Identity: Daniel Jack Level: 3 (+1/-1) Side: Pirates? Maybe? I don't think he's realized he's a pirate yet. Sex: Male Age: 30s Training: Str Experience: 6175 Occupation: Ship Drunk Powers: Clearance:
Skills: +3 Dodge: -5 to be hit +3 Drunken Weaving: -6 to be hit while drunk Unexpected Lurch: +3 to hit while drunk Shillelagh Focus: +2 to hit using a Shillelagh Barfly: Bonus to interactions in bars Home Brew: Creates beers/ales with whatever he can get his hands on Distilling: Creates liquors/spirits with whatever he can get his hands on Tumbling Swim Seamanship
Weaknesses: Mumbles: Heavy drunk slur and an indecipherable Scottish accent. -3 to verbal Cha checks Alcoholic: Gets the shakes. -3 to Will checks.
Possessions: Shillelagh, +1d4 Ceramic jug on a strap Canvas sack, usually full of other empty bottles Kilt
Weight: 200 Basic Hits: 4 Agility Mod: Strength: 19 Meta: Intelligence: 13 Endurance: 18 Agility: 18 Charisma: 18 Will: 15 Hit Mods: (1.6)x(2.2)x(1.1)x(1.9)x(1.2)= 8.8 Hits: 35 Healing: 2.0 Power: 83 Inventing: 2.9 Movement: 55 Carrying: 865 HTH: 1d8 Damage Mod: +3 Accuracy: +5
Det. Hidden: 13.2 Det. Danger: 17.6 Height: 5'9" Wealth: 7 Knowledge Areas: English (Speak, kind of)
It's been a hell of a bender.
The specifics are a little hazy, but he knows he started out in his Scottish homeland. He's sure of that, and he's still got the kilt to prove it. ..Right?
Cracking an eye open to double check kilt status is an immediate regret. It's entirely too bright on this stretch of street near the pub where he must have passed out last night. Whether he came out here of his own volition or was forcibly removed is another mystery that his alcohol-fogged brain is unable to reconcile, but it's a detail that is brushed off as unimportant. He's damn well not in Scotland anymore, and he groans and slaps around on the ground for a moment until his hand encounters the large ceramic jug he carries with him all times, fumbling it open and tilting it up to pour the dregs of whatever survived the night into his mouth. Wiping his mouth and bushy red beard on the back of his hand, he gives opening his eyes another go as the rum hits his system and steadies him enough to push himself to his feet with his shillelagh, propping himself up against the wall as he gets used to the idea of being on his feet.
Rum. Wherever he is now, it has rum. That's a good point of reference. He started out in the land of scotch and whisky, passed through some ales along the way, made a detour through some wines and liquors, and landed in rum. Learning the local moonshine is the closest thing he's got to a cultural experience at each of those ports of call, and he lurches off the wall to weave his way down the street, aiming for the shady side of the road heading towards the docks. The sailors have generally welcomed him as an excellent drinking buddy and completely unintelligible storyteller, and don't tend to mind him curling up in the shade of their holds to sleep off a headache that would bring a god to their knees. He raises his jug in a toast to one of the dockmasters he drank with a night or two ago, then stumbles his way into the blessed darkness of the first open hold he finds to curl up behind some well-packed cargo and what looks promisingly like some ale casks, and immediately passes out again.
He completely misses the hold being closed up, or the ship leaving at all.
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