Post by Peter Sharpe on Feb 14, 2012 21:20:35 GMT -5
GENERAL
Birth Name: Peter R. Sharpe
Race: Born Human, later transformed into a Werewolf
Age: 26 years (16 when bitten)
Gender: Male
Occupation: Assassin, bodyguard, all round a hired gun, and a big one at that.
Birthplace: Western New York
Current Location: Rome
Family Relations: Dead or missing, found and turned his step-brother Geoff 7 years ago.
Weapon: Claws, teeth, brute strength.
Other Items Owned: High caliber sniper rifle, and a handful of human identification, kept for ease of transportation.
BACKGROUND
Personality: Once a fun loving cuddly teen, he has now lost all sense of humor. His signature grin has been replaced with something that could best be described as a snarl. He has become cold and hardened, and will fight to protect those under his care.
Detailed History:In the streets of New York lived a boy. An ordinary boy, blonde and blue eyed, nothing too remarkable to speak of. However, he did not feel that this ordinary life was for him. He wanted adventure, travel, and most of all he wanted to be something in his life. So, 16 and head full of ideas, Peter set out from home, leaving one night from his parents, who he figured wouldn’t care, and his siblings who squabbled too much anyways. He soon met a strange man, a darker, older seeming man, and began to follow him, wondering what was going on. This man, Vincent he had heard him called, seemed different, more powerful somehow. So, under the light of a full moon, he followed him to a forbidden, roped off hill. There, though he did not realize it at the moment, would his life be forever changed. For he had been right. Vincent was no ordinary man. Vincent was a werewolf. Astonished, but somehow not overly frightened, he approached the man, who was changing rapidly into a towering mass of fur, fangs, and claws. Vincent warned him what could happen, barked at him to stay away. But, being a headstrong and generally fearless youth, Peter persisted. That night, under the light of a silvery blue moon, Sharpe was bitten and his life took a turn that would never be reversed.
The moon Peter was bitten under, however, was no ordinary moon. It was a blue moon, a rare event in which there are two full moons in one month. The second full moon, the blue moon, somehow changed something about the lycan gene. Peter transformed as well, the bite quickly working into his system. He, too, towered at an impressive nine feet, and his coat shone silvery white, as if the very moonbeams had been caught in his DNA. Over time, Sharpe learned to control this beast, summon it at will sometimes, and learned that he was fast and strong. Soon he was traveling all over the world, his body seeming to not grow tired and any wounds he sustained fading rapidly. It was in Europe that he met Namir, his first bite. Her fiancée, supposedly possessed by demons, had beaten her and abused her, and was in the process of yelling at her when Sharpe happened by. His keen ears could not help but hear the commotion, and his kind heart drove him to help the damsel in distress. Biting her, he saved her life from a nearby vampire who had smelled her blood. He also made a friend. Namir soon became his constant companion, traveling with him, the two helping each other control their wolf forms on full moons.
Namir was no damsel in distress as he had first pictured her, however. Wearing combat boots, she seemed ready for anything and quickly adapted to this new life hunting vampires and avoiding being killed by overzealous humans. She was smart, snappy, and overall a firecracker of a werewolf. Sharpe told her all he knew about their new race, and she in return became a devoted companion. It was no surprise, then, that Sharpe fell smitten with the intelligent and lively Namir. Sometimes it seemed as if she loved him back, other times it appeared as if she thought of him like a little brother. Nevertheless, Sharpe admired her, admired her fierce fighting skills and her sharp wit. Over time, the two headed back to America, back to Sharpe’s homeland. Rumor had reached them that there was a den to be built, a place for lycans to stay. Sharpe readily took to the task, aided by Vincent, who had appeared again, and Pablo, a friend met in his travels. One night, alone in the den, he heard a crash outside. Naturally, he went to investigate.
And there, sprawled out on the ground in the alleyway, looking a bit sheepish, was the third of his life changing events. Petite, looking quite disheveled, a girl was in the alleyway, the tipped over trashcans by the window testifying to her attempt to look inside the building. Quickly, the girl scrambled to her feet, the dim streetlights catching her bright auburn hair. She was small, a good foot shorter than Sharpe, but something in her light gold eyes bespoke of a fighter. He found out soon enough that she was a lycan, though she did not wish to be like he did. This was Arai, and in short order (pizza helped) she, too, was a friend of Shaw’s. As is the way with love, he soon found himself drawn towards Arai, who seemed more open to his affection than did Namir. But all too soon Sharpe found himself drawn away from the Americas, leaving Arai to wander as well. The lycan masses were distinctly absent, and so it was a mutual decision that some recruiting was in order.
In South America, Sharpe and his shadow Namir were separated, searching for any lycans about. Sharpe found himself set upon by a group of rugged teens in the dead of night, each with a knife and a bad temper. They threw him off the docks, and he found himself dragged out to sea, Namir standing worriedly nearby, by a strapping young lifeguard. The curly haired blond man was named Jarrod, and he seemed rather smitten by Namir’s silky hair, grey eyes, and pretty face. Her spitfire personality, rather than driving Jarrod away, only made him more attracted to her. Feeling like the third wheel, Shaw realized that Namir had found someone else. After biting Jarrod, turning him lycan, in a rescue mission involving vampires, Sharpe realized Namir was in love with Jarrod and would not come back to him. Dejected, he went back to the states in time, back to the den. Arai was there, waiting for him, her bright smile lifting his spirits. Maybe Namir was not who he was meant to be with after all. Arai had somewhere she wanted to go. She wanted to go home, to see her parents.
Sharpe went with her, as any good supporting friend would do. He found out about her life, about her uncontrollable wolf side, about how she had killed someone. Solemnly he told her he loved her, and found that she loved him in return. Elated, he stuck with her through thick and thin, protecting her from her enraged father and swearing to always love her no matter what. Back at the den, Sharpe found Namir, Jarrod, and Pablo already there, waiting for them. The five fixed up the den, making into a stronghold, and became the next generation of lycans, ready to fight the rising threat of vampires.
He had many successful campaigns in New York, but his days fighting for thrill and sport came to an abrupt end when Arai disappeared, and to this day, Sharpe's only consolation is that no sign of her body has been found.
When word of the Lycan's plans to retake Europe reached the Americas, Sharpe once more traveled across the oceans to lend fang and claw. He vowed to do all in his power to prevent Arai's fate from befalling another of his brothers.
Fears: Nothing he's willing to admit, his nothing to lose attitude has made him a ruthless and terrifying opponent.
Strengths: uh... he's a hulking werewolf.
Weaknesses: He has been known to anger quickly.
Likes: The thrill of the hunt, and although he'd never admit it, even to himself, the pleasure of the kill.
Dislikes: Injustice, anyone foolish enough to bring up his past.
APPEARANCE
Facial Appearance: Over the years, his hair has become even more shaggy, his over all appearance is more gruff than it once was.
Clothing: Nothing much has changed in this department. Jeans and a long sleeve Hollister shirt. Prefers dark blue.
Build: 6'2" athletic build, much stronger than he appears.
Marks/Scars: A white scar on his left eye, he was hit by shrapnel during the D.C. raid.
Birth Name: Peter R. Sharpe
Race: Born Human, later transformed into a Werewolf
Age: 26 years (16 when bitten)
Gender: Male
Occupation: Assassin, bodyguard, all round a hired gun, and a big one at that.
Birthplace: Western New York
Current Location: Rome
Family Relations: Dead or missing, found and turned his step-brother Geoff 7 years ago.
Weapon: Claws, teeth, brute strength.
Other Items Owned: High caliber sniper rifle, and a handful of human identification, kept for ease of transportation.
BACKGROUND
Personality: Once a fun loving cuddly teen, he has now lost all sense of humor. His signature grin has been replaced with something that could best be described as a snarl. He has become cold and hardened, and will fight to protect those under his care.
Detailed History:In the streets of New York lived a boy. An ordinary boy, blonde and blue eyed, nothing too remarkable to speak of. However, he did not feel that this ordinary life was for him. He wanted adventure, travel, and most of all he wanted to be something in his life. So, 16 and head full of ideas, Peter set out from home, leaving one night from his parents, who he figured wouldn’t care, and his siblings who squabbled too much anyways. He soon met a strange man, a darker, older seeming man, and began to follow him, wondering what was going on. This man, Vincent he had heard him called, seemed different, more powerful somehow. So, under the light of a full moon, he followed him to a forbidden, roped off hill. There, though he did not realize it at the moment, would his life be forever changed. For he had been right. Vincent was no ordinary man. Vincent was a werewolf. Astonished, but somehow not overly frightened, he approached the man, who was changing rapidly into a towering mass of fur, fangs, and claws. Vincent warned him what could happen, barked at him to stay away. But, being a headstrong and generally fearless youth, Peter persisted. That night, under the light of a silvery blue moon, Sharpe was bitten and his life took a turn that would never be reversed.
The moon Peter was bitten under, however, was no ordinary moon. It was a blue moon, a rare event in which there are two full moons in one month. The second full moon, the blue moon, somehow changed something about the lycan gene. Peter transformed as well, the bite quickly working into his system. He, too, towered at an impressive nine feet, and his coat shone silvery white, as if the very moonbeams had been caught in his DNA. Over time, Sharpe learned to control this beast, summon it at will sometimes, and learned that he was fast and strong. Soon he was traveling all over the world, his body seeming to not grow tired and any wounds he sustained fading rapidly. It was in Europe that he met Namir, his first bite. Her fiancée, supposedly possessed by demons, had beaten her and abused her, and was in the process of yelling at her when Sharpe happened by. His keen ears could not help but hear the commotion, and his kind heart drove him to help the damsel in distress. Biting her, he saved her life from a nearby vampire who had smelled her blood. He also made a friend. Namir soon became his constant companion, traveling with him, the two helping each other control their wolf forms on full moons.
Namir was no damsel in distress as he had first pictured her, however. Wearing combat boots, she seemed ready for anything and quickly adapted to this new life hunting vampires and avoiding being killed by overzealous humans. She was smart, snappy, and overall a firecracker of a werewolf. Sharpe told her all he knew about their new race, and she in return became a devoted companion. It was no surprise, then, that Sharpe fell smitten with the intelligent and lively Namir. Sometimes it seemed as if she loved him back, other times it appeared as if she thought of him like a little brother. Nevertheless, Sharpe admired her, admired her fierce fighting skills and her sharp wit. Over time, the two headed back to America, back to Sharpe’s homeland. Rumor had reached them that there was a den to be built, a place for lycans to stay. Sharpe readily took to the task, aided by Vincent, who had appeared again, and Pablo, a friend met in his travels. One night, alone in the den, he heard a crash outside. Naturally, he went to investigate.
And there, sprawled out on the ground in the alleyway, looking a bit sheepish, was the third of his life changing events. Petite, looking quite disheveled, a girl was in the alleyway, the tipped over trashcans by the window testifying to her attempt to look inside the building. Quickly, the girl scrambled to her feet, the dim streetlights catching her bright auburn hair. She was small, a good foot shorter than Sharpe, but something in her light gold eyes bespoke of a fighter. He found out soon enough that she was a lycan, though she did not wish to be like he did. This was Arai, and in short order (pizza helped) she, too, was a friend of Shaw’s. As is the way with love, he soon found himself drawn towards Arai, who seemed more open to his affection than did Namir. But all too soon Sharpe found himself drawn away from the Americas, leaving Arai to wander as well. The lycan masses were distinctly absent, and so it was a mutual decision that some recruiting was in order.
In South America, Sharpe and his shadow Namir were separated, searching for any lycans about. Sharpe found himself set upon by a group of rugged teens in the dead of night, each with a knife and a bad temper. They threw him off the docks, and he found himself dragged out to sea, Namir standing worriedly nearby, by a strapping young lifeguard. The curly haired blond man was named Jarrod, and he seemed rather smitten by Namir’s silky hair, grey eyes, and pretty face. Her spitfire personality, rather than driving Jarrod away, only made him more attracted to her. Feeling like the third wheel, Shaw realized that Namir had found someone else. After biting Jarrod, turning him lycan, in a rescue mission involving vampires, Sharpe realized Namir was in love with Jarrod and would not come back to him. Dejected, he went back to the states in time, back to the den. Arai was there, waiting for him, her bright smile lifting his spirits. Maybe Namir was not who he was meant to be with after all. Arai had somewhere she wanted to go. She wanted to go home, to see her parents.
Sharpe went with her, as any good supporting friend would do. He found out about her life, about her uncontrollable wolf side, about how she had killed someone. Solemnly he told her he loved her, and found that she loved him in return. Elated, he stuck with her through thick and thin, protecting her from her enraged father and swearing to always love her no matter what. Back at the den, Sharpe found Namir, Jarrod, and Pablo already there, waiting for them. The five fixed up the den, making into a stronghold, and became the next generation of lycans, ready to fight the rising threat of vampires.
He had many successful campaigns in New York, but his days fighting for thrill and sport came to an abrupt end when Arai disappeared, and to this day, Sharpe's only consolation is that no sign of her body has been found.
When word of the Lycan's plans to retake Europe reached the Americas, Sharpe once more traveled across the oceans to lend fang and claw. He vowed to do all in his power to prevent Arai's fate from befalling another of his brothers.
Fears: Nothing he's willing to admit, his nothing to lose attitude has made him a ruthless and terrifying opponent.
Strengths: uh... he's a hulking werewolf.
Weaknesses: He has been known to anger quickly.
Likes: The thrill of the hunt, and although he'd never admit it, even to himself, the pleasure of the kill.
Dislikes: Injustice, anyone foolish enough to bring up his past.
APPEARANCE
Facial Appearance: Over the years, his hair has become even more shaggy, his over all appearance is more gruff than it once was.
Clothing: Nothing much has changed in this department. Jeans and a long sleeve Hollister shirt. Prefers dark blue.
Build: 6'2" athletic build, much stronger than he appears.
Marks/Scars: A white scar on his left eye, he was hit by shrapnel during the D.C. raid.
