Groups
Description
Tall, muscular and swarthy with auburn hair plaited and twisted around her head. Dressed in lightweight, reinforced jacket and trousers. Usially topped by a long coat and cowboy hat.
Personality
Resentful, brusque and rather abrupt.
Equipment
Carries a sniper’s rifle, but tends not to use it.
Several short knives are concealed on her person.
A set of gambling chips are her primary weapon. She stores energy within them to be released as explosives.
History
Garrit by birth, she has long harboured a deep hatred of her name. Now in her adult years, she uses a number of aliases. “Jam Kicker” is her favourite, but “Pat Trips” is the name she usually gives out.
Garrit strides into the bar, letting the door bang off of the wall as she makes her way straight to the main counter. She slams a grubby hand down. "Oi! Bartender!"
Garrit grins at Seynt. "Nice, yah gona serve me?"
Garrit rubs her hands together, showering a fair ammount of dried dirt and what may once have been blood onto the counter. "Somethin' stiff, if yah'v got it. Ah'm good ta pay."
Garrit smirks, flipping her hat back, the tie catching around her neck to stop it falling. "Yah right, ah don't want ta know wha's in ya death brew, ah'll drink it, though." Three coins appear between her fingers and she spins them onto the bar.
Garrit winks at Seynt. "Yah'd be suprised what it takes ta do me in." She picks up the mug, taking a long pull. "Nice." She coughs slightly, but her grin doesn't slip.
Garrit takes a long look at the mug before gulping the rest of the liquid down and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "...very nice." She takes a seat, unwinding her dusty hair into a long, crinkled plait.
Garrit raises an eyebrow at Ava Brownstone. "Any reason yah want a fight to break out?"
Garrit chuckles, running a grubby finger around the top of her empty mug. "Is that so?" She holds out the very same hand. "Pat Tripps. Yah got a name?"
Garrit glances at her own hand, smirking, then retracs it. "Whateva yah say. Yah got a name in there, or is it "Ah wouldn't"?"
Garrit glances at Ruhe. "Nah, ah'm good, not my blood."
Garrit lowers her eyes back to her mug, turning it over in her hands, chuckling softly. "Yah'd think a healer'd be used ta it."
Garrit sets the mug down, a pokerchip appearing between her fingers. She begins to toy with it.
Garrit glances at Vara, frowning.
Garrit looks away, flipping open a little black book; Vara's picture is eight pages in.
Garrit nods to herself, stowing her little book away and heading over to Vara, a friendly smile on her face. "Hello."
Garrit offers a dirty hand. "Pat Trips."
Garrit shakes. "So, yah got a name too?"
Garrit takes a seat. "So, tell me about yahself, Vara."
Garrit swings her feet up onto the table. "Ah might have, but ya don't want me trustin' what ah'v got in a book, if that's true."
Garrit flicks her hand, a small pocket knife appearing there. She sets it down in front of Vara.