Post by Archer on Jul 31, 2009 17:43:33 GMT -8
Name: Dean Archer
Age: 21
Power: Air Manipulation
Primary Skills:
Hand to Hand combat- 1st degree
Guns-2nd degree
Driving (Terrestrial)- 1st degree
Repair- 1st degree
Musical Talent-1st degree
Stunt Flying- 1st degree
Blunt Weaponry - 1st degree
Reach Weaponry - 1st degree
Navigation- 1st degree
Secondary Skills:
Philosophy
Defensive Strategy
Offensive Strategy
Martial Arts
Firearm Maintenance
Science - Physics
Religious Knowledge
Profession (Current): Hired gun, Informant, Transport, or pretty much anything else as long as he gets paid. Flies a Shreik Fighter-Class 6 with long range modifications (among others). Below is the stock photo. Dean’s is much dustier (ergo: tan) and in much more disrepair. The bottom also has more to it to accommodate the long range mods.
Dean's Ship.
Profession (Past): Ranch hand, resident, and student at the Bitumen Monastery
Marital Status: Single
Home World: Bitumen
Religious Beliefs: Rather odd. Believes that there is a god, but doesn’t want anything to do with him.
Socioeconomic Status: Self employed.
Cultural Upbringing: An orphan at birth, Dean grew up in probably the only safe haven on all of Bitumen. An old Shaman monastery. ( I’m speculating that over the centuries cultures blended making new and combined ideologies). Raised with a firm belief in god, Dean was taught in all ways of self discipline, control, and defense.
Physical Description: 6 foot 2, gangly, but with strong features. Caucasian, but tanned to a dirt color from his life on Bitumen. Greenish-brown eyes. His hair is a messy mop of rust colored shag that’s just as much red as it is brown. His hands- like the rest of him- are scared and calloused from the years of training and work done at the monastery.
He wears worn comfortable ranch boots, tan canvas pants with suspenders, an old leather long-coat, and always around his hips is his Bandoleer/gun belt. One thing that can never be taken off is a digital relay device with a link to only one thing: DISC, the removable onboard computer of the Dust-runner, Dean’s fighter ship.
Dean.
Personality: Very smart, for his age, and with core planet level detection skills. Witty and quick, his mouth tends to get him into just as much trouble as the rest of him. Very much a loner, cutting himself off from most people by plain instinct. It takes a lot for him to trust someone, but when he does, he’s the most loyal, stubborn person you can have on your side. loyal to a T, and extremely chivalrous. he tends to get in over his head when a girl gets in trouble.
"As a rule, I try not to get involved with things that don’t directly concern me. To put it simply, I’m an observer. Someone that watches in the scenery unless I believe that I can help. Needless to say, I don’t have that many friends. I’m okay with that. I’ve become pretty accustomed to the idea of one shadow accompanying me through life. I’m not a good guy, so my own sins are more than enough to deal with."
"So, I stay out of things, seeing things as they are, stepping in only when it becomes absolutely necessary. It sounds cold, I know, but it’s usually better for all parties involved that I refrain from putting my hand in things as much as possible."
History: Born an orphan, Dean was raised with the Native American Monks of Bitumen. The sandy pueblos becoming his home, job, and school for his first 19 years of life. He was trained in Martial Arts, Philosophy, Physics, Gun slinging, and flying, just to name a few.
But, living on a world such as Bitumen, such normality and peace didn’t last.
As with most religions on Bitumen, the monastery saw its fair share of aggressors. From basic drunks to all out brawls with the ranch hands, the old sandstone building tended to make things not so smooth. When the local color turned from hostile to brutal, Dean decided to suit up with the local militia, namely The 12th Air Calvery. Within six months Dean Archer had become the youngest captain of a squad of airmen in the history of the Bitumen militia.
Their symbol.
On the way back to the monastery from a routine patrol, Dean noticed smoke curling up from where his home should be. He landed near the now aflame ruins of the only place he had ever known as a haven. Dean later found out that it was one of the regular drunken aggressors that had started the fire. He headed back to the airbase only to find it also gone. It seemed that the residents of Bitumen didnt want anything to do with law or religion. It didn’t mater to Dean anymore. In that instant of seeing all he knew taken away from him, He lost part of himself. From then on he became a drifter, doing any job that came by, leaving his faith in god behind him with the charred remains of his family and friends. He took his fighter, dubbed Dust-runner by his squad for its speed and dust covered hull, and made for any place that it took him.
RP Sample: [ A piece of a post I did for Animorphs: The aftermath]
The temperature in the auditorium was rising quickly and the amount of plausible exits were dwindling by the second, and by the look of things the roof was a hairs weight from collapsing. Well, I thought bitterly, good thing this isn’t couldn’t be any harder to do or anything. I picked up the body: a guy around my age, almost completely covered in drywall and black with ash and charcoal. Without any ceremony or delicacy I slung him over my shoulder (nearly collapsing doing so-he wasn‘t a lightweight).
“Humph, figures. Why couldn’t the anorexic cheerleaders be in harms way?” I said to know one, but looking up at the ceiling doing while so. “No, it had to be mister five-hundred pounds here.” I turned my head to the body, “Hey creampuff! Lets make a deal. I get your sorry ass out of here and you go on the air and water diet. Deal?”
Creampuff remained comatose.
I couldn’t help it, I started laughing. I‘m not crazy, it was just that I realized what the odds were of me getting out alive. I wont name any numbers, but it wasn’t looking good. Even more so with my more than pudgy friend taking a nap on my vertebrae. I some how managed to get myself under control long enough to grunt out, “Arighty then, lets find an opening.”
Yes. I know he couldn’t hear me, but it helped with the impending doom so lay off.
I attempted though the smoke, ash and flames to look for any way out, not seeing anything that didn’t end with me ending up like the Emperor in Star Wars. I closed my eyes and tired to think.
The whole of the school was over thirty years old and the fire had weakened the already dilapidated ceiling, which meant that I had maybe five minutes left before the whole thing went- maybe. It didn’t matter, I would pass out in a couple of minuets form smoke inhalation. I knew that I needed to get out of here- fast- but I couldn’t see anything. Even if I could, there was no way I could get Creampuff and me both out of here in one piece.
I saw a funny looking flashlight halfway buried underneath some embers. I picked it up, thinking that I could get a better look at things. I turned it on-
And what was left of the seating blew up with a loud TSEEEWW.
Ok. Not a flashlight. But it gave me an idea.
I pointed the not-flashlight at my way exit, aiming low so I wouldn’t cave it in. The thing emitted
another ear-piercing TSEEEWW, hitting the wall, but not puncturing it.
Well…shit.
I immediately started thinking of more, less probable ways out. There weren’t, and I knew that, but that didn’t stop me from trying. I took a deep breath, stifling a whimper on the exhale, shifted the body on my shoulders, and tried hard not to think about how much this was going to hurt.
A long yell of “SON OF A BITCH!” leaped from my throat as I charged the now cracked brick wall that had became my lifeline to the outside.[/color]
Age: 21
Power: Air Manipulation
Primary Skills:
Hand to Hand combat- 1st degree
Guns-2nd degree
Driving (Terrestrial)- 1st degree
Repair- 1st degree
Musical Talent-1st degree
Stunt Flying- 1st degree
Blunt Weaponry - 1st degree
Reach Weaponry - 1st degree
Navigation- 1st degree
Secondary Skills:
Philosophy
Defensive Strategy
Offensive Strategy
Martial Arts
Firearm Maintenance
Science - Physics
Religious Knowledge
Profession (Current): Hired gun, Informant, Transport, or pretty much anything else as long as he gets paid. Flies a Shreik Fighter-Class 6 with long range modifications (among others). Below is the stock photo. Dean’s is much dustier (ergo: tan) and in much more disrepair. The bottom also has more to it to accommodate the long range mods.
Dean's Ship.Profession (Past): Ranch hand, resident, and student at the Bitumen Monastery
Marital Status: Single
Home World: Bitumen
Religious Beliefs: Rather odd. Believes that there is a god, but doesn’t want anything to do with him.
Socioeconomic Status: Self employed.
Cultural Upbringing: An orphan at birth, Dean grew up in probably the only safe haven on all of Bitumen. An old Shaman monastery. ( I’m speculating that over the centuries cultures blended making new and combined ideologies). Raised with a firm belief in god, Dean was taught in all ways of self discipline, control, and defense.
Physical Description: 6 foot 2, gangly, but with strong features. Caucasian, but tanned to a dirt color from his life on Bitumen. Greenish-brown eyes. His hair is a messy mop of rust colored shag that’s just as much red as it is brown. His hands- like the rest of him- are scared and calloused from the years of training and work done at the monastery.
He wears worn comfortable ranch boots, tan canvas pants with suspenders, an old leather long-coat, and always around his hips is his Bandoleer/gun belt. One thing that can never be taken off is a digital relay device with a link to only one thing: DISC, the removable onboard computer of the Dust-runner, Dean’s fighter ship.
Dean.Personality: Very smart, for his age, and with core planet level detection skills. Witty and quick, his mouth tends to get him into just as much trouble as the rest of him. Very much a loner, cutting himself off from most people by plain instinct. It takes a lot for him to trust someone, but when he does, he’s the most loyal, stubborn person you can have on your side. loyal to a T, and extremely chivalrous. he tends to get in over his head when a girl gets in trouble.
"As a rule, I try not to get involved with things that don’t directly concern me. To put it simply, I’m an observer. Someone that watches in the scenery unless I believe that I can help. Needless to say, I don’t have that many friends. I’m okay with that. I’ve become pretty accustomed to the idea of one shadow accompanying me through life. I’m not a good guy, so my own sins are more than enough to deal with."
"So, I stay out of things, seeing things as they are, stepping in only when it becomes absolutely necessary. It sounds cold, I know, but it’s usually better for all parties involved that I refrain from putting my hand in things as much as possible."
History: Born an orphan, Dean was raised with the Native American Monks of Bitumen. The sandy pueblos becoming his home, job, and school for his first 19 years of life. He was trained in Martial Arts, Philosophy, Physics, Gun slinging, and flying, just to name a few.
But, living on a world such as Bitumen, such normality and peace didn’t last.
As with most religions on Bitumen, the monastery saw its fair share of aggressors. From basic drunks to all out brawls with the ranch hands, the old sandstone building tended to make things not so smooth. When the local color turned from hostile to brutal, Dean decided to suit up with the local militia, namely The 12th Air Calvery. Within six months Dean Archer had become the youngest captain of a squad of airmen in the history of the Bitumen militia.
Their symbol.On the way back to the monastery from a routine patrol, Dean noticed smoke curling up from where his home should be. He landed near the now aflame ruins of the only place he had ever known as a haven. Dean later found out that it was one of the regular drunken aggressors that had started the fire. He headed back to the airbase only to find it also gone. It seemed that the residents of Bitumen didnt want anything to do with law or religion. It didn’t mater to Dean anymore. In that instant of seeing all he knew taken away from him, He lost part of himself. From then on he became a drifter, doing any job that came by, leaving his faith in god behind him with the charred remains of his family and friends. He took his fighter, dubbed Dust-runner by his squad for its speed and dust covered hull, and made for any place that it took him.
RP Sample: [ A piece of a post I did for Animorphs: The aftermath]
The temperature in the auditorium was rising quickly and the amount of plausible exits were dwindling by the second, and by the look of things the roof was a hairs weight from collapsing. Well, I thought bitterly, good thing this isn’t couldn’t be any harder to do or anything. I picked up the body: a guy around my age, almost completely covered in drywall and black with ash and charcoal. Without any ceremony or delicacy I slung him over my shoulder (nearly collapsing doing so-he wasn‘t a lightweight).
“Humph, figures. Why couldn’t the anorexic cheerleaders be in harms way?” I said to know one, but looking up at the ceiling doing while so. “No, it had to be mister five-hundred pounds here.” I turned my head to the body, “Hey creampuff! Lets make a deal. I get your sorry ass out of here and you go on the air and water diet. Deal?”
Creampuff remained comatose.
I couldn’t help it, I started laughing. I‘m not crazy, it was just that I realized what the odds were of me getting out alive. I wont name any numbers, but it wasn’t looking good. Even more so with my more than pudgy friend taking a nap on my vertebrae. I some how managed to get myself under control long enough to grunt out, “Arighty then, lets find an opening.”
Yes. I know he couldn’t hear me, but it helped with the impending doom so lay off.
I attempted though the smoke, ash and flames to look for any way out, not seeing anything that didn’t end with me ending up like the Emperor in Star Wars. I closed my eyes and tired to think.
The whole of the school was over thirty years old and the fire had weakened the already dilapidated ceiling, which meant that I had maybe five minutes left before the whole thing went- maybe. It didn’t matter, I would pass out in a couple of minuets form smoke inhalation. I knew that I needed to get out of here- fast- but I couldn’t see anything. Even if I could, there was no way I could get Creampuff and me both out of here in one piece.
I saw a funny looking flashlight halfway buried underneath some embers. I picked it up, thinking that I could get a better look at things. I turned it on-
And what was left of the seating blew up with a loud TSEEEWW.
Ok. Not a flashlight. But it gave me an idea.
I pointed the not-flashlight at my way exit, aiming low so I wouldn’t cave it in. The thing emitted
another ear-piercing TSEEEWW, hitting the wall, but not puncturing it.
Well…shit.
I immediately started thinking of more, less probable ways out. There weren’t, and I knew that, but that didn’t stop me from trying. I took a deep breath, stifling a whimper on the exhale, shifted the body on my shoulders, and tried hard not to think about how much this was going to hurt.
A long yell of “SON OF A BITCH!” leaped from my throat as I charged the now cracked brick wall that had became my lifeline to the outside.[/color]
