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The small, weedy-looking man flickered watery eyes quickly back and forth across the patio of the small bistro, nervously folding and re-folding the pale maroon cloth napkin that lay beneath his hand on the small table. His hair was obviously thinning, although he didn't appear to be much older than thirty-something; his skin had a waxy appearance, and his brow was slick with sweat. The waitress appeared at his side, placing down the class of ice water that he'd requested previously, and waited a moment for a response of any sort before leaving when she realized he wasn't going to give one. She thought him awfully rude, which in all actually, he was normally. However, this day, he was simply nervous; the sun was bright, the sky clear, the weather balmy, but if his face were anything to go by, you'd think a hurricane was coming his way.

A small group of tourists passed by on bicycles, laughing and sharing in light-hearted conversation with each other; they stopped in the small park across the street and began sipping the latte's they'd been carrying, relishing the shade of the trees. The streets of Albi were thronging with tourists, backpackers, and in fewer numbers, actual citizens of France. The man had chosen this city because in his mind, Paris would have been the epicenter for tourism and sight-seeing, and hence, Albi would be safer, with fewer bystanders and witnesses. This, however, apparently wasn't quite the case; the streets were almost gorged with people, at least in this part of town. In reality, as much as Paris was a bit of a trademark for France, many people had chosen to come to different cities for the simple fact that it would be less busy, in their minds. This plan of action had, of course, completely defeated the purpose, but in spite of the irony, they enjoyed their visit anyways. Not so much for the nervous man; if anything, it simply forced his blood pressure to rise even more.

Presently, the man saw the person he was waiting for: another man, in a suit that clearly was the real, expensive version of the sort that the other was trying hard to emulate, with slightly tanned skin, bright blue eyes, and neatly combed, thick black hair. He was carrying a thin case along with him, but aside from that, nothing. He was the very essence of confidence and presence; he was the sort that commanded attention and respect the moment he arrived. Flanking his left was another, considerably larger man; he looked as if he'd been modelled after a military tank. He dressed as one who was doing their best to be inconspicuous, and he had succeeded as well as two-hundred pounds of pure muscle could. He wore a suit similar to, but more modest than, the suit of his companion, his face hard-set, calculating, and calm, until you saw his eyes. In a moment, they'd flickered to each corner of the patio, taking in everything and determining the level of threat in an instant. He was the man's bodyguard, and clearly a professional; he wasn't one to be trifled with.

At the arrival of these two, our nervous friend stood up quickly, eagerly reaching forward to shake the new man's hand. He accepted the shake, but released it rather quickly; this may have had something to do with his regard for the man, or with the thin film of sweat that had been forming steadily for the past twenty minutes.

He addressed the new man as Mr. Moretti, and commented on how pleased he was that he'd been able to make it; although the nervous one, who he responded to as Mr. Rousseau, spoke in french and his visitor was clearly of Italian origin, they were able to converse rather easily. Mr. Moretti was required to be quite multi-lingual in his line of work.

They made small talk for about ten or so minutes, and finally Mr. Moretti brought it to and end and addressed Rousseau, getting to the business that he'd flown here for in the first place; he wasn't a man that was known to waste time when he could help it. The waxy man faltered a moment, and skittered his eyes nervously around the patio again; personally, his visitor found this both annoying and unneccessary, nothing but testimony to the man's paranoia. Dovini was here, and his bodyguard could more than destory anyone here, he was sure. On top of that, they'd quite carefully scoped this area out before their arrival. There was nothing here but tourists and old French couples. Not to mention, Rousseau was hardly big-time; he doubted anyone would care enough about what he did to make an attack.

After his quick surveillance, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small USB drive, passing it over to Moretti across the table. The Italian examined it for a moment, then pulled out a small laptop from his briefcase, and after slipping the drive into one of the ports, opened it and began flicking through the files. There were lists there, pages upon pages within folders of lists. Social security numbers, banking information, passwords, PIN codes; everything he would need to get full access to every major bank in France. Satisfied with the product, Moretti removed the drive and slipped it into his pocket, then reached into his case and pulled out a small bag. Rousseau accepted this, and opened it a small amount on his lap, just enough to see a multitude of rather large bills inside; he smiled greedily. He hadn't seen this much money in one place in his entire lifetime. He sealed the bag quickly, slipping it over his shoulder. He and Moretti stood up, the latter eager to leave now that his business was done, and as they did so, Dovini fell, a bullet piercing the back of his head. There was no sound until he hit the ground. A moment later, Moretti was down; a second after that, before he had time to process what was happening, Rousseau had followed suit as well. The shots had made no sound; by the time everyone realized what was going on, the shooters were already biking away, unnoticed in the mayhem that ensued, the girl taking one last sip from her empty latte before tossing it into a garbage bin.

Half an hour later, they were sitting on an airplane back to America, payment in hand (or, that is, in their backpacks; a rather nice one-grand. Normally that amount was meager, but this job had been pretty straightforward). The girl yawned, slipped the headphones of her iPod into her ears, and closed her eyes, planning on napping until they arrived back home.


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History

It's 2009, and the world is quite potentially at the greatest level of corruption it's ever known. Gangs, drug lords, pimps, prostitution and murder run rampant, and Western society has lulled its citizens into a state of complacency. Constant news stories, graphic depictions of crime and violence in movies and television, music that promotes anger and malice as alright; all of these things have desensitized the populace, bringing about a state of mind in which these things are alright. Not everyone agrees of course. That's how Eleven was started.

The name was chosen to be simple, obvious to a point, and obscure enough to be anything, and so in turn, a perfect way to mask the nature of the group. There are eleven members, not including their leader, the wizened old man named Geoffrey. He became a priest when he turned twenty, wanting to dedicate his life to God and Christian teachings. However, within ten years he'd learned that even within the church, corruption and indifference ran wild. He left the ministry when he became forty-five, and no one heard from him for many years; eventually, he was presumed dead. He's now sixty-three, but his age barely shows. His eyes are bright and intelligent, his body healthy and fit. the only sign of his age is perhaps the silver of his hair and the worn, beaten look to his skin. He reappeared suddenly six months ago, immediately seeking out one of his oldest friends, a Marine by the name of Richard Walker. However, as it turned out, Richard had died overseas two years ago; all he could find was his daughter, living alone in a run-down basement apartment.

She knew of him, as her father had told her many stories, and feeling a sense of obligation (Richard had done the old man many kind deeds in his lifetime, and he'd never had the opportunity to repay his debt of gratitude), Geoffrey took her in, first as a daughter of sorts, and then as an apprentice. What she was apprenticing for, she didn't find out until later.
It turned out Geoffrey had plans to form a sort of vigilante group; hired hands, paid to kill and rob and capture, whichever the job called for. However, he had no intentions of joining the throng of criminals, oh no. In fact, this group would make it known: they only hunted criminals.


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You are a member of a secret vigilante organization known only as "Eleven". You've been trained by some of the best in the world thanks to Geoffrey's connections, and as such are adept at hand-to-hand combat, thievery techniques and stealth, the use of firearms, explosives, melee and bladed weaponry, gathering information, disguise, and technological tools (think hacking and the like). As far as the world is concerned, you no longer exist; your identity and all information pertaining to you was deleted, erased with no chance of recovery. You know your real name, as do the other members of Eleven; however, everywhere else you go by one of many aliases. You work one of two ways: you're either hired by someone to do a job, and your payment comes from them, or Geoffrey himself will give you a target, and he'll pay you. You have access to a wide range of weaponry and other equipment; you don't want for anything in that department. To help make sure things stay secret and safe, you all live together in a large group home of sorts, passing it off as a foster home; it's an uninteresting building from the outside, situated in a crowded city. No one ever notices that it's even there. The basement is seperated into sections; one for meetings, one is a medical room for injuries (Geoffrey is well-trained in the medical arts), one is the supply room for all the weaponry and equipment. The first floor has a large pool and a gym for keeping in the best physical shape possible, as well as a living room, kitchen, bathroom and rec-room. The bedrooms are all on the second and third floors; the third floor also contains a large library.

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Rules

1- I'm expecting high quality here, folks. No one-liners, watch your grammer, third-person writing style. I'm not going to accept everyone who applies. So make sure your profile impresses me.

2- Fights are fine, and are meant to happen in this roleplay. No auto-hitting, no auto-killing. If you want to kill a player off, you need their permission and they need to let me know that they gave you permission. Break this rule even once and you're out.

3- Keep it realistic as possible. The Eleven members are trained to the teeth, obviously, but they're far from super heroes. They can die, they can get hurt, they can definately get their asses kicked. They're nothing close to impervious, or the perfect fighters, so don't act like they are.

4- We're trying to keep the sides fairly even. Obviously the most people I can accept for Eleven is ten; Geoffrey is going to be an NPC controlled by me, and I've taken one position already. As for criminals, and the law side of things, though (or any random other person), we need to keep sides fairly even. If it becomes to unbalanced, I'll make a side off-limits for new members for a while.

5- Violence and romance are accepted (obviously more of the first), but keep it to a level acceptable for the general public.

6- Include the word saints in your profile at the very beginning to prove you read the rules.

7- I only want active members; let me know if you're going away for a while. If you're gone for a week with no word, I'll assume you've left and you'll be out.

8- Actually, scratch that. Make the word god-sent if you're applying for Eleven, and put it at the very end. Make it mayhem if you're applying to be a criminal, and put it at the very beginning. For law enforcement, make it authority, and put it at the end. Anything else, make it waylaid, and put it at the end.

9- Check this often. I can change these as I see fit.

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Character Skeleton

Characters (other than random citizens) can be no younger than eighteen; it's extremely unreasonable to say that anyone below that age could handle these things effectively. If you are playing a young citizen, that means you have to ACT the part. No ass-kicking the criminals or cops, no hacking super computers, etc etc. Furthermore, no goddamn anime pictures for your appearance.

Name:

Age:

Gender:

Affiliation: (Eleven, Criminal, Cop, Other?)

Appearance:

Bio:

Specialty: (Are you a weapons specialist, expert hacker, downright awesome fighter?)

Anything Else: (Anything else you feel like adding about your character.)



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ACCEPTED PROFILES

Obviously, for Eleven, there's a limited number of slots available (namely, ten). So, I'll be posting here who's been accepted for that role. Once you see ten names here (that means characters, not just usernames. People can play more than one character. However, if you do want to do that, I'd request that you only make one character for Eleven, just to be fair. Now, if you're reeaally good....we can talk), it means no more applications.

1. Isabelle (Bella) Walker - Played by Kira Walker

2. Cheyenne Clarisse Laurent - Played by DeeviousDemon

3. Euphemia Cartwright - Played by Mindscrew Min-Min

4. William Proulx - Played by Will_911

5. Ralph Giordano II - Played by 7achary

6. Dmitri Sokol - Played by Taefaros



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The IC is up!! Everyone, take a look!! =D

WooHooo~


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Name: Isabelle (Bella) Walker

Age: Eighteen

Gender: Female

Affiliation: Eleven

Appearance: On the outside, Bella looks just like an average young woman. She stands at a slightly short 5' 3", and weighs in at 113 pounds even. Her body is lean and trim, ever-so-slightly on the skinny side (she doesn't eat as much as she probably should), and her skin is just very slightly tanned, and normally very pale. Her hair is straight, and cut in choppy layers, with bangs sweeping across her forward, slightly to the side, and the ends coming down to just about her shoulders. The colour is deep crimson. Her eyes are a grey-blue, and her face holds a look of confidence, a characteristic sarcastic smile being what most people remember of her look.
If one pays close enough attention, they can pick out the small things that might look strange on an eighteen-year-old girl: small white scars, barely noticable, dot her hands. Her nails are cut short, and obviously not manicured or anything of the like. She has a very small, angular scar just below her left eye on the cheekbone; the skin was split there from an exceptionally nasty punch a year ago. The confidence in her face and body language is slightly uncommon in average girls her age, and her eyes speak of things seen that most people only see on television. Her bottom lip is pierced with a small ring to one side, and both ears are pierced. In the right one, two piercings at the bottom, and three at the top. On the left ear, two at the top, and one on the bottom. She has a tattoo up the side of her left arm that reads, in exquisite black script, "In Nomeni Patri - Et Fili - Spiritus Sancti".

Bio: Bella was raised by her father from the age of three and a quarter, when her mother left to move to Florida without warning. She's never complained, or even really felt the need to. She was quite happy with just her and her dad, and he was like a hero to her. From the age of about eight until the age of sixteen, he personally taught her everything he could of his military training at her request. At that time, she joined the Canadian army reserve, where she stayed for a year and a month. However, while she was there, she quickly learned that it wasn't everything it was cracked up to be; she'd wanted to help people, but from the way things looked, she was just the government's lapdog. She left at that point; unfortunately, she was to learn that while she'd been away for training, her father had died overseas. She headed down to the states (citizenship was easy to get, since her father had been born an American citizen), and she claimed what was hers from his will. She then got herself a job in an assembly line, and got herself a small apartment. This was her home, until Geoffrey found her; the rest from there is history. Once she learned what he was planning on doing, she eagerly begged to be allowed to take part. With the military training she'd recieved from her father, along with the official training she'd gotten in Canada, her area of expertise was destined from the start: weapons and combat. Not long after she herself went to live with Geoffrey at the home, he began bringing others in as well; more people that he'd simply found and selected for whatever reason, she was sure.

Specialty: Bella is most skilled in the use of firearms, and in melee combat (hand-to-hand and blades and bludgeoning tools). However, although she's far from adept, she's also taken quite a liking to the stealth and thieving aspect of Eleven, and constant practice has made her no push-over in those departments, either. When it comes to computers and the like, though, and negotiations, she's one of the least skilled.

Anything Else: She smokes (Peter Jacksons, Players, Belmonts, Camels, or Du Mauriers), enjoys alcohol, and occassionally enjoys a nice joint. She likes spicy foods and sweet foods, and her favourite food is Chinese food of any kind. She absolutely loves music, and never leaves her iPod behind. She's a video game junkie, and when she isn't doing that, she likes spending her time practicing street-running.

Alright - I'll give this a try, am looking for a fairly active RP and this sounds very interesting. I'll edit my character sheet into this post when I am done.

Awesome =P Looking forward to it.

Name: SILVER BULLET ( jacob strum )

Age: 10,000 years old

Gender: male

Affiliation: superhero

Appearance: silver armor, blue eyes, medium height and muscular, blonde hair, tan, just plain freakin sweet.

Bio: He is very strong minded and has very firm opinions. He is always willing to take actions when he is needed and never second guesses himself. He tends to be very solitary, but really cares about the people around him. He feels like a gaurdian of the weak.

Specialty: hitman, assasin, superhero, weapons expert, nin-jit-su expert judo master. 10th dec ranked black belt in most martial arts.
Anything Else: kendo master

...I really hope that was meant to be a joke.

Lol, here I am wrecking my brain over my character sheet xP - if only I was one of those who go by the mentality "Ignorance is Bliss".

EDIT: I have finished editing my character - hope she's ok, if not I'll change stuff!

Well, Deevious, yours is fantastic You're accepted of course.

Name: Austin Matthews

Age: NIneteen

Gender: Male

Affiliation: Eleven

Appearance: Austin is a boy, or man according to him, of normal height and weight. He has a broad oval shaped face and every single one of his facial feautures are large. His eyes are wide and shine a natural dark forest green. His nose and lips are large but his ears surpass all in size, and he has frequently been called Dumbo due to there size. He has curly black hair that falls a little past his chin that hides his large ears when it is not pulled into a stubby pony tail. His years with braces have paid off and he can most likely be seen flashing someone a large grin with his pearly whites. He has a small earing in his left ear and is usually seen wearing black baggy jeans. He does not usually wear a shirt nor shoes, and prefers to stay in his night clotes (his boxers) all day if permitted. If he is forced to put on more clothing than he will generally wear a white wifebeater and some black flip flops.

Bio: Austin was born to a single parent mother and the identity of his father was unclear due to the 'proffesion' of his mother. He lived with his little sister and mother in a small apartment in New York. His mother brought home her clients regularly and some would stay and play the part of 'Daddy' for a few weeks before leaving again. At the age of twelve one of his mothers clients who had decided to stay asked his mother to marry him and Austin finally got the father he had always wanted. His new father brought his mother out of her prostitution and got her a job at the Walmart where he worked. The man was an ex marine and believed totally in disciplin, the exact opposite of Austin. He sent Austin to military school not long after marrying his mother, Austin was soon exspelled and sent home but his family would not take him in. He lived on the streets where he learned his fighting skills, but he didn't like all the death and despair of the streets and was determined to be better than all his fellow bums. He joined fighting group, that would perform shows of there skills for cash. He fell for the owner of the establishments daughter and was kicked out of the group by her father who thought him not god enough for his little girl. But he wasn't going to go down without a fight, literally, thanks to his rash actions the man told the cops and Austin was arrested for assault and battery. His bail was sat at 5 thousand dollars and Geoffery paid it under the agreement that Austin join Eleven.

Specialty: Austins specialties revolve around hand to hand combat and bladed weaponry. Though he fights great with his hands and blades his ability in the use of firearms is very little. He does not do well with hacking, the complex patterns baffle him and he lacks the patience to learn them. He is interested in learning the skill of thievery and stealth however his loud rambunctious personality is prohibiting him from succeding in this skill at the current moment.

Anything Else: He loves to pick on people and get under there skin. He likes music, but not todays and he is constantly ranting about the trash on todays radio and is a huge fan of 80s hairbands. He loves to skateboard and spends most his free time skateboarding, also he loves chocolate and hates spicey food.

God Sent

I got your PM, and I read through this a few times, I was going to use Ike, then I decided Nat would be better, then I wanted to use a human version of Vincent (whose name I would probably change...)

Can I have three characters?

Ah, well, I'll stick up Ike first, then add the others if it's OK.

Mayhem, because you could use some.

Name: Ike Ralin (pronounced like "railing" with no 'g,' not like "Palin" with an 'r.' It's a subtle difference.)

Age: 22

Gender: Male

Affiliation: Criminal (if you can call what he does "crime.")

Appearance: First and foremost, Ike is a geek. He exudes a general air of geekiness. He stands at about six feet, and his body is decidedly lanky. His skin is pale from lack of sunlight, and his hair is dark brown and perpetually messy. If brushed, it would be wavy, but it never is, so "bird's nest" is a better way of describing it. He keeps it in a ponytail so it stays at least marginally tamed.
Ike's face would be attractive if it was on anyone but him (not unlike Steve Jobs). He has dark blueish green eyes, which on a girl would be described as "deep aquamarine," but on a boy described as "like seaweed." He is of partially German ancestry, and has the heavily lidded eyes and thick bushy eyebrows to prove it. He also has a large nose and large ears, on which sit silver half-rimmed glasses with noticeably thick lenses. He has a long face, a somewhat strong chin (not with a cleft and all that), and the kind of mouth women pay a lot of money for, but that looks rather stupid on a man.
Ike's wardrobe consists of clothing his mother bought him, which still fits after five or six years. Jeans in the winter, khakis in the summer, t-shirts all the time, and a zippered hoodie or jacket sometimes (maybe a heavy coat if the temperature is measured in "seconds to frostbite").

Bio: Ike grew up in the suburbs of Washington DC, where he attended a magnet high school for kids who were good at math and science. His father was a brilliant computer geek, and he raised Ike to be one too. Ike's mother was a teacher, and therefore she knew the "right" way to raise a child. Ha ha. The technique she used with elementary schoolers worked on Ike until he was about four years old; he was considerably more intelligent than the kids his mother was trained to work with, so disciplining him was difficult. Despite his parent's best efforts to prevent Ike from becoming an arrogant fop, Ike grew a large ego. Although, they did manage to imbue him with a sense of morals.
Ike's first experience with hacking was in fifth grade, when his father taught him how to hack on the network of five computers he had set up in the basement of their house. This provided Ike with hours of amusement. He first actually broke the law in eighth grade, when he hacked into a popular online pet site he was addicted to and gave him account an exorbitant amount of their fake currency. He also used his skill, along with that of his peers in high school, to win a Taylor Swift concert for his school. (Not that any of them liked Taylor Swift's music, they just wanted to win.) [[Based on a true story, btw.]]
Ike was accepted into the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where he is currently a senior, with a major in computer science, and minors in economics and mathematics. (If we're not near Boston, I can come up with a good reason why he's here. Or, seeing as how the only crimes he commits are from his own house (or places nearby), you could come to him.)

Specialty: He can hack into pretty much anything (although I can't, so bear with me if I'm not entirely believable in my writing), he's a fast learner, and he does math for fun.

Anything Else: The only laws he breaks are those that he feels have no real effect on the world. If he hacks into Gaia and gives himself a million gold, nobody gets hurt, and really, nobody loses money. Because he could also earn a million gold, without paying Gaia a cent. Illegal things that he does have a problem with, however, he tends to really have a problem with.

Name:
William Proulx

Age:
19

Gender:
Male

Affiliation:
Eleven

Appearance:
Standing at about 5'10 and weighing roughly 145lbs, William Is not a very imposing individual. Void of any markings, scars or discernible features, it looks as if he was born to blend in. He has short, brown hair which outlines a relatively sharply defined face. Most often, he is seen in dark clothing that covers the majority of his body. Excluding his face, the extent of his exposed skin takes the form of one finger protruding from a recently torn glove. While lean, his clothing tends to mask the fact that he is a fit individual. He is unique in that he appears memorable and real, but is oft forgotten by those he meets.

Bio:
William never had much as as a child. One could say the extent of his child-hood happiness stemmed from the simple fact that he had both a mother AND a father, unlike most of the children he grew up with. This was the only advantage he got as a child. At the age of five he was forced into the art of thievery by his father. Every aspect of his existence was directly linked to being an excellent thief. He was even named "William," simply because it was one of the single most common male names ever to have existed. "If you get caught, just cry. They will probably let you go, son," his father would always tell him. Despite his career choice, his father was a great man. For them, this was life. His father died quite untimely of heart disease, and the boy was left to fend for, not only himself, but his mother as well. As the child grew, so too did his skills. He found himself getting bolder and bolder in his thievery. At age 17 he found himself sitting on a small fortune. Most of which he lavished upon his mother, whom unfortunately died of a heart attack while being robbed. Bloody amateurs. It was while pick-pocketing one "Bella Walker" that he was first caught. Not by Bella, but by Geoffry. Geoffrey agreed not to report him to the authorities if he agreed to take on a thievery job. He finished it in one eighth of the time expected. He was invited to join the "Eleven," and reluctantly agreed.

Specialty:
William is, unfortunately very weak in a lot of aspects. What he lacks in face to face combat, firearms skills and hacking, he more than makes up for in stealth and disguise. He is extremely skilled in taking down an opponent silently and quickly, knowing a slew of different instant kill points. After joining the Eleven, he has become extremely skilled in interrogation and is often called upon to extract information from stubborn people, whether captured, or even in their own homes. He seems to have become the resident interrogation artist.

Anything Else:
William genuinely enjoys stealing and interrogation. He is a master of all things stealth. HOWEVER, if spotted, he is often left at such a disadvantage, that priority number one becomes a hasty retreat. He used to smoke, but recently quit, as he feels exposed by the red glow and the smell, whether he is on mission or not. His father often told him, "Placing your hand in the pocket of another is not the only way to steal from them son," which William took to heart. He is articulate and well spoken. He often uses charm and persuasion to his advantage.

God-sent

Alright Tinny, I'll humor you. Just because you need teh helpz. You guys need some villains, too ...






Name; Robert James Archer

Age; 45

Gender; Male

Affiliation; Career criminal

Appearance;


Standing at a full height of 5'12, Archer is a man nearing the last leg of his life, brought on by his choice of lifestyle. He has lived like the stereotypical American Military-man, drinking, fighting, and keeping himself in as "fit" a shape as possible. The wear and tear has taken it's toll on his body, and the tanned rough hide of the man shows his tendency to put civility to the side and "shoot first, ask questions later." Archer is a somber man, and despite his age is still extremely well kept, weighing within the 195-205 pound range, Archer still remains as physically active as possible, weight lifting, attempting a healthy diet, and other things give him his defined appearance.
While he is normally found in a tailored suit, the man preferring to keep himself in respectable attire whenever possible, he can often be seen in a simple t-shirt and cargo pants. The man's choice of clothing reflecting a time where there was a distinct possibility he wouldn't waking up the next morning.

Attire, clothing, and choice of living aside, Archer is a approaching his old age, a thick mat of gray hair spreading slowly across the top of his skull. Ending in a sort of "duck tail" at the back of his head, which leads to the lightly tanned skin, which appears more like rough sand than actual human flesh. Deep graying hairs run across his chin, along his neck, and up his cheeks. While he makes his best to keep his facial hair in check, he rarely has the time to shave, and so keeps it cleaned up using an electric shaver. His torso is equally tanned by years of service in the sun as his face is, his aging body still in "combat condition" as some associates call it, his muscular body is dotted with several scars and markings, a number of the scars have been involved in the stories of warfare in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Middle East. One of the more notable markings is a tribal tattoo that can only be seen when he is shirtless, the ancient marking given to him by an old man in the Middle East.


Bio; Born to a rather poor steel worker in the sixties, Archer was raised by his mother in his early life. His father had left the cold and intolerable labor of the steel mills for the deserts and jungles of Africa, working as a mercenary for anyone who was willing to pay him and the influx of American "Soldiers of Fortune" enough money. At the age of fifteen, Archer's world fell apart when he learned of the death of his father, who was killed during a revolution in some godforsaken African country killing for money. Archer's mother was sent into complete withdraw by the death of her husband, and Archer found himself without a father, or mother, or any form of parenting figure. Archer found himself leaving home at the age of nineteen, embroiling himself in the life of a bustling city on the west coast. He saw everything, drugs running, gun smuggling, and soon he was involved with it all. Years passed, and Archer found himself fighting on the sand covered battlefields of the late 70's era Middle-East, conflict between arising nations and states providing a perfect environment for the growing amount of hired guns left over from the Vietnam War and it's follies and failures.


With the end of the wars, Archer saw an end in work, as the world entered an era of steady peace. Finding himself out of work, with nothing better to do, a career as a criminal welcomed Archer with open arms. Starting with petty drug deals, the tenacious Archer found himself aging and lagging behind the younger or more prepared vagabonds and runners. By now, Archer had long stayed to the side lines and assumed more of a "mentoring" role to many aspiring gangs or groups, having aided the mob with weaponry and training to be used in a chain of bank robberies that ran through the mid-west United States.


Specialty; Archer is an old man, but that doesn't mean he can make your day a living hell. Brawling, Mixed Martial Arts, and comprehensive firearms training makes Archer a metaphorical "jack of all trades". While he prefers to keep himself in more of a commanding or mentoring role, Archer isn't afraid to turn brute or use his intimidating prowess on anyone who is unfortunate enough to deserve it. While he is somewhat frail, the man has always been known for having a fierce right hook and a mean right kick.





Name; Benjamin Havok

Age; 29

Gender; Male

Affiliation; Career criminal


Appearance;

Havok, in essence, is a pretty damn tall kid. Six feet three, easily breaking 200 pounds, the man walks with an air of superiority about himself, and is willing to back it all up. The kid has a loud mouth, carriers a big stick, and is more likely to punch you than give you the time of day. Havok usually stands tall and erect, attempting to impose himself on others in any way possible. Whether he's talking to you, or holding you at gunpoint, he always keeps himself collected, or at least tries to. Havok keeps himself fit and toned, as much as he possibly can, and this is reflected in his personality. His ego hardly reflecting that of a career criminals. He knows what he's doing is wrong, but damn does it get him the money he wants.
Havok cares for his appearance as best he can, it doesn't preoccupy his time in the morning, but his recent association with the man known as Robert Archer has built the sonuvabitch into quite the sopshisticated man. Havok has a wide smile, his grin breaking the tanned skin that spreads wide across his face, dotted slightly by a slight stubble across his jaw and cheeks.

While Havok is rarely caught dead in a tailored suit or anything fancy, unlike his counterpart, he feels far more at home in a thermal and cargo's, his choice of attire reflecting his tendency to hit the ground rolling and go from there. Havok's messy brown hair falls loosely against his head, hardly reaching past his hears, it retains a definite "who gives a shit" look. While Havok feels like this about a lot of things, there are some that just keep the young man enthralled. Girls, guns, and green are one of those. Havok prides himself in all three of those areas, though his usual accomplishments in the field of girls has been hampered by Archer, the old hag having him turn the lights out at a reasonable hour, rather than stay out partying to all ends of the night.


Bio; Havok had a much more fair, far more docile childhood than his friend and partner Robert. Growing up in a small town on the Texan coast, he grew up in the shadow of the Military. His father being an active Marine, who became an accomplished war veteran in the Vietnam war, and his mother being a proud Air Force pilot, Havok had respect drilled into him at an early age. While growing up, though, Havok was slowly turned away from the Military, upset by seeing so many friends with lost parents and brothers and sisters. When the time came, Havok denied the Military, and joined something far more dangerous. The Private Military Company "Feldspar" gave Havok his first real taste of death and combat, his rag-tag group of eight contractors being forced to fight their way out of a Saudi Arabian town in the early days of the 1991 Desert Storm offensive. While Havok was distanced from the front lines of rolling thunder during the First Gulf War, he was by no means saved from being shot at. The Mercenary quickly gained fame for his daring and prowess, becoming accomplished and returning to the United States to find his home changed, his friends corrupt, and his nation unforgiving.


Then, he met Archer. The man quickly struck Havok as a person that could get him to the top, and within several months Havok and Archer both shared a penthouse in Atlantic City. With Havok and Archer's "business" taking off, comprised mainly of drug running, gun smuggling, and people trafficking, the duo quickly set about sealing their domination in the underworld. With an arsenal of Military grades weapon backing them, it was only a matter of time before Havok and Archer hit the big bucks. That time, of course, was now.


Specialty; Havok is a smart man. Tactile, cunning, he just refuses to show it to people whom he could much more easily strike or shoot! Havok knows how to use a gun, swing a club, or throw a punch. He's an accomplished brawler, growing up in rural Texas has instilled a sense of "throw a punch before you say sorry" mentality. Havok is definitely the gun-slinger of the duo, having great confidence in Archer's judgement and decisions. He's grown rather fond of the man, almost treating him as a father-figure of sorts.

Name: Daniesha Clark / a.k.a. "Dynasty"

Age: 20

Gender: female

Affiliation: (Eleven, Criminal, Cop, Other?) Other/Independent

Appearance:

-She stands a lean and slender height of 5'8, with smooth caramel toned skin. She has tattoos that dance down her arms and onto her right shoulder blade. An androgynous figure indeed, she has long smooth black hair, that falls almost to the small of her back, if not lower. Her eyes are dark, appearing almost a black in the night. Their true color is a deep earthy brown, flecked with honey times. She has somewhat high cheek bones and a smooth face, with full lips and a round nose.

Bio: Daniesha was bred between two people on the streets, and thus her fate was decided before she even left the womb. Her mother was African-American and her father was Filipino. Her father worked at a gas station like her mother, and her older brother was her role model; and he was a thug. She grew up admiring him, for his strength and prowess. Even though she never really latched onto the concept that what her brother was doing was wrong, she always knew that he took care of the family when they couldn't take care of themselves. She also knew that all of his friends respected him, and they all called him ''Dynasty''.
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By the age of ten, her mother had run off and her father had become a depressive drunk. When he quit working they were evicted from house, and her father was taken to jail for possession. Her brother was all she had. And she moved in with him and his two friends, all apart of a gang. But things changed too quickly when a drive-by shooting killed two of them, one including her brother, and she was left in the new care of a man called ''Stackz''. Stackz was a kind man, but he didn't know how to treat a young girl. And when he left the door open, she ran away without hesitation.
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At age 14, she had become a prostitute. And though the street life was hard, she learned to survive. She befriended men like body guards and bouncers, and drug dealers and thieves, learning a trick or trade from each of them. But by 17, she had gotten pregnant. She stopped prostitution and then moved in with a local bouncer named Mario, who took care of her and acted like a brother she had long lost.
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Now she is twenty, and has made quite a few changes. She lives with Mario, and her son Leo Clark is now 3 years old. He is her world, and she'll do whatever it takes to protect him. But for now, she seeks revenge on the thugs who killed her brother. And in the meantime, she relies on pick-pocketing and her small part-time waitress job to pay for her son's well-being.

Specialty: She excels at short close-range combat (meaning that she can put up one hell of a fight as long as it doesn't last long), and she's an excellent pick-pocket.

Anything Else:
-Dynasty has been taught by a multitude of her friends in both high and low places how to fight. And though she is an exceptional fighter, her downfall is her lack of endurance. Dynasty can open a can of whoop-ass, but after the five minute mark, she begins to tire all too quickly, and can lag in attacking.
-Her son Leo, will be pictured below:







Waylaid.

Bye!!! Good Luck!!!

Name: Ralph Giordano II

Age:19

Gender: Male

Affiliation: (Eleven, Criminal, Cop, Other?) Eleven

Appearance: Ralphie stands at 5'9 and is of average build. He's not fat, but he doesn't work out either. He has bright hazel eyes and a constant smile. The smile is something he can't really help, it's his normal expression. His hair is shaggy and light brown.

Bio: Ralph has family in the Mafia. He was born in New York, and has lived there most of his life. Years spent in the country side, north of the cities, has given Ralphie an honest disposition and a friendly nature. Ralph Giordano Sr. never let his son get involved with the Family, preferring to let his only son become something other than a gangster. College was the route Junior took, ignorant of his father's activity, and seemed a good one until he started to get mixed signals from everyone around him. They were all polite, but no one really wanted to be his friend. His professors treated him unassumingly, even when he asked for help. That's when Ralph started to ask questions. He started making his way into the city at night and going to clubs. It was on one of these outings that Junior witnessed his father and a man he knew as Uncle Larry brutally beat a club owner in a parking lot before taking the night's earnings. Ralphie was stunned. He disappeared not too long after, leaving most of what he owned behind. A year later a monk in Sicily is recruited by Geoffrey. The monk's name is Ralph and he is now a member of Eleven.

Specialty: Face. Junior is the one that goes undercover, the one that becomes a mark's best friend. Everyone seems to like him, even the bad guys.

Anything Else: Ralph's conscience sometimes interferes with his work, he doesn't like to hurt people and finds it hard to do something immoral, even to convince his target that he''s "one of them."

God Sent

We've already got six "Eleven" applications I see. (I didnt count the guy who called himself "Superhero") I can safely say I like all the bios I've read so far. Nice guys. (This is partially just to get my post count up so I can start rating people's posts. Haha.)

Really, rating people's posts isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's not that great a system anyway... I fluctuated from four to two stars for a while without changing my writing style.

Yes, same here, I don't believe the whole rating thing is such a good idea because people are abusing it. What I mean is, for example to keep their word average up, they actually post Spam like content in their OOC posts just to keep their average number above whatever count they want it to be. That to me is rather ridiculous - if people are really that sad and post like that, why not use the chat system or something? I just recently joined this forum and I only post when I have something to say - or in a RP/OOC. I don't see the need to spam your post to keep it up.
The rate the RP player system is flawed as well, because some people are very biased, although the makers of this website say it evens out etc. there is still like non-sense one line posts with 5 stars, where it really get's me into thinking >_>.

Wow okay I went into a rant like post, sorry T__T And I can not wait to get this RP going, I like the character I came up with a lot. Would be a shame if it would go to waste, plus yes - I very much agree that the Villains particularly are pretty well done! Can't wait to bump head! XD

EDIT: I wont be here tomorrow until very, very late - I just hope I don't miss much, or actually I hope I miss a lot so I got something to do Tuesday. Which would be catching up with those posts!

Just posted to say that I wholly agree with how flawed the ratings system is--that and I'd like to reserve a spot with the Elevens. I've already got a profile in progress; I just write like a speeding snail and wouldn't want to miss out on the epic.

Speaking of the ratings, it really IS needless to become agitated by them. A reputation means nothing if someone--especially someone whose writing skills aren't adept--rates a post with a low score out of jealousy or some other biased reason.

Alright. Extremely sorry for the delay, everyone; I haven't had internet access in a few days, and the website decided not to e-mail me and let me know that I had responses. List of accepted profiles (if I didn't accept you, I have my reasons; something was wrong with your format, or simply the flow of your words. Several of the people here have already proven their abilities to me, so if you don't agree with my choice...suck it ;P).

Azrican
DC
Will
Eternity (Nice going on the independant, by the way. I love it. =D)
Beanie
7achary

Tae, I'll reserve a spot. However, if the profile turns out to be unsatisfactory, you'll lose it.

IC is up and running!! Look in the first post for the link!! =D

Here goes, Kira. Hope I don't royally screw things up, derp.

Name: Dmitri Sokol

Age: 25

Gender: Male

Affiliation: Eleven

Appearance: An ungainly trickster, no bystander in a crowd would ever presume Dmitri to be a threat. He has the graceful swagger of an inexperienced whore that tries far too hard for her own good. His brown, hooded eyes hint at the playful nature he thrives on, despite their somewhat bored and sheepish appearance. Standing at 6'3'', his build is lanky, his skin pale and his smile crooked. Due to nervous habits and shady associates, his nose is rather distinctive; it is notable for having been broken twice during his childhood, with both incidents occurring mere months apart. So, like a Slavic falcon seeking out the best rave in town, he struts about with his sienna hair combed, parted, and trimmed weekly. It ends at the nape of his neck, and his bangs are often brushed to the side. He usually dresses in formal wear, as if his upcoming "job" interviews--protip: they're non-existent--give him an excuse to wear silk vests around the house. Otherwise, he is known to wear a dress shirt with jeans. Stubble dots his chin and face, which he typically refuses to shave.

Bio: It was during the harshest winter the tiny, eccentric shtetl had ever faced when Dmitri's grandmother had predicted the day of his birth fifty years prior to the event. The modern Sokols resided in Belgrade, Serbia, where they lived as a clustered troupe rather than a family. Aunts, uncles, and cousins twice removed were always close by, ever prepared to take the heat from some illicit deal gone wrong. Dmitri loved how he could spout facts before getting pummeled by the neighborhood bullies, like how he shouldn't be messed with due to his father's status as a heavyweight boxing champ, or what actually caused the Halifax Explosion. It had never been an efficient way to deter the blows, yes, but it was at least worth a shot. He couldn't help himself--as his mother, a handy nurse, stitched him up, his older cousin Stanislav would spend hours rambling about the mundane. Stan, so he liked to think, was an explosives engineer, based on his knowledge on what propelled a bullet forward, or just how little it took to send a building crumbling from its base. Noticing how aimless his son tended to be after school, Dmitri's father opted to train him in the ring. But the boy failed, too lighthearted to take anything seriously. Besides, it was so much more entertaining trying to create New Year's fireworks on his own.

Moving to the glorious United States at age thirteen, he has lived sporadically ever since. Between skipping school, stressing over his father's retirement, and trying to pick up chicks, he participated in several years of petty crimes. A gang needed a fellow like him, someone as useful and charming as the guy with the funny accent. Whether it was blowing a safe wide open or harassing some kid just for the hell of it, life was dandy until the rules were screwed around with. Dmitri sensed tension within the small circle long before that fateful night, when revenge was to be exacted with his help on the frontline. His fellow comrades still clung to a conflict that he could not understand, but had been dragged into regardless. At twenty-one years now, he felt no need to continue this lifestyle, but his only choice was to resume his duty, lest he wanted a gun pointed at his head. Their target: the rundown apartments they walked by on their way home. He watched it fall by his own doing, feeling drained, as if he'd finally realized the severity of his crimes.

Three years passed. Dispersed, wandering, he made one last attempt to immerse himself into the religious scene, praying on his knees for the first time since the night of the grudge. Geoffrey tapped his shoulder and offered what he could only think of as redemption. As strange as it all sounded, it had to be better than living in his mother's basement.

Specialty: Explosives are his calling, from the large, to the miniscule, to the seemingly absurd. Despite the events of the past, he still has a childlike enthusiasm towards what he does best. In a fistfight, he is quick on his feet, adapting to the methods that his father had taught him so long ago. However, his stance tends to be sloppy, and he may be overpowered with ease. He is adept with handguns, especially the revolver, which he has an odd admiration for. Although he likes the idea of hacking, he possesses limited knowledge of the art, and the things he does in his spare time can only be considered a hobby.

Anything Else: Dmitri is fond of the culinary arts, obsessing over how "magical" the powers of the Food Network are. Ironically enough, he finds joy in the simplest of meals, such as the breakfast he enjoyed as a child. He often cracks jokes while serving his peers, finding himself to be quite the comedian after intently studying the works of George Carlin. One dream of his is to run some form of restaurant or night spot, though his lack of ambition is a hinderance. He often showcases this desire at early hours in the morning, since he has rather fidgety sleeping patterns, preferring to go nocturnal in most cases. Years of experience have wrought partial deafness upon his left ear, but he is careless about this matter. One doesn't have to wait for long to hear the sounds of house, electronica and drum 'n' bass emitting from his room at ridiculously high volumes.

God-sent.

I hated chemistry class.