacket, the dual holsters empty and wanting.
History:
Sidney West was born in rural California within the serene clutches of a quaint, fittingly picturesque tourist town. He spent a portion of a his youth here, helping his widowed mother run a convenience store off the main drag. He had always been a slow kid, but not to the point of being unable to look after himself, and was more or less allowed to hang out with the gang of locals around his age as they postured before the visiting throngs along the town's single, diminutive stretch of sandy coastline with their surf boards and shiny black wet suits. He became oddly proficient at the sport, and was among the few who actually chased after the waves instead of simply bobbing and chatting idly about girls and bands.
At fourteen his mum tired of her job and moved across the country to Chicago to stay with her sister, dragging Sid along. The dramatic change of scenery wasn't entirely welcome, but in typical Sidney fashion he took it all in complacent stride. Nothing notable happened until four years later, when the first of the dead began to rise.
The virus swept the earth, turning humans and animals alike into rotting, pissed off mutant corpses with their own agenda capable of advanced reasoning, verbal communication, and telepathy. The world succumbed, wars raged, and confusion reigned. Eventually a truce was reached, albeit an understandably shaky one.
Synthetic flesh can only satiate the Turned for so long. But both sides tired of fighting.
At thirty-six, Sidney, who had been part of a covert guerrilla team (a crack shot and a useful addition to the desperate Remnants) was sent as a body-guard accompanying a diplomatic mission to a Turned stronghold when a rebel Living group set the place ablaze, trapping him inside. He was saved by a Turned woman named Samantha Deger, who was really the Sumerian Queen of the Underworld, Ereshkigal, in disguise. When he recovered from his injuries, Samantha then proceeded to kill him, bringing him back with the same virus that had taken so many of his fellow humans, and sent him to Althanas (for reasons which shall be explored later, no doubt...).
For about a year Sid lived with an eccentric old hag in a secluded cottage in Alerar, learning the ways of the land while struggling to understand the subtle hints he was dropped about his purpose here. When the hag deemed him ready (ready for what, he could only guess at), she sent him on his way with the arbalest he had taken a liking to practicing on.
Skills:
- He's a slightly-above-average shot with his bow. The longer the distance, the less acurate he is.
- He crafts his own arrows, taking about an hour or so more to make sure they are as near perfection as can be achieved.
- As for his dagger, he can use it -- albeit clumsily, as anyone can in a life-or-death situation when pressed. Below-average skill at best.
- Being dead has it's advantages. Sid can take an arrow through his heart, a blade to the gut, and even loose a limb without succumbing (again) to death. Thing is, that lost limb doesn't grow back, and remains severed. Wounds he sustains, no matter how insignificant, can not heal themselves at all, sustaining the risk of becoming a major hindrance (he has not been spared the sensation of pain, either). He can be "killed", however -- by destroying his brain, chopping off his head, blowing him up, or by incinerating him. In any event, he's not a difficult opponent. His skill lies purely with his crossbow in short-range situations, not in defense...especially whilst engaged in close combat. Sid would rather avoid fighting anyway.
- When he is forced to fight, he can keep his calm and a level head.
A side note here: he doesn't have to eat, drink, relieve himself, or sleep, though old habits die hard and Sid often finds himself napping and taking the occasional sip of ale. Despite being among the deceased, Samantha aka Ereshkigal has allowed him strength enough to run, jump, ect., same as any normal human, and he doesn't appear to be decaying. He has no extraordinary physical abilities whatsoever.
Equipment:
- One windlass-pulled arbalest fashioned of steel and ash, a large quiver skinned in rawhide stocked with seventeen iron-tipped wooden bolts whittled by hand from oak, and one rather ornate steel dagger he keeps in a sheath hanging from his belt.
- One worn leather bush saddle, one black wool saddle blanket with dusty white southwestern designs, one bridle, one halter, and a pair of leather reins.
- Two saddle bags to carry whatever odds-n-ends he should happen across, including a set of brushes for his mount, a pheasant feather quill, and a worn journal bound in cloth.
Age: Looks to be somewhere in his late thirties.
Race: Not your typical undead humanoid.
Hair Color: Greying blond.
Eye Color: Muddy blue.
Height: 'Bout 6 foot even.
Weight: 162 lbs.
Occupation: Ex-sniper, is currently just trying to make sense of the task he has been given.
Personality: Sid is simple-minded, quiet, and kind, with the slow, almost innocent naive mentality of a child. However he is no child, being far more aware of things then most people realize or care to acknowledge, and innocence is not a word those who truly know him would probably want to include in his mental description.
Appearance: He's slender, with little musculature definition to speak of. The entire left portion of his face has been burned and terribly deformed with thick scar tissue blending angry red folds into pale flesh, rendering that eye white, hooded, incapable of sight. These scars continue, grasping his left arm, hand, and abdomen. His hair beneath the dark blue beanie he tends to wear is thin, straight and feathery, keeping close to his head in the process of turning silver as a direct result of the injuries he has sustained.
Sid is partial to a red and black plaid long-sleeved shirt, with an emerald-green undershirt supposedly sporting some sort of Hawaiian floral pattern (supposedly, as usually only the lapels show, bursting over the collar). Over this he wears a grimy old light grey ski jacket that falls to his knees, complete with a lift ticket attached to the bottom zipper (faded beyond recognition), baggy tan pants of some obscure make held by a belt, and bleached brown boots. An underarm shoulder harness remains hidden by his jacket, the dual holsters empty and wanting.
History:
Sidney West was born in rural California within the serene clutches of a quaint, fittingly picturesque tourist town. He spent a portion of a his youth here, helping his widowed mother run a convenience store off the main drag. He had always been a slow kid, but not to the point of being unable to look after himself, and was more or less allowed to hang out with the gang of locals around his age as they postured before the visiting throngs along the town's single, diminutive stretch of sandy coastline with their surf boards and shiny black wet suits. He became oddly proficient at the sport, and was among the few who actually chased after the waves instead of simply bobbing and chatting idly about girls and bands.
At fourteen his mum tired of her job and moved across the country to Chicago to stay with her sister, dragging Sid along. The dramatic change of scenery wasn't entirely welcome, but in typical Sidney fashion he took it all in complacent stride. Nothing notable happened until four years later, when the first of the dead began to rise.
The virus swept the earth, turning humans and animals alike into rotting, pissed off mutant corpses with their own agenda capable of advanced reasoning, verbal communication, and telepathy. The world succumbed, wars raged, and confusion reigned. Eventually a truce was reached, albeit an understandably shaky one.
Synthetic flesh can only satiate the Turned for so long. But both sides tired of fighting.
At thirty-six, Sidney, who had been part of a covert guerrilla team (a crack shot and a useful addition to the desperate Remnants) was sent as a body-guard accompanying a diplomatic mission to a Turned stronghold when a rebel Living group set the place ablaze, trapping him inside. He was saved by a Turned woman named Samantha Deger, who was really the Sumerian Queen of the Underworld, Ereshkigal, in disguise. When he recovered from his injuries, Samantha then proceeded to kill him, bringing him back with the same virus that had taken so many of his fellow humans, and sent him to Althanas (for reasons which shall be explored later, no doubt...).
For about a year Sid lived with an eccentric old hag in a secluded cottage in Alerar, learning the ways of the land while struggling to understand the subtle hints he was dropped about his purpose here. When the hag deemed him ready (ready for what, he could only guess at), she sent him on his way with the arbalest he had taken a liking to practicing on.
Skills:
- He's a slightly-above-average shot with his bow. The longer the distance, the less acurate he is.
- He crafts his own arrows, taking about an hour or so more to make sure they are as near perfection as can be achieved.
- As for his dagger, he can use it -- albeit clumsily, as anyone can in a life-or-death situation when pressed. Below-average skill at best.
- Being dead has it's advantages. Sid can take an arrow through his heart, a blade to the gut, and even loose a limb without succumbing (again) to death. Thing is, that lost limb doesn't grow back, and remains severed. Wounds he sustains, no matter how insignificant, can not heal themselves at all, sustaining the risk of becoming a major hindrance (he has not been spared the sensation of pain, either). He can be "killed", however -- by destroying his brain, chopping off his head, blowing him up, or by incinerating him. In any event, he's not a difficult opponent. His skill lies purely with his crossbow in short-range situations, not in defense...especially whilst engaged in close combat. Sid would rather avoid fighting anyway.
- When he is forced to fight, he can keep his calm and a level head.
A side note here: he doesn't have to eat, drink, relieve himself, or sleep, though old habits die hard and Sid often finds himself napping and taking the occasional sip of ale. Despite being among the deceased, Samantha aka Ereshkigal has allowed him strength enough to run, jump, ect., same as any normal human, and he doesn't appear to be decaying. He has no extraordinary physical abilities whatsoever.
Equipment:
- One windlass-pulled arbalest fashioned of steel and ash, a large quiver skinned in rawhide stocked with seventeen iron-tipped wooden bolts whittled by hand from oak, and one rather ornate steel dagger he keeps in a sheath hanging from his belt.
- One worn leather bush saddle, one black wool saddle blanket with dusty white southwestern designs, one bridle, one halter, and a pair of leather reins.
- Two saddle bags to carry whatever odds-n-ends he should happen across, including a set of brushes for his mount, a pheasant feather quill, and a worn journal bound in cloth.