Post by bluesp34r on Jul 31, 2014 22:45:46 GMT
Yay for continuing themes!
BYOND Key: BlueSp34r
Character name(The one which the item is for): George Brownstone
Character age: 23
Backstory:
It was a hot day in New Birmingham. The sun was hoisted high above in the sky, overlooking the small farming-based colony, beating down rays of thermal energy upon the populace. The sun looked down, and saw not a single soul in the town; Every person who would have been victimized by it's rays would be bathed in sweat out working in fields, or maybe going down to the store to pick up some milk, some tobacco, or some whiskey. Hidden from the cruel sun's wrath, was a medium-sized, three story building located just off the center of the colony. Within the insulating walls, the air conditioned saloon housed dozens upon dozens of patrons, dozens and dozens of drunk, staggering, gambling, sinful, happy patrons. The air was filled with the various scents, comprising mostly of tobacco, poor body hygiene, and sex. The barkeep was busy filling glasses up with translucent brown liquids, watering each and every one of them down to preserve his stock. But the drunks did not seem to care at all; They were too busy being drunk to do so. The music of the pianist in the corner could be heard from anywhere in the vicinity. Anyone within earshot who could hear the classic ragtime music could follow their ears to the saloon, just as intended. Sprawled throughout the bar were several tables, fitting many groups of men and women as they drank together, talked about the news and the weather, or played their hand at poker. A typical scene here.
A man walked into the saloon, kicking the door open with his boots. Just another man, everyone thought. Attention was not directed towards him as he walked down the area, avoiding contact with the staggering drunk men. His spurs went jingle-jangle-jingle as he casually stepped table to table; In the palm of his hands was a photograph. A mugshot. A thick-headed tan man with a ruffly stubble and a look in his eyes that spoke of all the ruthlessness he had done to end up taking that picture. The man cocked his head, gazing upon a table and circling around it, pretending to be somewhat interested at what they men were doing, but discretely checking the identities. He stopped. A man at the table was chugging a bottle down before he slammed it away, laughing. He picks up his hand of cards, placing down three black chips before throwing down his cards, laughing as he rakes in the pile of chips with his long, meaty forearms. The other men at the table slammed their hands down in frustration, muttering something about good luck. Walking around, the man taps the winner on the shoulder, who quickly turns his head around to meet his eyes. And just his eyes; This man was wearing a red bandanna over his mouth and nose, only revealing his hazel eyes. "Can I help you?" The man from the table asks, his breath reeking of liquor. For a moment, the man is quiet. He tucks the picture in his hand away into his belt buckle. Lips invisible, he speaks "I owe money to a certain fella'...ya' won't happen ta' know a John Huntworth, would ya'?" The man gleamed up as he stood up, patting the man on the back. "Well well...uh...friend. Nice of you to go and pay your debts..." The man smiled down at him. Although the man in the bandanna was a fairly tall figure, John Huntworth was a titan, standing at around seven whole feet. "So." He smiles, too drunk to remember who this figure was, but money was money. "How much is it gonna be?"
Behind his bandanna, his smirks. Suddenly, in a turn of events, the man grabs the bottle off the table and swings it like a club against the head of Huntworth, sending him crashing down over the table, covered in shards of glass and a dark brown sticky substance. The chips and cards go flying, and the table itself has a hard time keeping up. The rest of the men at the table jump lightly at this; Something surprising, something that drew the attention of nearly everyone in the bar. The man in the bandanna glares down at his target, getting close to his ear and asking "Know a li'l girl named Jessica?" Huntworth groans, getting to his feet before cracking a light chuckle. "Jessica who?" Clenching his fist, the bandanna man grabs for the nearest tool he could use against this person...the neck of the bottle. But before he could swing, Huntworth had a made a swift karate chop over the man's arm, causing him to yell out in pain and drop the glass he was holding. With a growl, he formed two fists and held them at the ready. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into, punk..." John cracked his knuckles, waiting for the man to initiate the first move. Our bandanna'd hero smirked again, hidden behind his mask. He raises his fist in a punching motion, sending his opponent into a defensive position with his hands. Bluffing, the bandanna man kicked the man instead with the side of his ankle. Not enough to do much to him, just enough to force him to lean on the table. "Hehe...That's all you go-AAHHH!" Quickly, the man whips out a jacknife from his pocket, twirling it around his fingers with such speed before sending it down on the man's hand, pinning it down to the table before anyone had a chance to react. John tried to pull the knife out, but the pain was too intense; He was virtually stuck there. Two of the other three men had bailed at this point. One of them was brave enough to stand up, reaching for his holster. The red bandanna was too quick for him, though, drawing his Col M1911 before his foe had touched his leather even. He held his hands up in defeat, now knowing that there was likely no plausible outcome for him if he didn't take off right now. The man holsters his pistol, glaring down at his bleeding, impaled target with all the eyes on him.
"I said..." He states, in a low and menacing tone. "...Did ya' know a girl named Jessica?" The man places his hand on the handle of the knife, locking eyes with his victim. "Listen...I don't...know what you're...talking abouu-AAH!" With a slam of his fist, the sent the knife in deeper, causing the hand to turn soaking red as a pool of blood formed on the table, little dribbles of it dripping down the legs, staining his clothes. "I guess I didn't make m'self clear 'nuff. Gripping the knife tightly, he pulled it out of the table like Excalibur, only to send it slightly deeper down his hand, making yet another bloody hole, causing the poor John Huntworth to flail his legs helplessly. "Lisn' 'ere, partner..." Bandanna knelt down, speaking in a hushed but aggressive voice. "Ya' try ta' bullshit me again, 'n ya' get an artery pierced. I know all 'bout ya', John. I read yer' file. Now, I'm gonna ask ya' again, and this is the last time I use ma' "polite" voice. Did ya' know a li'l bitty girl named Jessica who went missin' 'bout eight 'n the evenin' downtown..." George delivered a gloved fist into the man's face, as if he wasn't in enough pain yet. "Do ya'?" He yelled.
John was in tears. "Yes!" He called out. "Yes! Yes! Yes yes yes..." he rambled on, slowly breaking down and crying. "I did it...I did it you bastard...I did it..." The man lowered his bandanna, spitting a chunk of tobacco into the man's eye before stepping up. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Suddenly, the doors of the saloon are forced open, as three men in uniforms marched in. Two of them were clad with rifles, laser rifles, while the other who led them had a pistol in his belt and a badge on his chest. "Brownstone." He called out, stomping over to the bandanna'd figure. "Enough. With. The vigilante act." George shook his head. "This ain't vigilante...it's the law...this man...the evidence was there..." George pointed to the now silent figure, wincing in pain as he gazed up among the men who held his fate. The sheriff shook his head. "No, George. If there was, he'd in bars by now. This is the last time we..." George interrupted him with a groan. "Wouldn't be the first time ya' bunch o' monkeys could find the killer 'n not the gun! I can't believe...after what this man had done...yer' jus' gonna..." The man placed his hand on George's shoulder, causing him to tense up a little. "It's the law."
George nodded, pushing them an aside as he released the man from the knife that bound him to the table, causing him to slump to the floor. Walking away, the two men motioned to go around and pick him up. But John saw his chance. "Lousy son of a bitch..." He muttered, reaching into his trench coat to draw forth a revolver. George stopped, he heard the sound of something dangerous. Turning around, he was greeted by a bullet to the cheek before tumbling backwards into the ground, staring at the ceiling. The saloon at this point had erupted into a frenzy, but all the noise was slowly fading away....as were the lights...as was everything...
George awoken to a numb feeling in his bones on a soft white bed. The red cross on the bedsheets indicated he was somewhere safe. A knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a nurse and the sheriff himself was a greeting to him. Sitting himself up, George looked out the window; It was late now. He should be getting some sleep at this point. But the nurse came and took him off the IV, helping him to his own two feet; Even though he didn't need her help. Looking down, George found himself to be in something other than his usual attire, a white gown. "Uh..." The nurse brought forth a sliding table, with each article of clothing George was found with inside. George nodded, before they both left to give him some privacy. "Oh." The nurse called out. "We tried ta' get the blood outta yer' bandanna...didn't werk..." George frowned, looking down at the gashing red stain on his clothes, before nodding. "That's 'lright, take care care ma'am."
After he got changed, he briskly walked out of the hospital in a futile attempt to avoid talking to the sheriff. "Look...we try to do the best we can...really....it's just not possible sometimes...some of them get away...." George sighed. "Did he?" With a head shake as a response, George felt the slightest bit of relief. "You'd be in trouble right about now...but I think I can let it drop considering the recent circumstances..." George wouldn't even let him finish the conversation with so much as a thanks. Storming out of the hospital, George went on his way to the ranch he called home. With a bloody bandanna and dimly-lit moon to hide his tracks.
Item name Bloody Red Bandanna
Item description: A red bandanna, used to cover one's face as a means to protect their orifices and identity. This one has a splash of blood over it.
Item Appearance: A red bandanna, possibly a re-colored sterile mask with a few pixels removed and such.
Item Function: Goes over the mask slot. Would be awesome if it could be rolled down. Would also be awesome if while rolled up, it labled you as unknown, like how gas masks do.
Reason for item requested: I need to complete the getup for George. What kind of cowboy doesn't have a bandanna?
BYOND Key: BlueSp34r
Character name(The one which the item is for): George Brownstone
Character age: 23
Backstory:
It was a hot day in New Birmingham. The sun was hoisted high above in the sky, overlooking the small farming-based colony, beating down rays of thermal energy upon the populace. The sun looked down, and saw not a single soul in the town; Every person who would have been victimized by it's rays would be bathed in sweat out working in fields, or maybe going down to the store to pick up some milk, some tobacco, or some whiskey. Hidden from the cruel sun's wrath, was a medium-sized, three story building located just off the center of the colony. Within the insulating walls, the air conditioned saloon housed dozens upon dozens of patrons, dozens and dozens of drunk, staggering, gambling, sinful, happy patrons. The air was filled with the various scents, comprising mostly of tobacco, poor body hygiene, and sex. The barkeep was busy filling glasses up with translucent brown liquids, watering each and every one of them down to preserve his stock. But the drunks did not seem to care at all; They were too busy being drunk to do so. The music of the pianist in the corner could be heard from anywhere in the vicinity. Anyone within earshot who could hear the classic ragtime music could follow their ears to the saloon, just as intended. Sprawled throughout the bar were several tables, fitting many groups of men and women as they drank together, talked about the news and the weather, or played their hand at poker. A typical scene here.
A man walked into the saloon, kicking the door open with his boots. Just another man, everyone thought. Attention was not directed towards him as he walked down the area, avoiding contact with the staggering drunk men. His spurs went jingle-jangle-jingle as he casually stepped table to table; In the palm of his hands was a photograph. A mugshot. A thick-headed tan man with a ruffly stubble and a look in his eyes that spoke of all the ruthlessness he had done to end up taking that picture. The man cocked his head, gazing upon a table and circling around it, pretending to be somewhat interested at what they men were doing, but discretely checking the identities. He stopped. A man at the table was chugging a bottle down before he slammed it away, laughing. He picks up his hand of cards, placing down three black chips before throwing down his cards, laughing as he rakes in the pile of chips with his long, meaty forearms. The other men at the table slammed their hands down in frustration, muttering something about good luck. Walking around, the man taps the winner on the shoulder, who quickly turns his head around to meet his eyes. And just his eyes; This man was wearing a red bandanna over his mouth and nose, only revealing his hazel eyes. "Can I help you?" The man from the table asks, his breath reeking of liquor. For a moment, the man is quiet. He tucks the picture in his hand away into his belt buckle. Lips invisible, he speaks "I owe money to a certain fella'...ya' won't happen ta' know a John Huntworth, would ya'?" The man gleamed up as he stood up, patting the man on the back. "Well well...uh...friend. Nice of you to go and pay your debts..." The man smiled down at him. Although the man in the bandanna was a fairly tall figure, John Huntworth was a titan, standing at around seven whole feet. "So." He smiles, too drunk to remember who this figure was, but money was money. "How much is it gonna be?"
Behind his bandanna, his smirks. Suddenly, in a turn of events, the man grabs the bottle off the table and swings it like a club against the head of Huntworth, sending him crashing down over the table, covered in shards of glass and a dark brown sticky substance. The chips and cards go flying, and the table itself has a hard time keeping up. The rest of the men at the table jump lightly at this; Something surprising, something that drew the attention of nearly everyone in the bar. The man in the bandanna glares down at his target, getting close to his ear and asking "Know a li'l girl named Jessica?" Huntworth groans, getting to his feet before cracking a light chuckle. "Jessica who?" Clenching his fist, the bandanna man grabs for the nearest tool he could use against this person...the neck of the bottle. But before he could swing, Huntworth had a made a swift karate chop over the man's arm, causing him to yell out in pain and drop the glass he was holding. With a growl, he formed two fists and held them at the ready. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into, punk..." John cracked his knuckles, waiting for the man to initiate the first move. Our bandanna'd hero smirked again, hidden behind his mask. He raises his fist in a punching motion, sending his opponent into a defensive position with his hands. Bluffing, the bandanna man kicked the man instead with the side of his ankle. Not enough to do much to him, just enough to force him to lean on the table. "Hehe...That's all you go-AAHHH!" Quickly, the man whips out a jacknife from his pocket, twirling it around his fingers with such speed before sending it down on the man's hand, pinning it down to the table before anyone had a chance to react. John tried to pull the knife out, but the pain was too intense; He was virtually stuck there. Two of the other three men had bailed at this point. One of them was brave enough to stand up, reaching for his holster. The red bandanna was too quick for him, though, drawing his Col M1911 before his foe had touched his leather even. He held his hands up in defeat, now knowing that there was likely no plausible outcome for him if he didn't take off right now. The man holsters his pistol, glaring down at his bleeding, impaled target with all the eyes on him.
"I said..." He states, in a low and menacing tone. "...Did ya' know a girl named Jessica?" The man places his hand on the handle of the knife, locking eyes with his victim. "Listen...I don't...know what you're...talking abouu-AAH!" With a slam of his fist, the sent the knife in deeper, causing the hand to turn soaking red as a pool of blood formed on the table, little dribbles of it dripping down the legs, staining his clothes. "I guess I didn't make m'self clear 'nuff. Gripping the knife tightly, he pulled it out of the table like Excalibur, only to send it slightly deeper down his hand, making yet another bloody hole, causing the poor John Huntworth to flail his legs helplessly. "Lisn' 'ere, partner..." Bandanna knelt down, speaking in a hushed but aggressive voice. "Ya' try ta' bullshit me again, 'n ya' get an artery pierced. I know all 'bout ya', John. I read yer' file. Now, I'm gonna ask ya' again, and this is the last time I use ma' "polite" voice. Did ya' know a li'l bitty girl named Jessica who went missin' 'bout eight 'n the evenin' downtown..." George delivered a gloved fist into the man's face, as if he wasn't in enough pain yet. "Do ya'?" He yelled.
John was in tears. "Yes!" He called out. "Yes! Yes! Yes yes yes..." he rambled on, slowly breaking down and crying. "I did it...I did it you bastard...I did it..." The man lowered his bandanna, spitting a chunk of tobacco into the man's eye before stepping up. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" Suddenly, the doors of the saloon are forced open, as three men in uniforms marched in. Two of them were clad with rifles, laser rifles, while the other who led them had a pistol in his belt and a badge on his chest. "Brownstone." He called out, stomping over to the bandanna'd figure. "Enough. With. The vigilante act." George shook his head. "This ain't vigilante...it's the law...this man...the evidence was there..." George pointed to the now silent figure, wincing in pain as he gazed up among the men who held his fate. The sheriff shook his head. "No, George. If there was, he'd in bars by now. This is the last time we..." George interrupted him with a groan. "Wouldn't be the first time ya' bunch o' monkeys could find the killer 'n not the gun! I can't believe...after what this man had done...yer' jus' gonna..." The man placed his hand on George's shoulder, causing him to tense up a little. "It's the law."
George nodded, pushing them an aside as he released the man from the knife that bound him to the table, causing him to slump to the floor. Walking away, the two men motioned to go around and pick him up. But John saw his chance. "Lousy son of a bitch..." He muttered, reaching into his trench coat to draw forth a revolver. George stopped, he heard the sound of something dangerous. Turning around, he was greeted by a bullet to the cheek before tumbling backwards into the ground, staring at the ceiling. The saloon at this point had erupted into a frenzy, but all the noise was slowly fading away....as were the lights...as was everything...
George awoken to a numb feeling in his bones on a soft white bed. The red cross on the bedsheets indicated he was somewhere safe. A knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a nurse and the sheriff himself was a greeting to him. Sitting himself up, George looked out the window; It was late now. He should be getting some sleep at this point. But the nurse came and took him off the IV, helping him to his own two feet; Even though he didn't need her help. Looking down, George found himself to be in something other than his usual attire, a white gown. "Uh..." The nurse brought forth a sliding table, with each article of clothing George was found with inside. George nodded, before they both left to give him some privacy. "Oh." The nurse called out. "We tried ta' get the blood outta yer' bandanna...didn't werk..." George frowned, looking down at the gashing red stain on his clothes, before nodding. "That's 'lright, take care care ma'am."
After he got changed, he briskly walked out of the hospital in a futile attempt to avoid talking to the sheriff. "Look...we try to do the best we can...really....it's just not possible sometimes...some of them get away...." George sighed. "Did he?" With a head shake as a response, George felt the slightest bit of relief. "You'd be in trouble right about now...but I think I can let it drop considering the recent circumstances..." George wouldn't even let him finish the conversation with so much as a thanks. Storming out of the hospital, George went on his way to the ranch he called home. With a bloody bandanna and dimly-lit moon to hide his tracks.
Item name Bloody Red Bandanna
Item description: A red bandanna, used to cover one's face as a means to protect their orifices and identity. This one has a splash of blood over it.
Item Appearance: A red bandanna, possibly a re-colored sterile mask with a few pixels removed and such.
Item Function: Goes over the mask slot. Would be awesome if it could be rolled down. Would also be awesome if while rolled up, it labled you as unknown, like how gas masks do.
Reason for item requested: I need to complete the getup for George. What kind of cowboy doesn't have a bandanna?
