Vanman
Two Thousand Club
Portrait
Krayjik Heltryst Dellebron (WIP) [The Darkening]
- Thread starter Vanman
- Start date
Vanman
Two Thousand Club
Sheet
Krayjik Heltryst Dellebron
House Dellebron
Str x
Dex xxx
Fit xx
Cha xxxx
Gui xxx
Com xx
Intuit xx
Intell xx
Will xx
Bold stats are Major; italicized stats are Minor.
Physical Skills:
Athletics: x
Unarmed:
Melee
Ranged: xx
Stealth: x
Dodge: xxo
Defend
Survival
Craft
Mental Skills:
Academics: x
Lore: x
Commerce: x
Politics: x
Strategy
Alchemy
Medicine
Governance
Investigation x
Social Skills
Persuasion: xx
Subterfuge: xxo
Seduction: x
Leadership
Tactics
City-Savvy: x
Mingle: xxo (Underworld)
Etiquette: x
Intimidation
Perception: 3
Speed: 3
Offense: 5
Defense: 5
Combat Pool: 6
Krayjik Heltryst Dellebron
House Dellebron
Str x
Dex xxx
Fit xx
Cha xxxx
Gui xxx
Com xx
Intuit xx
Intell xx
Will xx
Bold stats are Major; italicized stats are Minor.
Physical Skills:
Athletics: x
Unarmed:
Melee
Ranged: xx
Stealth: x
Dodge: xxo
Defend
Survival
Craft
Mental Skills:
Academics: x
Lore: x
Commerce: x
Politics: x
Strategy
Alchemy
Medicine
Governance
Investigation x
Social Skills
Persuasion: xx
Subterfuge: xxo
Seduction: x
Leadership
Tactics
City-Savvy: x
Mingle: xxo (Underworld)
Etiquette: x
Intimidation
Perception: 3
Speed: 3
Offense: 5
Defense: 5
Combat Pool: 6
Vanman
Two Thousand Club
Background
Yeah, my life sucked. Still does, for the most part. Some folks might say making the best of the situation makes one a better person, blah blah blah, yada, yada, yada, just SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH! People like that make me want to shoot someone in the face. Most often it’s the person doing the talking. But not always. Sometimes, you just want a bit of the ultra violence. I usually resist the urge, though. Not because I’m altruistic or anything. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s just more fun to con the fucks. Play that bleeding heart like a violin. Milk it for all it’s worth. Take everything they have, thinking they’re helping some noble cause. Then leave them with nothing. Suckers are like apples – you pick them, eat all the juicy meat, and then discard the seeded husk. It’s these moments wherein my life sucks just a little bit less.
See, I was born in the gleaming metropolis of Shaydensea, the son of a whore. Naturally, Daddy was absent. Can’t say that I blame him. After all, Mother was a whore. But more on that later. Being the son of a whore was tons of fun, let me tell you. Mother drunk, stoned, or strung out most of the time. Strange men parading through our room at all hours. Mother found clarity in the bottle. With that clarity came the knowledge that…well, that she was a whore. She became frustrated. She took out her frustration on yours truly. Those strange men? Didn’t much like kids ruining the mood. So when I “ruined†the mood, they got frustrated. They took out their frustrations on yours truly.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t a big kid. Hell, I’m not a big adult. Some might say the beatings made them tough, taught them how to fight. Not me. I say the beatings made me hate getting hit. I learned how to avoid getting hit, but that’s about it. Another reason I got beat so much is I didn’t know when to shut up. Some say I still don’t. I suppose some of the beat downs were self-induced. As I said before, the “gentlemen callers†didn’t much like kids – and by kids, I mean yours truly – ruining the mood. And usually, the mood was broken by a running commentary on the activities being played out in the room. Let’s just say that, at an early age, I had the gift of gab.
You can only do running commentaries for so long, though, before it starts to get old. Admittedly, I’m sure it got old much faster because of the beatings, but the time came when I tired of the pain. As such, there came a time when I learned to make myself scarce when Mother’s “gentlemen callers†came around. Now, this seemed like a good idea when I first hit upon it, but are you familiar with the phrase, out of the frying pan, into the fire? Well, that pretty much sums it up. Whilst getting hit by Mother’s “guests†was unpleasant, at least I was familiar with it. Once I got out on the streets, I was in an unfamiliar environment, and, at first, I was easy pickings. This resulted in – you guessed it – more beatings.
Ironically, those beatings helped me get my feet under me, and allowed me to find my place, as it were. After a particularly brutal beat down, I was, I admit it, crying. I’m sure I looked a sight – black eye, swollen lip, numerous cuts and scrapes. A pitiful picture, to be sure. Turns out that picture had a silver lining. A number of passers-by took pity on me, giving me food, attention….and money. This, of course, set alarm bells ringing inside my head. Thus began my “pitiful victim†stage. I even employed some of those who first administered beatings to do so under my direction, in front of witnesses. The extra sympathy garnered from the eyewitnesses translated directly to the amount of contributions I received. All in all, it was a good set up.
With a growing “work force,†I wanted to branch out. Seeing others, less talented and less pretty than myself, doing better than I was, was excessively galling. Plus, as time went on, I started to get a bit too old to play the “victim†very well. That, and I was tired of getting beat up. So I passed that particular job on to a younger member of my gang and I moved on to other endeavors. I paid different “artists†to learn their trade – con men, grifters, tricksters and lotharios. Not surprisingly, most of these trades involved using my mouth. Again, I was very good. At least with using my mouth. Sometimes it took me a bit to get the hang of it, but once I did, I was very proficient.
Unfortunately, I became rather good at my job. Too good, in fact. When my outfit was small, no one paid us any attention. As we grew, however – and I made damn sure we did grow – we drew the attention of other enterprises that operated in the same areas. They were not happy about the competition. So once again, I became the target of someone who wanted to mete out a beating. I’d learned hard lessons before. This was to be one of the hardest – and harshest – lessons I would learn. My organization was destroyed. Utterly. We were taken totally unawares. As Fate would have it, I was out – seeking company – when the attack came. So I survived. No one else did.
The smart thing to do would have been to flee the city. I’ve never claimed to be that smart. I took to living on the streets, away from my old haunts. Bathing became a thing of the past. Dirt became encrusted in my clothing, my hair, and my skin. An amazing thing happens when you become dispossessed, though. You become invisible. This invisibility allowed me to scout out the headquarters of the organizations I thought responsible for our destruction. The first, and obvious, organization was The Society. They had their fingers in pretty much everything illegal in Shaydensea. The second was Gillenshok’s Gang. They dealt primarily in enforcement and loan sharking. Lastly, Madam Quiriss’ crew ran a highly profitable prostitution ring as well as various con games and blackmail schemes the city over.
I kept watch at all three of the gangs’ headquarters. After about a month of watching, I saw the piece that put it all together. We had a mole. Vakir Blesdjid, my second in command. Guess he wasn’t happy with his position. A vitriolic hatred boiled within me, barely controlled. Not for the people that died. They were pawns, tools to be used. No, this hatred came from the double cross. And the fact that I did not see it coming. He pulled it off admirably. I hated him for it.
I left the city after that. Not because I was afraid. I left because I couldn’t show my face without bringing down a shit storm. I relocated to Halmorn, as small town about 20 miles from Shaydensea. Close enough to the city to keep abreast of what went on, but far enough away that I wasn’t in immediate danger. I spent the first few months setting myself up, making a name for myself, making contacts, and getting to know the players in the town. All the while, I schemed. I slowly worked my way into a number of the criminal elements, using my penchant for fast talk and deal making to my advantage.
The other element I familiarized myself with were those people who had contact and business with the Triumvirate in Shaydensea. I wormed myself in with these people, but I refused to deal directly with any of those organizations. Information was vital, and I accrued that voraciously. Slowly, I began my vengeance. I whispered in an ear here, I insinuated there, I implied, I hinted, I intimated, I indicated. I knew the paranoid nature of criminal organizations, so I used that against the three. I set up a vast network of double-dealings, double crosses, and back stabs – and they all originated with Vakir. Eventually, a war broke out, and all three organizations blamed Vakir. The stories of his end still serve to comfort me when I’m feeling in a particularly bad mood.
One night shortly after I completed my plan, a bag was dropped over my head, my limbs were tied and I was carried to some unknown destination. When the bag was finally lifted – after I’d been tied securely – I was looking at a vision from Hell. Literally. The demon was looking at me with a slight smirk on his face. He spoke with a voice that alternated between fire and ice.
“Well, well, well. I did not think you would make it this far, youngling, I must say. But your recent actions have convinced me you may have the requisite…proficiency to be claimed. I am here to make that claim. Nice work on that skunk rat. He deserved what he got.â€
That was my introduction to my father, who informed me of my House, my lineage and my family. A lot became clear on that day. New worlds were opened up to me. I knew I couldn’t do that in this area, so I left. I wandered for a time, looking for a place to fit in. I may have found that in the North, on The Spitfire. Other Infernals, another Dellebron on board, should make life interesting. I wait to see what’s around the next corner…..
Yeah, my life sucked. Still does, for the most part. Some folks might say making the best of the situation makes one a better person, blah blah blah, yada, yada, yada, just SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH! People like that make me want to shoot someone in the face. Most often it’s the person doing the talking. But not always. Sometimes, you just want a bit of the ultra violence. I usually resist the urge, though. Not because I’m altruistic or anything. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s just more fun to con the fucks. Play that bleeding heart like a violin. Milk it for all it’s worth. Take everything they have, thinking they’re helping some noble cause. Then leave them with nothing. Suckers are like apples – you pick them, eat all the juicy meat, and then discard the seeded husk. It’s these moments wherein my life sucks just a little bit less.
See, I was born in the gleaming metropolis of Shaydensea, the son of a whore. Naturally, Daddy was absent. Can’t say that I blame him. After all, Mother was a whore. But more on that later. Being the son of a whore was tons of fun, let me tell you. Mother drunk, stoned, or strung out most of the time. Strange men parading through our room at all hours. Mother found clarity in the bottle. With that clarity came the knowledge that…well, that she was a whore. She became frustrated. She took out her frustration on yours truly. Those strange men? Didn’t much like kids ruining the mood. So when I “ruined†the mood, they got frustrated. They took out their frustrations on yours truly.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t a big kid. Hell, I’m not a big adult. Some might say the beatings made them tough, taught them how to fight. Not me. I say the beatings made me hate getting hit. I learned how to avoid getting hit, but that’s about it. Another reason I got beat so much is I didn’t know when to shut up. Some say I still don’t. I suppose some of the beat downs were self-induced. As I said before, the “gentlemen callers†didn’t much like kids – and by kids, I mean yours truly – ruining the mood. And usually, the mood was broken by a running commentary on the activities being played out in the room. Let’s just say that, at an early age, I had the gift of gab.
You can only do running commentaries for so long, though, before it starts to get old. Admittedly, I’m sure it got old much faster because of the beatings, but the time came when I tired of the pain. As such, there came a time when I learned to make myself scarce when Mother’s “gentlemen callers†came around. Now, this seemed like a good idea when I first hit upon it, but are you familiar with the phrase, out of the frying pan, into the fire? Well, that pretty much sums it up. Whilst getting hit by Mother’s “guests†was unpleasant, at least I was familiar with it. Once I got out on the streets, I was in an unfamiliar environment, and, at first, I was easy pickings. This resulted in – you guessed it – more beatings.
Ironically, those beatings helped me get my feet under me, and allowed me to find my place, as it were. After a particularly brutal beat down, I was, I admit it, crying. I’m sure I looked a sight – black eye, swollen lip, numerous cuts and scrapes. A pitiful picture, to be sure. Turns out that picture had a silver lining. A number of passers-by took pity on me, giving me food, attention….and money. This, of course, set alarm bells ringing inside my head. Thus began my “pitiful victim†stage. I even employed some of those who first administered beatings to do so under my direction, in front of witnesses. The extra sympathy garnered from the eyewitnesses translated directly to the amount of contributions I received. All in all, it was a good set up.
With a growing “work force,†I wanted to branch out. Seeing others, less talented and less pretty than myself, doing better than I was, was excessively galling. Plus, as time went on, I started to get a bit too old to play the “victim†very well. That, and I was tired of getting beat up. So I passed that particular job on to a younger member of my gang and I moved on to other endeavors. I paid different “artists†to learn their trade – con men, grifters, tricksters and lotharios. Not surprisingly, most of these trades involved using my mouth. Again, I was very good. At least with using my mouth. Sometimes it took me a bit to get the hang of it, but once I did, I was very proficient.
Unfortunately, I became rather good at my job. Too good, in fact. When my outfit was small, no one paid us any attention. As we grew, however – and I made damn sure we did grow – we drew the attention of other enterprises that operated in the same areas. They were not happy about the competition. So once again, I became the target of someone who wanted to mete out a beating. I’d learned hard lessons before. This was to be one of the hardest – and harshest – lessons I would learn. My organization was destroyed. Utterly. We were taken totally unawares. As Fate would have it, I was out – seeking company – when the attack came. So I survived. No one else did.
The smart thing to do would have been to flee the city. I’ve never claimed to be that smart. I took to living on the streets, away from my old haunts. Bathing became a thing of the past. Dirt became encrusted in my clothing, my hair, and my skin. An amazing thing happens when you become dispossessed, though. You become invisible. This invisibility allowed me to scout out the headquarters of the organizations I thought responsible for our destruction. The first, and obvious, organization was The Society. They had their fingers in pretty much everything illegal in Shaydensea. The second was Gillenshok’s Gang. They dealt primarily in enforcement and loan sharking. Lastly, Madam Quiriss’ crew ran a highly profitable prostitution ring as well as various con games and blackmail schemes the city over.
I kept watch at all three of the gangs’ headquarters. After about a month of watching, I saw the piece that put it all together. We had a mole. Vakir Blesdjid, my second in command. Guess he wasn’t happy with his position. A vitriolic hatred boiled within me, barely controlled. Not for the people that died. They were pawns, tools to be used. No, this hatred came from the double cross. And the fact that I did not see it coming. He pulled it off admirably. I hated him for it.
I left the city after that. Not because I was afraid. I left because I couldn’t show my face without bringing down a shit storm. I relocated to Halmorn, as small town about 20 miles from Shaydensea. Close enough to the city to keep abreast of what went on, but far enough away that I wasn’t in immediate danger. I spent the first few months setting myself up, making a name for myself, making contacts, and getting to know the players in the town. All the while, I schemed. I slowly worked my way into a number of the criminal elements, using my penchant for fast talk and deal making to my advantage.
The other element I familiarized myself with were those people who had contact and business with the Triumvirate in Shaydensea. I wormed myself in with these people, but I refused to deal directly with any of those organizations. Information was vital, and I accrued that voraciously. Slowly, I began my vengeance. I whispered in an ear here, I insinuated there, I implied, I hinted, I intimated, I indicated. I knew the paranoid nature of criminal organizations, so I used that against the three. I set up a vast network of double-dealings, double crosses, and back stabs – and they all originated with Vakir. Eventually, a war broke out, and all three organizations blamed Vakir. The stories of his end still serve to comfort me when I’m feeling in a particularly bad mood.
One night shortly after I completed my plan, a bag was dropped over my head, my limbs were tied and I was carried to some unknown destination. When the bag was finally lifted – after I’d been tied securely – I was looking at a vision from Hell. Literally. The demon was looking at me with a slight smirk on his face. He spoke with a voice that alternated between fire and ice.
“Well, well, well. I did not think you would make it this far, youngling, I must say. But your recent actions have convinced me you may have the requisite…proficiency to be claimed. I am here to make that claim. Nice work on that skunk rat. He deserved what he got.â€
That was my introduction to my father, who informed me of my House, my lineage and my family. A lot became clear on that day. New worlds were opened up to me. I knew I couldn’t do that in this area, so I left. I wandered for a time, looking for a place to fit in. I may have found that in the North, on The Spitfire. Other Infernals, another Dellebron on board, should make life interesting. I wait to see what’s around the next corner…..
Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
Backgrounds awards!
True Weasel: +1 Dodge and Subterfuge
Punching Bag: You can use the higher of your Strength or Fitness as Natural Damage Resistance
Connected: +1 Mingling (Underworld)
True Weasel: +1 Dodge and Subterfuge
Punching Bag: You can use the higher of your Strength or Fitness as Natural Damage Resistance
Connected: +1 Mingling (Underworld)