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Name: Augustus Poole

Nickname: He's impartial to the use of his full name, and he'll probably slap you on the back of the head if you call him Augustus; it's too stuffy, it's too formal. The likelihood of him ignoring you while you catcall his name from the back of the group is inherently high, unless you switch over to August. There's nothing really wrong with it, but his preferences are made clear upon introductions. If you're going to make up any silly nicknames for him, then they better be pretty damn clever. Poole is also acceptable.

Age: 35

Gender: Male

Height: 6 feet 1 inch

Weight: 215lbs

Position: Monster Expert

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Scrummy roguish lookin' fella with a near-constant five o'clock shadow squibling his prominent, punchable jawline. There's a hardness in his eyes that's hard to miss, from seeing too much, too quickly, and without having the proper time to grieve. He isn't a man of contrasts. There's nothing stark or forbidding or readily noticed. If it wasn't for the odd assortment of scars skittering across the left side of his jaw, neck, shoulder, upper and lower arm, then you could probably say he was that odd fellow sitting on his porch, minding his own business while fiddling with his shotgun. Physically, despite his age slyly creeping up on him, August is at the peak of his strength. He's in his golden years, soaring in the clouds with a creaky back he's prematurely gotten from landing on it so many times. Towering at a solid six feet and a handful of inches, August weighs in around two-fifteen. He's not some hulking oaf, grunting like a gorilla; all brawn and no brains, mind you. He's made of leaner slates, built for endurance and lengthy treks in the mountains – two parts goat, one part vest-wearing animal of the feline variety. Think he bothers keeping himself mildly presentable? Nope. He'd rather aggravate you with his stubble by rubbing his cheeks all over your prim baby-clean face.

The man's harsh dimples create little crooks beside his nose whenever he smiles, turning up a little at the edges – and if you glance quick enough, they look a little like puckered scars; little knife-point slivers. He's got a windswept scruff of shaggy brown hair with an unfortunate, prominent fringe that stubbornly denies any, and all, efforts at taming its wild ways. August manages to keep it trimmed short, shearing off inches whenever it becomes too unmanageable. For a man who's never cut hair before, he's pretty damn good. Tall, dark, handsome; those adjectives might have been used to describe August in the good old days, but in a harsh world where men and women claw to the top of mountain for material objects, he's become a shady phantom of his youth. Suffering harsh-awakenings and bloody circumstances has a tendency to put aesthetic appearances to the bottom of the totem pole. Though he might have been intimidating in his younger, more nimble days, August still has an impressive collection of scars speckling his lanky body like spiralling constellations and white-splintered trophies. It leads you to wonder what kind of trouble he could be to deal with, or how far he was willing to take things.

Slather on a thick helping of beetling cheekbones, pronounced angles and heavy eyebrows, as well. If there's one thing that's readily noticed, it's Augusts' haunted green eyes. Soup-green, slimy, mossy peepers. They're settled into sunken eye sockets, seemingly accursed with sleepless circles – either that, or he's been punched in the face one too many times, and bears the bruises every day. What does this unusual connoisseur wear on his misadventures? Peculiar clothes, that's for sure. If he's not tidied up in his comfortable, breathable combat suit, then he's more likely to wear his three-piece suit; a black button up with sleeves rolled to his elbows, a dark green vest, pinstriped pants and a red handkerchief flapping around his neck. There's several variations to his outfit, but August likes to keep it simple.

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General Personality: Augustus Poole is, admittedly, no longer a young pup thirsting after adventure, silly misdeeds and untold treasures. He can no longer afford to describe himself as outrageously daring, subjectively outgoing or the life of the party. He's still recklessly stubborn. There's no budging him once he's made his mind on something. He'll throw out his anchor, and wait for you to sweep past him like the tide. It's his unconquerable elephant in the room. His obvious inability to deviate from his initial plans gets him into hot water. Somewhat passionate, automatically protective and tough as nails. He's a big sister, big brother, mamma-bear type if he likes you enough to keep you alive and well. If you've known him long enough, and if you are able to see through the thick curtains he's managed to pull up around his intentions, then you'll know that August is a bit of a sly bastard. He keeps meticulous tabs on every angle, on every beneficial opportunity, working them like a crooked dealer with several pockets jimmied into his sleeves. Make light out of an awful situation? Most likely. He's not one to dwell on the inevitable – if someone needs to be taken care of, it isn't likely that August will hesitate being the one to pull the trigger.

It isn't very hard to befriend August, his nature being promiscuously friendly with a teetering dollop of cheerfulness. There's a marked understanding that no one gets very far without companions, allies, or acquaintances. Friends are always worth the trouble. His shoulder is open for salty tears, but he'd tell you to not to hold your breath if you were expecting him to transform into a blubbering ninny whenever his heart started to hurt a little. He never gets embarrassed or ashamed. Those tendencies have long gone, fetched up in his crude humour. He's far beyond on blushing like a schoolgirl, nowadays. Nothing really surprises him, either. It's equally difficult to piss August off, although it can happen – and if anyone's in the vicinity, they'd best expect a punch in the face, or hefty handfuls of some other sort of unpleasant consequences. He gives off the aura as one that would intermingle with, “wrong crowd.” There's no doubt that he's done horrible things in the olden days, and he won't sugarcoat what he's done. One moment, August can be pretty self-deprecating about his crimes, of the things he's done and the people he's managed to hurt, and other times, he's cavalier and pragmatic about it. No one can wipe their slates clean just by wishing for it, so why wish it in the first place?

Even when giving the image of a strong and outgoing personality, August has suffered from many losses. Things he has done, the sort of person he used to be. Things that he hasn’t done in his life. Things he'd refused to do. Things he's run away from, like a coward with his tail between his legs. They all weigh on him, sometimes heavier than his duty to collect Dust, and it has made him a little bitter and occasionally grim. He has experienced a lot, lost a lot and done some stupid things. Because of his many experiences, and run-ins with all sorts of people – both positive and negative – August isn't socially oblivious. He's no bumbling fool when it comes to the interactive tango. Weaselling out benefits from people is easy. It's keeping his friends close, and trusting them with his own problems that's incredibly difficult. Those particular things, however simple, remain just beyond his waggling fingers. He isn't sure if its what he wants, anyway. He doesn't actively seek conflict, cuddles, or comfort. Resilience runs thick in his veins. Criticism slips from his skin like rain, sloshing off his natural raincoat. While August never judges a book by its cover, he still has a general distrust of others. Hidden motives, hidden agendas, and shady intentions keep him on edge. He knows how the human mind works. And dust-collecting hasn't been the easiest road to travel down.

He would be one of those very determined, hardy, and - somewhat - brave types. There's a desperation in the way he tries to make up for all of his shortcomings. He doesn't whine or feel sorry for himself and doesn't ask help too often from others - he wants to show the world that he's capable of managing himself, of swindling with the hardest of them. Grown men, after all, are supposed to shoulder their responsibilities with as much control as they can. Honesty has always been one of the biggest values he's ever held, as well as accepting his own responsibilities and copping up when he's let someone, or many someone's, down. Keeping secrets has never served him well. If he feels a certain way, he'll let you know. If you're being an idiot, he'll let you know. If he's done something wrong, August will gladly apologize, take the blame, and try to soften the blow. Strangely dutiful, bound by loyalty and effortlessly realistic. He sticks to his duties and sees them done, and has often sacrificed much to go about them.

Quirks: August eats ridiculously fast, which always tends to give him stomach aches. There's nothing he can do to stop himself from scarfing down whatever someone puts in front of him. He swears he doesn't do it to be polite, but there's something about always being prepared to get up and move – and he's not gonna move on an empty stomach unless he absolutely has to. He checks his arms for bugs pretty damn often, for fear that any random tickle is probably a hornet or a bee, or any other threatening insect crawling across his hands, arms, wrists. It's usually nothing. Stray strands flailing off someone's shirt drives him crazy. He needs to sever them. Cut them off. Eradicate them. He paces a lot. He always puts his right shoe on, his right glove on. Everything must begin with the right side, followed by the left.

Fears: Opening up to someone, letting them in and admitting to the terrible crimes he's committed and getting a negative reaction. He's not exactly sure why it would bother him, but it's one of the main reasons why he keeps himself behind closed doors. He fears that he'll make the same mistakes he's made in the past, that he's bound to repeat everything all over again and lose the same kinds of things he's already managed to drive way. He fears a meaningless death having accomplished nothing. Having not been able to rectify anything or atone for any of his sins. Monsters with several sets of eyes also give him the heeby-jeebies.

Likes:

• Monsters
• Sunny days, warmth, heavy blankets
• Reading poetic books
• Being relied on or asked for advice
• Intricate vehicles or inventions
• Freshly baked cookies

Dislikes:

• Public displays of unhappiness; namely, crying
• The feeling of loss
• Failure or letting someone down
• Extreme temperature drops
• Incompetence, selfishness, unnecessary rudeness
• Altercations / fights with women

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Physical Abilities: August has always walked a fine line between endurance, speed and strength. If he was too slow, then he'd risk the chance of decapitation, having his limbs chewed off, or any other colourful fatalities that he'd rather avoid when facing a variety of extremely dangerous monsters. He's always had to be quick on his feet, while thinking calmly, and clearly. He's had to keep breathing throughout long-distance treks, arduous expeditions, while still being able to fight as if he'd been resting the entire time – pushing himself to his limits, and then persevering still. It's difficult without his exoskeleton suit, but he's managed thus far. For an old fart who's gaining years like grey hairs, August holds his own with a stubborn tenacity that he refuses to let go of. But, when August has his suit on, it's almost as if he's transported back in time, back to his prime, back to his real golden years where his knees don't creak anymore, and his knuckles don't ache because they've been broken far too many times. From the outside, the Monster Expert might look unassuming – but, his talents remain readily apparent when he's thrown into action. There's a reason why he was the one picked out of all the other brawny, much younger bucks. Close-quarters combat? No problem. He's tousled with the best of them. His fighting style tends to be brutal and dirty, never holding back if it means finishing a fight sooner and living to see another day.

Magical Abilities: It's not to say that he doesn't have an appreciation for magic, because he really does, but he's not as attuned to the arts, as they'd say. He has a few abilities that aid in monster hunting and understanding bits and pieces of their guttural, roaring language, but anything beyond that and he's as useless as a wet sock. He carries a small leather satchel chock-full of dust. The speech-inspired abilities rely on heavy amounts of the stuff, and even then, there's no guarantee that they'll listen to him. If they're hungry, they're hungry. They won't bother with one measly sack-of-bones that's able to somehow communicate with them. With smaller amounts of dust ingested, August is able to have a heightened sense of smell, slightly better eyesight and an ability to track people, and monsters, like a snivelling hound. These, of course, are always temporary.

Weapons: How many weapons has he got on his person? An unidentifiable number. His arsenal is needed for the countless breeds of monsters they're bound to encounter – acidic-based weaponry, ice-based pistols, flammable grenades, tiny needles, one-handed machine guns, and his trusty crossbow with assorted bolts; for every occasion, really. Now, August doesn't kill all the monster he encounters, so he carries a variety of tricks and traps in a heavy messenger bag strapped around his shoulder. It's a seemingly endless bag of goodies. Think Felix the Cat, and his magic bag, only you'll eventually reach the bottom of his bag if you reach far enough. The end always justifies the means. If August is forced to utilize brutal tactics, he has the weapons to do so.

Weaknesses: Augustus pays big-time if he has any weaknesses, specifically if it involves slobbering monsters snarling at the bit to sink their teeth into the soft parts of his torso. He's quick enough to evade them, strong enough to pop quite a wallop and in shape enough to keep going without transforming into a ninety-year old man who's on his last stretch. It's the psychological bits that really get to him – like, his inability to fend off women, even if they're throttling him with fence-wiring or stabbing at him with a screwdriver. He can't do it. Crappy-decision making skills. He's a self-deprecating sonnuvabitch, too, constantly putting anyone's welfare before his own. What's the use of someone who doesn't honestly value their own life? He drinks alcoholic substances habitually, and to excess. This isn't a problem outside of his work, but he's been known to drink on the job, too. At least he's upfront about it. Seemingly devoid of purpose or direction; no goals, no ambitions beyond meeting ends meet, finishing his jobs and staying alive. Deceptive, crooked, fraudulent. You can throw him pretty far, but if he doesn't like you, it'd be foolish to trust him.

Equipment:

• MS-67 Mattock : Medium-range, semi-automatic rifle. The Mattock is a hybrid weapon with an assault rifle's low heat production and a sniper rifle's punch. Marksmen favour its increased power over that of an assault rifle to bring down hardened targets. Its lack of a full-auto setting is advertised as a feature rather than a shortcoming as it curbs a soldier's tendency to spray inaccurate fire under stress. There's hardly any modifications applied, minus the ability to swap out longer, or shorter stocks, and utilize different types of magazines. The compatibility of the weapon makes it a military-special, but its design was what initially attracted August. There's an optical scope attachment; 4x zoom. It enables him to easily switch over to long range when necessary.
  
• M12 Supernova : A particularly nasty sidearm that he's personalized over the years. It's actually the very first weapon he's ever had the pleasure of laying his hands on – a testament to all of his misdeeds. The magnum itself signifies redemption. Semi-automatic; holds 20 rounds per magazine, and up to 150 in reserve, giving it a total of 170 rounds. The rate of fire is exceptionally impressive, succinctly trading off damage for a bigger magazine. It still packs quite a punch, as the cartridges are significantly larger, with more gunpowder packed in, thus the explosive force is multiplied.
  
• Sinner's Suit Ver 1.2 : Human beings are made out of fleshy, vulnerable parts. If August wanted to really be a successful Monster Expert, then he'd have to be willing to squirm into a skintight suit made out of flexible plates, enhanced fibres and certain parts he didn't even understand. The appearance of the exoskeleton is a dark grey representation of the male muscular appearance, finished with crimson shoulder pads, gauntlets, elbows, knees, and ankles. By clinging tightly to the wearer's body, the suit provides protection and boosts strength. Recent models also come with a variety of sensors, shield the body from toxins, and interface with nanomachines, among many other features. It provides sound reduction technology for stealth purposes, as well as scent-masking gasses. The battle suit was primarily crafted from a carbon nanite-based textile, an advanced material famous for its steel-like toughness. This specific model, created for military-based recons, has thus been expired, given the nasty effects to its wearer. If worn for extended periods of time, it takes a toll on the body stuffed within it – and it's a price he's willing to pay. Not to mention incredibly painful to remove because of all the little bits you can get stuck with while peeling it off.
  
  Suit Functions:
  
  • Temporary increase of strength through injections at each vital point in the body; the suit itself tightens and injects a cocktail of performance-enhancing narcotics that are readily absorbed into the blood stream through the wearers skin
  • Offers shock-absorbing nanogel for maximum protection
  • Outfitted with thrusters at his ankles, and the bottom of his boots, to allow himself to jump longer distances
  • Precise microelectronic devices to successfully measure his brain, heart and muscle activity, relayed through his optical visor

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Background Information: Unsatisfying childhood? Probably. Forced education in crime and lawbreaking? Most definitely. He was inducted into his families trade. There's no escaping your family when they're just a few inches under your skin, whispering feverishly in your ear that what you're doing right now is the right thing. Your family comes first and everything else comes second – you've been chosen for this job and only you can do it, because your prostitute mother and gangster family depend on you. This was his childhood. He breathed violence through his nose, expelled confusing animosity through his mouth. Why would he batter an entire family for money? He wasn't exactly sure. They were mainly composed of a loose group of bandits, slowly organizing themselves into associations that over time became more organized. The family began to spread their wings, extending their bloody hands across the city. Fearless, careless, brutal. He'd seen it all. Racketeering, gambling, loansharking, extortion, money laundering, fraud, hijacking, murders, merciless beatings, pier thefts, and fencing. He lives for family, for his older sisters, but often questioned the violent extremes the club will go to for business, to apparently keep them all well and safe. Any doubts were soon extinguished, stubbed by loyal heels and conversations that started with: “Listen, kid. There's only one law in business. Do it yourself. Murderers come with a smile. Watch your back. Do it for the family.”

That was it. Augustus Poole was born side-by-side with violence, baptized in brutality. He shook hands with it at every street corner. These were merciless devils, grinning and smoking thick cigars like they didn't have a care in the world. They didn't think about blood stains, policemen, or other gangsters spitting bullets through their heads. You'd eventually have to watch someone beat your best-friend to death, gleefully crush their skulls, and you couldn't do anything but plan to raid their headquarters later on if you were lucky. Familiar faces burnt to crisps because they were related to gang members, gang-bangers, crime-lords and people who chose to do the wrong thing. Things got a little more serious when his own sister got caught up in a crossfire, shot straight through her skull – and if he thought about it now, it might have been a blessing in disguise. Had they gotten a hold of her under different circumstances, she would've suffered longer than she needed to. His attitude changed. Augustus Poole didn't entirely transform into another person, devoid of emotion. He still somewhat disagreed with his brothers sick methods, but he started to contribute a lot more. He couldn't remember a time before where he'd really been in control. Everything was a spiralling mess, moving to the wayside. With every new tide, every new wave, August allowed himself to flow with it. It flowed through him, and settled on him like dust. Violence perched on his shoulders, digging its talons into his skin. For once in his life, he didn't bother shaking it off.

Hurting people became a feeling he couldn't explain, even now. Human life came secondary. They were treated like little more than cattle. This enigma that'd take him over and shut him down. At first he could call it emptiness, or simply feeling nothing. Dive into the thralls of it, however, and he realizes it's just too much, too much feeling. Too heavy, too local, too personal. Life became a constant soap opera that had everything and he was just watching it from the sidelines, allowing things to happen but every gut punch hit him hard. Every single death – a mother, a child, a father – felt as if he'd been connected to them. A part of him. He grieved for them, wept for them when he wasn't being watched. All the little things and feelings from the movie he's now watching in his head, he felt it all but couldn't distinct one thing from another and it all ran together into a kaleidoscope-blur of colours. Someone was going to pay. Someone was always going to pay. August Poole was a murderer. His father always tried to tell him that it was never actually murder; it was creation, it was legacy, it was their dynasty. But, it was what it was. It still stung behind closed doors.

He escaped his family, made them believe he'd died in a gutter somewhere. Drowned in a nearby lake. He ran as far away as he could, without telling anyone. Relying on anyone was out of the question. They'd drag him back kicking and screaming. They wouldn't understand his need to escape. He was finally alone. Liquor did little to soften the bruises burdening his thoughts, but he still entertained himself with the notion that if he drank enough he'd probably forget at least until the next morning. How did August Poole find himself involved with the traveling troupe searching for large amounts of dust? Who knows. He's probably not willing to tell you unless you slip a couple of drinks in front of him – and keep them coming. Besides, collecting dust, and watching out for monsters, isn't much different from beating people in the head with lead pipes.

Character History / Relationships:

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• Nova Barnes: Perhaps, this is August's most peculiar relationship. He didn't intentionally take her under his wing. There was just something about that doe-eyed, fledgeling look she had in her eyes -- somewhat hopeful, and a little lost. She bore an honesty that August couldn't quite put his finger on. Those traits were unknown to him, if not a little intimidating. Now, he wasn't saying she was completely hopeless, but he thought of their lessons as less of an annoyance and a little more satisfying. Y'know; fatherly moments. Maybe. He wasn't entirely sure what their relationship was, but he willingly showed her the ropes, taught her some things and revealed small pieces of himself over campfires, flasks and grits. She'd snuck up on him; become an unlikely friend, ally, student.
  
  It became complicated after they got onto the subject of Nova's past, and that wretched locket swinging around her neck. He remembered, with uncomfortable clarity, when his throat had gone bone-dry and his mind went blank and the words he was about to speak languished and died on his lips, lost for all eternity. Of course, he'd known that her parents were dead. Of course, he'd known that her past wasn't filled with butterflies, puppy-dogs and candy sticks. But, when he'd seen those smiling faces in her locket, everything had come into focus. He'd been there. He'd seen them. Cleaned up the mess, even. His family was in the line of business, and Nova's family probably owed them money. For once in his life, August didn't have the heart to be blunt.
  

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• Sterling Davis: Funny thing is, August thought he'd died a long time ago. When he first got into the Dust collecting business, he'd been little more than a fledgeling Monster Expert, a thickheaded greeney with hardly any direction, and that's exactly where he'd met Dave. In those days, he'd been more receptive to screwing around. They got along quickly, given their obvious love for adventure and getting into trouble. There was great deal of respect for one another, as mutual compatriots and co-conspirators alike. For a long time -- it felt like it, anyway; they were rich, they were wealthy, they didn't need anything else beyond their partners-in-crime and fellow Dust collector.
  
  But, all good things eventually come to an end. Mistakes were made. And in Dust collecting, the smallest mistakes can get you dismembered. Or in a state where you wished you were dead. What had gone wrong? He wasn't sure. His equipment might have been messed up. He might've made some miscalculations, drove them into the monsters den. All he knew for sure, was that it was one insignificant blunder he'd wished was never made. They were slaughtered like skittering pigs, all running in different directions. Screaming bloody murder, being ripped apart. August nearly had his head torn off, but settled for sharp talons in his eye, and across his jaw. He tried looking for Dave; he really did. But, it was too messy. All that was left when he went back to look was grizzled bones, pieces of dried up skin and hair.
  
  To his surprise, Dave was still alive. In another Dust collecting group, with him. Fancy that.
  

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• Lance Kalinek: Plain and simple, Lance and August are old drinking buddies. Glass-slammers, goblet bashers. Two old fella's who have the tendency to bump into each other in the grimiest places. They always ended up hightailing it out of there, good and piss-drunk. He likes 'em well enough. There aren't too many optimistic people in the world he doesn't want to headbutt. And there aren't many people who can crack through his seriousness and make him laugh. Now, they're serving side-by-side in an equally disheveled Dust collecting crew. He'll still occasionally throw him an invitation; share his procured aged rum and stumble around the camp singing sea-shanties and old Irish songs.

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