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Unread 2nd of October, 2011, 07:29
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Zeventig 'Seventy' Zevende

Name : Zeventig 'Seventy' Zevende
Clan : Ventrue
Bloodline : Bron
Covenant : Ordo Dracul
Embrace : 7/7/1977
Apparent age : 27

Mental attributes :
Intelligence 1, Wits 2, Resolve 3
Physical attributes : Strength 1, Dexterity 3, Stamina 4
Social attributes : Presence 1, Manipulation 3, Composure 3

Mental skills :
Craft 4
Physical skills : Athletics 1, Firearms 4 (+1 Pistol Rolls), Stealth 1
Social skills : Empathy 2 (+1 Tells Rolls), Persuasion 4 (+1 Fast Talking Rolls), Streetwise 1, Subterfuge 4 (+1 Discerning Motive Rolls)

Merits :
Ambidexterous 1(***), Gunslinger 1 (***), Quick Draw 1 (*)

Willpower :
Humanity : 7
Derangements : Narcissism

Virtue :
Vice : Wrath

Health :
Initiative : 6
Defense : 2
Speed : 10
Blood potency : 1
Disciplines : Dominate 1, Resilience , Animalism , Crochan 2
Vitea/per turn : 10/1

"Born? Y'wanna know how old I am? Sensitive topic, friend. 1950, if you must know. To quote an overly-popular novel, 'it was the best of times, it was the worst of times'."

"Speakin' of bein' born, I grew up in the bayou. Nice place, if you can get over the slurpin' and poppin' sounds of people eatin' them damnable crawfish."

"Don't let my hatred of shellfish fool you, I was a well-spoken and well-adjusted individual, not like these other fellas. I admit to having a bit of a temper, sure, but for the most part, I could smooth-talk the best of 'em."

"My sire? Another loaded question. It seems you're full of 'em. Well, in any case, my 'sire' was a bar tramp. Nice enough lookin' gal. Bit frumpy, but didn't have that bar-room grunge look just yet. Figured she hadn't been around very long. Hoo, was I wrong. Been around a while, that one. Not anymore. Killed her. Don't look at me like that. It was accidental. I was hammered, and the embrace had come during what I had assumed to be some incredibly intense and semi-painful love-makin'. Didn't even notice, I suppose. Woke up the next morning feeling exceptionally groggy. I heard her babbling something behind me as I stumbled 'round. Didn't hear it. Head was buzzing like a sack of pissed-off bumblebees. So... I threw open the blinds. That's when my bed burst into flames. Lucky me, all standin' off to the side. Crazy bitch took it full in the face."

"I was hauled through the streets that night. Ripped away from the bar so fast that the shot glass I had been raising to drain hovered in the air for a moment. Like it was confused. Pretty funny, thinking back on it. Thugs didn't think so, when I pointed it out to 'em in the cab. Next thing I knew, some fancy-talkin' bureaucrat type was blathering on about "Kindred" society and their rules. Made some accusations about tho whole bed-bursting-into-flames thing. I guess the confusion in my eyes - or the stupid look on my face - explained everything for me. They just tossed me out into the street with a sarcastic 'good luck'. Nice enough group."

"Old habits from my life? My sense of style, friend. Also, my free-spirited nature. Boyish good looks, too, I might add. Though, that last part's not really something I can brag about. Might as well be embalmed, what with how permanent these features are."

"Don't really have a 'haven' as 'we' apparently call it. Just wander from bar to bar each night. Find a Motel 6 or run down Marriott to hole up in each morning. Bars are convenient. Drinks, drugs, and easy feeding. Sometimes all from the same juice-sack."

"What keeps me going? That's a good one. A real good one. That's the kind of question theologians and philosophers ask of themselves, and of others. What keeps me going...?

Having a good time."

Zeventig AKA "Seventy" is an odd fellow. Standing at 6'1" and wearing his "trademark" - as he calls it - fedora complete with ostentatiously wide brim and ridiculous Seven of Spades playing card tucked into the band, he cuts an impressive - or at least noticeable - silhouette. Below the hat is piled a wildly unkempt-but-somehow-still-fashionable mop of dirty blonde - or is it brown? - hair which seems unable to decide if it wants to be curly or not. Below that is what he calls a "devilishly delightful facade". Adorning said facade are a strong jawline, handsomely cleft chin, and eyes that seem to announce - quite loudly, for eyes, it should be noted - that they know all too well that they're screwed into a comely face. The rest of him is clad all in black, and is at a glance obviously expensive though noticeably well-worn. Long, black suit jacket with small, silver, oddly-shaped cufflinks, gold-embroidered vest, belt with the obligatory decorative belt-buckle - also oddly-shaped - and black business slacks tucked into nearly knee-high boots with even more gold embroidery. Strapped openly and proudly to his hip is an almost Wild West style holster, and nestled gently in said holster is an ornately engraved revolver whose revolving chamber is ever-so-slightly larger than average.
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