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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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 "I say he's fair game. I'll split the reward with the person who helps me take him down."

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 continues to aim his shotgun. "Lets see how you feds look after my frag-12's have visited you." He taunted letting the bounty notice drop.

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 "What you do young Jazmin, his help me tear down these Feds so i can split Law-birds bounty with my Mavericks."

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 faces down scott, the shotgun more than a match for the .22. "Have you see what a frag-12 can do to a person little boy? Because i can show you if you like?"

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 "Permisiion granted Teris. Light the bastards up!" Grenville bellowed.

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 pulled both triggers, unleashing a pair of frag-12's at scott. "Eat lead, Fed scum." Grenville bellowed. "Darling speaks and yee shall listen, lest yee shall all be damned>"

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 Hoped onto the bar to avoid the spiders, thankfully dodging the bullets aimed at his weapon. "Darling speaks and yee shall pay in blood for your ignorance." He reloaded using a pair of normal buckshot shells.

The setting changes from Gambit's Bar to Wing City

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 Grenville dropped behind the bar, reloading quickly. "Teris, make a hole, get us out in the open." He bellowed drill seargent style. He popped back up unleashing a spray of buckshot at the FBI agents.

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 "Go with god, girl. Teris, cover Jazmin's exit." Grenville bellowed,now sheltering agaisnt one of the exterior walls of the bar.

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 "Teris, Fall back." Grenville yelled, already slotting a pair of DB shells into the breach of his shotgun.

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 i need sleep =L

The setting changes from Wing City to Gambit's Bar

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 wanders in slowly, cradeling his shotgun like a small child. His wild eyes scanned the room, hunters instinct searching fod dangers. The wide brim of his stetson threw the upper part of his face into shadow.

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 slammed his booted foot into the door, bursting it open. He strode in, the hob-nails in his boots creating a crechendo of clattering. His narrow slitted eyes scanned the room, searching for something. The bars occupants would not notice his eye moments because of the wide brimmed stetson throwing his face into shadow. In his ham-like fists he cradled a double-barrel shotgun. The shotgun was battered and worn after years of use.

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 Grenville strode in, the air displaced by the closing door caused his steel grey hair to ripple disturbingly. He wandered over to the bar and sat down, hoping to find some work tonight

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Grenville T McRalph smashed his booted boot into the door, slamming it wide open. Grenville stood in the doorway, silvery moonlight streaming in behind him, his raggedy beard and hair fluttering in the night breeze. The wide brimmed stetson shadowed his face, allowing him to scan the packed bar for possible trouble. Gripped tightly in his meaty hands was a long nosed double barreled shotgun, worn by years of use.

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Grenville T McRalph strode into the centre of the room, meaty fists twitching around the shotgun as he swiveled his head around like a demented eagal owl, hunting for anything that could pose a threat.

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Grenville T McRalph swung his head round, meeting the gaze of Maynard B. Phipps, his ice-blue eyes piercing across the room like daggers. His fat finger curled inside the narrow trigger guard of the shotgun, swinging the wooded stock into his hip.

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 "When Darling speaks yee shall listen Hell spawn." Grenville crooned, stroking the stock of his shotgun as he did so.

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 "Darling does not bite. She burns!" Grenville cried, voice reaching a fever pitch. From the darkness beneath his stetson, his eyes burned with blue fire. He squeezed the trigger unleashing both Dragon's breath shells contained in the breach. "Listen yee to Darling's roar, and become enraptured with her fire." He Bellowed, his voice hoarse but full of fury.

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Grenville T McRalph A brown streak of fur and teeth shot past Grenville at high speed, heading for the rather large demon. Grenville loaded another pair of Dragons Breath and cocked the shotgun. "Darling shall cleanse yee of yee affliction hell spawn. Listen and yee shall find salvation." he crooned insanely

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 quails with revulsion at the sight of the dameons true form and lowers the shotgun. "Yee are beyond saving. Darling shall speak no more."

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 swept up the scotch and downded it in one. He bent down to scratch the neck of Sainted, who nuzzled her moist nose into his leg.

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 "Yee be a kind soul. The scotch is the almighties ambrosia." he babbled still petting the hyena

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 grabbed the scotch, then snatched the bottle from the suprised barkeep. He continued to drink, while feeding Sainted strips of meat.

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 swept through the door, brushing water droplets from his 'gator skin jacket. Slinking in beside him was Sainted,his pet hyena, slinking along, nose towards the ground.