Name: Jericho
Gender: Male
Mask: An old surplus gas mask, and an antique German trench helmet.
Ability: Starts play with
Mouth Opener, a fancy .38 Super pistol with gold fixtures and mother of pearl grips, and
Honor, a basket-hilted Scottish broadsword.
In general, everything is a helluva a lot more bloody when Jericho's around. Guts fly, heads explode, limbs fly off, all that. Description: Jericho is a rangy guy, all lean muscle and strong bone, standing at a little over six feet. He's got short, greasy black hair, pine green eyes, and a general unhealthy pallor to his skin and figure. He's twitchy, anxious, and prone to staring into space for long periods of time.
Background: A former United States Marine, and then a shady figure within multiple paramilitary organizations across Africa, Southeast Asia, and Eastern Europe, Jericho is a man who seemingly cannot stop getting his hands bloody. Since his exit from the last mercenary group he was a part of three years back, after a particularly grueling incident with some diamond miners and their families, Jericho thought he was done with blood, for good. But since then, he's had trouble fitting back into society. Nothing's the same. And, no matter how much he hates to admit it, Jericho misses the blood. He misses the screams, and the fire, and the feelings of
life and
power that went along with his old work. So, one night in his shitty apartment, after getting drunk as hell, he flipped on the news, only to hear about that vigilante guy who was going around gutting criminals. Now, that was something he could get behind...
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