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Grenville T McRalph

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a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by XavierDantius32

Description

Name: Grenville Thomas McRalph
Nicknames: Gren
Age: 47
Gender: Male
Birthplace: Louisiana
Height: 6'5
Weight: 170lbs

Extended Information
Appearance: Hailing from the swamps of darkest Louisiana, Grenville bears all the hallmarks of a grizzled hunter and veteran, with sunburnt, leathery skin, pockmarked with scars from childhood acne, and encounters with enumerable beasts. His face is broad and chiselled, with a crooked nose and a square jaw. Like any hunter, Grenville's eyes are keen as knife-blades, set deep in his face, shadowed by hooded brows. He keeps his hair cut close to his scalp, giving him a slightly professional look. For a man of his years, Grenville is in remarkable shape, with a well developed musculature clinging to his stocky frame, however, a large amount of time spent in the company of alcohol is beginning to take its toll, pushing the Bounty Hunter's gut out.

Much like the tribesmen of primordial earth, Grenville adorns his person with trophies taken from kills and the field of battle. The majority of these hang around his neck, on chains or cord. The largest, and most prominent is a pair of lion teeth, which hang on a sliver chain around his thick neck. Typically, Grenville tends to dress practically, sticking to combat trousers, tucked into a pair of tall leather boots. His torso is normally covered with a close fitting shirt, with a battered and faded leather jacket over this.

Personality

You don't go through war and conflict without being changed, for better or worse. Grenville's front-line expierience completely reversed his previous outlook. He is no glory hound, sniffing at the boots of fame. He has stared death in the face, and spat in his eye. As a veteren of many campaigns, Grenville has a remarkable grasp of simple battle tactics, and how to read an enemy. His hunter's instinct and drive make him a relentless and determined enemy, difficult to shake off once he has a scent. One of the less favourable traits that Grenville carries around is the unwillingness to admit that he is in the wrong, or to take orders from someone he considers unworthy of his respect. Naturally, in the rigid structure of any modern military, this would lead to a variety of dicipline issues. Grenville's background as a hunter means that he is generally wary and suspicious of people, making him an unwilling participant in any group. He also carries a certain amount of paranoia from spending so long in isolation. In regard to close relationships, Grenville doesn't form them. Years spent dispatching child soldiers in Africa have hardened his heart against sympathy. If you get in his way, be you man, woman or child, he'll put you down like a dog. At some point in his life, he may have had the capacity to love and care, but now he just doesn't. Its what makes him such a good killer. A target is just a target to him. No remorse. No regrets.

Equipment

Weapons: For his primary weapon, Grenville carries an M4 carbine. The rugged weapon performs well in most environments, and has seen him through many sticky situations. The versatility of the weapon is what impressed Grenville the most, as the addition of a pictaninny rail system allows him to mount a large variety of attachments. Mostly, he uses the weapon with a flash/sound suppressor, a 4x ACOG sight and a 40mm grenade launcher.

Grenville's backup weapon has been with him since he enlisted at 19. The M1911 Colt .45 has been in service with the U.S army since 1911, and remains a practical rugged design. Grenville's has seen every battle, and has been repaired enumerable times.

Strapped to his thigh is the broad leather sheath for his broad-bladed combat knife, which is almost as battered and knocked around as he is.

Armour: Under his jacket, Grenville carries a simple bulletproof vest, consisting of a kevlar vest, with a pouch for a large ceramic plate, affording basic protection against small arms and melee weapons.

History

Biography:
Life has always been hard on the edges of society, and this was true for the McRalphs. Living in a decrepit, hand built log cabin in the centre of the Louisiana swamps, the family of four survived as trappers, scratching a living off the skins from aligators and other animals. His father was a violent alcoholic, living on the edge of the law, often summoned to the county court for violent threats against trespassers on his property. His mother was a sorrowful introvert, who spent more time contemplating her navel than caring for her three children. Grenville recieved a brutal upbringing at the hands of his two elder brothers, who gace him a taste for violence, and the skills needed to hunt among the swamps.

School was never something Grenville found interesting. For the most part, he never attended, prefering to spend his time stalking prey across the wasteland. When court orders and angry officials pressganged him into the classroom, he was disruptive and violent. At the ripe old age of seventeen, he was expelled from High School, for the crime of dealing cannabis on school premesis. This also earned him a police caution and a custodial sentence.

Once he was done with this breif hiccup, he left the dank, festering swamps of Louisiana, for the bright lights of Miami. He spent much of his time scratching a living on the street, picking pockets and mugging unfortunate tourists. Through this informal occupation, he fell in with a gang of street punks, who took Grenville under their wing, and nutured him into one of their own. As gang-crime quickly spread across the city, the punks were assimilated into working for the mafia. Grenville sped through the ranks, through his love for violence and brutality, which earned him the respect of the higher-ups in the organisation. Unfortunatly, his first big job was to be his last. On the morning of February 17th, Grenville was handed a pump-action shotgun and several large bags, and was told to take five men and rob a high-street bank.

It had been a set-up. As he stormed the bank, guns-blazing, thirty armed policemen sprung from the vault. After a breif firefight, Grenville was in police custody. In normal circumstances, he would have been executed, his short but bloody existance ended. However, the rise of rebel tribes in Africa had threatened US assets in the continent, provoking the need for cannon fodder on the ground.

Grenville was offered a choice. Join the army, or face death in the chair. Naturally, he joined up, and was hastily shipped out to defend a diamond mine in the Congo. The fighting raged on for four long years of brutal close-quater fighting. Gone were the days of picking off your enemy from afar. The oppressive jungle gave the rebels cover. Ambushes were frequent. More often than not, the fighting dissolved into brutal melees of machete and pistols. The war hardened Grenville, turning him into a ruthless, stealthy killer.

Eventually, the mine was secured, and the war-weary troops were shipped back to the states. As they waited for a new deployment, Grenville quietly slipped away, altering the records, as if he had perished in the Congo. Now scrubbed from most records, he headed out to California, plying his trade as a bodyguard.

In the two decades that link the past and present, Grenville took on a myriad of roles ranging from a mercenary to corrupt african dictators, to a deniable operator for MI6. Through this work, he once again gained the attention of American law enforcement, earning a place on the FBI's Most Wanted list. As Marxas began to expand, the need for men in their private army grew, and thus, Grenville was discretely approached, and offered amnesty and protection, in exchange for his unique skills.

So begins...

Grenville T McRalph's Story

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Upstairs, a buzzer started whining rousing a hung-over security guard from his bed. Absolution rolled from his nest-like bed, pulling some grubby, food-stained track-pants over his legs, securing his shoulder holster across his naked torso. Crossing to the door, he snatched a powerful AMT .44 Automag from a side table, slipping it into the nylon holster. Kicking open the door with his bare feet, he padded across the corridor, yawning and scratching his shaven scalp.

He clattered down the staircase, pausing to duck inside a storage cupboard, which had become an impromtu armoury. His hands groped for the light-switch, illuminating a few racks of weapons, and a disorganized pile of ammunition and magazines. He pulled a chromed 20 gauge shotgun from the rack, yanking a bandolier of shells tight about his waist.

He reached the foot of the stairs, slinging his I.D about his neck, racking the pump on the shotgun. From the expression on the burly guard's face as he shouldered his way through the door, it was clear that he was incredibly pissed off. "Hey buddy, point that pistol somewhere else, before I turn your face into mincemeat."

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Grenville T McRalph wandered in through the door, kicking it aside with his hobnailed boot. His imposing figure was sillouhetted against the harsh sunlight, his long-coat billowing in the stiff breeze. Removing his stetson, Grenville tossed it across the bar with a sharp flick of his wrist, dropping it perfectly upond the ivory hat stand that graced the corner of the bar.

"I'll have a scotch on the rocks." Grenville called out to the nearest service android, pushing it aside, the shove tipping back his coat to reveal the M4 slung over his shoulder. He glanced at the Bar's other occupants, snorting dismissivly.

Swiping up the heavy tumbler of scotch, the burly mercenary wandered over to a booth, slumping down among the voluptuous leather upholstery, his boots thudding as he propped them upon the table top. He yawned, sipping at the scotch, ahd hoping something interesting happened soon otherwise he'd have to start a fight.

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Grenville T McRalph wandered in through the door, kicking it aside with his hobnailed boot. His imposing figure was sillouhetted against the harsh sunlight, his long-coat billowing in the stiff breeze. Removing his stetson, Grenville tossed it across the bar with a sharp flick of his wrist, dropping it perfectly upond the ivory hat stand that graced the corner of the bar.

"I'll have a scotch on the rocks." Grenville called out to the nearest service android, pushing it aside, the shove tipping back his coat to reveal the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He glanced at the Bar's other occupants, snorting dismissivly.

Swiping up the heavy tumbler of scotch, the burly mercenary wandered over to a booth, slumping down among the voluptuous leather upholstery, his boots thudding as he propped them upon the table top. The grizzled mercenary was no unduely worried about the large amount of soldiers lazing around in the bar. He'd fought and won against them and there ilk.

The setting changes from Gambit's Bar to Confederacy Territory

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Hello?

The setting changes from Confederacy Territory to Gambit's Bar

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His jacket was ripped. It seemed like such a trivial thing, but the heavy leather coat had been with him through hundreds of battles, from assassinating LRA witch-doctors in the Congo to the dreary streets of Northern Ireland, running protection for a biker gang. The tear ran from behind his shoulder to his hip, split by a poorly aimed slashing blow. Must have happened last night, the grizzled mercenary thought to himself as he pushed through the bar doors.

He felt naked without the M4 and webbing slung across his chest, his only defence the vintage 1911 slipped into his waistband. The pistol kicked like a mule, and was as temperamental besides but Grenville wasn't comfortable shooting anything else. He ambled over to the bar, eyeing a large bottle of Southern Comfort, before fixing the rest of the patrons with a steely glare, warning them to keep their distance.

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With the jacket draped across a stool, and a glass of whiskey cooling in his hand, Grenville spun on his seat, careful to hide the .45 behind his back. Some of the patrons were twitching like coiled springs, and the sight of bared steel might set them off. He really wasn't looking for a fight today. Not without his rifle and body armour.

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Grenville saw the twitch. He'd seen it a thousand times. The imperceptible motion of eye and hand, moving for a weapon in a belt or holster. The girl with the pink hair had made it, reaching for a weapon somewhere about her person.

He considered going for the handgun, reaching for the worn wooden grip, presenting the blued steel barrel and charging in. He smirked at the pair flirting in the corner. It wouldn't do to break up the happy, five-second romance with sudden gunfire. If he had an assault rifle perhaps.

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Maybe there was something behind the bar, Grenville thought to himself, idly pulling on the traces of his shirt, clearing his draw on the .45 in his waistband. In his experience, bartenders were one of the most paranoid of professionals, and in a place like this, any tender would be foolish to work without a cut-down twelve-gauge sitting under the counter.

He chuckled at the ice, throwing out an air of easy calm, whilst mentally tensing every muscle, his eyes searching about for an excuse to poke around behind the counter.

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Lip-reading had been a vital skill to the mercenary perched on the stool, as was his almost super-natural hearing. The word "assassin" carried across the room like a gust of wind, the whisper just loud enough for him to pick up on. Calmly, and without drama Grenville slid off the stool, rolling up his shirt-sleeves in an easy motion.

As none of the patrons had bothered to acknowledge the burly mercenary's presence, it was easy for him to slip around the counter, breaking the lock on the folding counter with a precise but quiet blow.

Whilst behind the counter, he dropped to his knees, almost disappearing from view. His dark green eyes flicked over the long shelves below the marble top, settling on a long cloth-covered object just under the beer taps.

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"Talking of shooting people with a .45 caliber pistol," Grenville chucked as he emerged from behind the counter, a swan-off shotgun gripped in one hand, a crude synthetic grip screwed onto the pump-action. His handgun had been transferred to the front of his combats, for easier access.