Name: Ross ?The Scotsman? Kerr
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: In a word, scruffy. Untamed dark brown curly hair crowns his head and below is an utter mess of stubble. His face is worn and is dominated by a rather nasty scar from a shrapnel blast on the left side. Brown eyes peek out of it (his left eye is fake though), however, his gaze is somewhat glazed. Even his fancy suits, which are a world away from the dour woollen ones of the British working class he used to wear, are covered in creases with the occasional hole or stain. Speaking of stains, his teeth are stained yellow by a failed attempted to transfer his addiction over to smoking. At least he doesn?t stink of that anymore, but the stench of alcohol is always there.
Equipment: Ross carries a sawn-off shotgun, while he is a decent shot most of the time he?s too drunk to care about accuracy, his wallet which contains a small amount of cash and some dog-eared photos, the key to his shithole of an apartment and - for when a fight is expected - just a stab-proof vest.
Personality: Bitter, very bitter. The Great War left him a broken man with hardly any hopes or aspirations. He drinks to forget. While drunk, Ross gets very loud and his fuse becomes very short - as if it wasn?t short enough already. So far, he?s managed to keep himself well behaved enough for Pips?s and Suit?s tastes though. Ross cares about very little, having borne witness to one of the bloodiest battles in history. What happened there caused him to abandon society, convinced that everyone is just a snake in a suit and that altruism is a selfish lie. Often, while intoxicated, Ross rambles on about this philosophy. However, behind this is a man wrecked by guilt. Ross firmly believes he should have died with his comrades instead of taking the coward's path of survival at any cost.
Skills: Having had army training, he?s proficient in firearms and has some discipline. Ross also has quite a good singing voice while sober but that?s about it. He does have some magic, however; of Satanic origin it is a simple passive shield which deflects any small caliber bullet headed for him, the price of which being his immortal soul, the lives of his comrades and his courage. Note that knives, clubs, lumps of rock or large caliber bullets will hurt him like any other person.
Background: Born in Glasgow to working class parents and had a normal working class life, having gotten a job working for the city?s tram service, right up until World War I started. Spurred on by the general feeling of nationalism and duty that swept the nation, Ross enlisted along with some of his pals and was assigned to the Highland Light Infantry regiment, specifically the 15th battalion. Soon enough, after being moved around a bit, the 15th mobilised for war and landed at Boulogne, France then was transferred to the 14th. After that, they took part in various battles along the Western Front, including the Battle of the Somme. That broke Ross. Around him people were dying like dogs and he could've been next.
First off, Ross prayed to God for guidance but apparently He wasn't listening, so instead he turned to a darker power. Dealing with the Devil was something Ross had only heard of in folktales and the like but he was desperate. Using knowledge from said folktales, he tried contacting the Devil. Then, one day, Ross spotted a new face in the trench. The man introduced himself as Donald Dunn but one look at his cloven feet told Ross who he really was. Ross begged the Devil to ensure he would come out of the war alive, the Devil agreed as long as Ross was willing to sell his soul for it. Ross agreed instantly. Soon he found that bullets would somehow miss him... and found their way into his comrades' flesh.
"Just making some profit on this little venture." A voice inside his head whispered, "Hope you don't mind. You just want to survive right? Cowards always need some shield to hide behind, and I've given you the best of the best in that regard. Enjoy."
Now Ross was more reluctant than ever to fight but the rest of the battalion dragged him along anyway. Eventually, his time in the war ended when some shrapnel from a mortar wrecked his face. Down one eye and up one horrific scar, Ross spent his days in the infirmary cursing the Devil. Some thought him mad. The only proof that Ross that of his sanity was that the Devil replied back. Something about surviving the war as he had promised. When Ross recovered, he was discharged from the army and fled to America, not able to look his friends and family in the eye after what had happened. He drifted from place to place, job to job, and then from bar to bar, finding solace in alcohol.
Being in New York City when Prohibition was put into effect, he drifted around the speakeasies, getting barred from one after another until his wallet was empty. Eventually, Ross found Pips and Suits and quickly become a regular customer. Knowing that the number of speakeasies he could go to get his fix was dwindling, he stepped up his behaviour but quickly fell in debt. In order to get some funds, Ross joined up with the Pasticcino family who deigned to use him as muscle, it being an arrangement of convenience. Though, some people - namely his employers - have tried to get himself on the wagon with limited success. The main factor influencing the decrease of his alcohol intake is lack of funds but he has far to go yet.
Other: Ross speaks with a thick Scottish accent and a drunken slur (most of the time), making his speech hard to understand.
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Appearance: In a word, scruffy. Untamed dark brown curly hair crowns his head and below is an utter mess of stubble. His face is worn and is dominated by a rather nasty scar from a shrapnel blast on the left side. Brown eyes peek out of it (his left eye is fake though), however, his gaze is somewhat glazed. Even his fancy suits, which are a world away from the dour woollen ones of the British working class he used to wear, are covered in creases with the occasional hole or stain. Speaking of stains, his teeth are stained yellow by a failed attempted to transfer his addiction over to smoking. At least he doesn?t stink of that anymore, but the stench of alcohol is always there.
Equipment: Ross carries a sawn-off shotgun, while he is a decent shot most of the time he?s too drunk to care about accuracy, his wallet which contains a small amount of cash and some dog-eared photos, the key to his shithole of an apartment and - for when a fight is expected - just a stab-proof vest.
Personality: Bitter, very bitter. The Great War left him a broken man with hardly any hopes or aspirations. He drinks to forget. While drunk, Ross gets very loud and his fuse becomes very short - as if it wasn?t short enough already. So far, he?s managed to keep himself well behaved enough for Pips?s and Suit?s tastes though. Ross cares about very little, having borne witness to one of the bloodiest battles in history. What happened there caused him to abandon society, convinced that everyone is just a snake in a suit and that altruism is a selfish lie. Often, while intoxicated, Ross rambles on about this philosophy. However, behind this is a man wrecked by guilt. Ross firmly believes he should have died with his comrades instead of taking the coward's path of survival at any cost.
Skills: Having had army training, he?s proficient in firearms and has some discipline. Ross also has quite a good singing voice while sober but that?s about it. He does have some magic, however; of Satanic origin it is a simple passive shield which deflects any small caliber bullet headed for him, the price of which being his immortal soul, the lives of his comrades and his courage. Note that knives, clubs, lumps of rock or large caliber bullets will hurt him like any other person.
Background: Born in Glasgow to working class parents and had a normal working class life, having gotten a job working for the city?s tram service, right up until World War I started. Spurred on by the general feeling of nationalism and duty that swept the nation, Ross enlisted along with some of his pals and was assigned to the Highland Light Infantry regiment, specifically the 15th battalion. Soon enough, after being moved around a bit, the 15th mobilised for war and landed at Boulogne, France then was transferred to the 14th. After that, they took part in various battles along the Western Front, including the Battle of the Somme. That broke Ross. Around him people were dying like dogs and he could've been next.
First off, Ross prayed to God for guidance but apparently He wasn't listening, so instead he turned to a darker power. Dealing with the Devil was something Ross had only heard of in folktales and the like but he was desperate. Using knowledge from said folktales, he tried contacting the Devil. Then, one day, Ross spotted a new face in the trench. The man introduced himself as Donald Dunn but one look at his cloven feet told Ross who he really was. Ross begged the Devil to ensure he would come out of the war alive, the Devil agreed as long as Ross was willing to sell his soul for it. Ross agreed instantly. Soon he found that bullets would somehow miss him... and found their way into his comrades' flesh.
"Just making some profit on this little venture." A voice inside his head whispered, "Hope you don't mind. You just want to survive right? Cowards always need some shield to hide behind, and I've given you the best of the best in that regard. Enjoy."
Now Ross was more reluctant than ever to fight but the rest of the battalion dragged him along anyway. Eventually, his time in the war ended when some shrapnel from a mortar wrecked his face. Down one eye and up one horrific scar, Ross spent his days in the infirmary cursing the Devil. Some thought him mad. The only proof that Ross that of his sanity was that the Devil replied back. Something about surviving the war as he had promised. When Ross recovered, he was discharged from the army and fled to America, not able to look his friends and family in the eye after what had happened. He drifted from place to place, job to job, and then from bar to bar, finding solace in alcohol.
Being in New York City when Prohibition was put into effect, he drifted around the speakeasies, getting barred from one after another until his wallet was empty. Eventually, Ross found Pips and Suits and quickly become a regular customer. Knowing that the number of speakeasies he could go to get his fix was dwindling, he stepped up his behaviour but quickly fell in debt. In order to get some funds, Ross joined up with the Pasticcino family who deigned to use him as muscle, it being an arrangement of convenience. Though, some people - namely his employers - have tried to get himself on the wagon with limited success. The main factor influencing the decrease of his alcohol intake is lack of funds but he has far to go yet.
Other: Ross speaks with a thick Scottish accent and a drunken slur (most of the time), making his speech hard to understand.