Character Application - Charlie Rook

[Charlie Rook]

PLAYER QUESTIONS:

Do you have any prior experience with Requiem?

Definitely.

How did you hear about Requiem?

The UORP community is a small world!

CHARACTER QUESTIONS:

What will your character’s name be?

Charlie Rook

Please briefly describe the physical attributes of your character, including age, looks, height, weight and any notable features:

A greasy mop of unkempt, curly red hair connects to the shadow of a scruffy beard, framing a characteristically crooked smirk set below an equally crooked septum. His wide jaw and strong chin tilt up haughtily, his pale green eyes peering down the uneven course of his nose in apparent disdain. The blooming wreckage of what were once small ears flank either side of his head— now misshapen and withered from the characteristic swelling and shrinking of cauliflower ear. A faded scar runs down his top lip, in front of his right canine.

Rook’s demeanor is relaxed and lazy— always languishing and leaning— as though he can’t be bothered to resist gravity if he can avoid it. Of obvious Yultish stock, Rook is lean, tall, broad, and athletic— and more than a little haggard. Like a workhorse forced to labor beyond its limits or a Duffield Reaper left too long to languish in the fields, his body creaks and groans and pops and sticks when roused from respite.

Please provide a few short paragraphs with pertinent details or notable qualities of your character’s history. This does not have to be exhaustive nor revealing of any information you wish to keep secret:

Charlie Rook, was born (Midsummer 27, 1321) in the Galehorns of Yultac.

His mother passed of acute respiratory complications during childbirth, a condition stemming from her extended residence in the Galehorn Mines. His father, himself the son of a carnie and a weaver, worked as an entertainer— traveling Yultac with a performing troupe.

Raised among a wagon train, Charlie had a host of influences from a young age. As the years passed, he began to assist his father in his performances. Together, their feats of ‘derring-do’ shocked and amazed their modest audiences.

Precocious and fickle, it wasn’t until a fateful evening in the Port of Dwindain, standing atop his father’s shoulders to peer over the arena walls, where he caught sight of his true calling. His life’s obsession. Ten men. Eighteen-point two meters of pure, unadulterated violence. A display of class, but also of skill and athleticism. A fusion of civility and savagery. Swerve Sphere.

That night, in Dwindain’s first official unofficial inter-league exhibition match, the Dwindain Wolf Hounds played against the second string of Redholme’s own Wolford Wolves. A natural rivalry, the promoters thought, until the Wolford Wolves inflicted one life-ending and four career-ending injuries in the first five minutes of the match. It was the darkest day in Yultish Swerve Sphere history. The papers would go on to refer to the match as the Dwindain massacre, the moniker replacing in the public’s memory the tale of the original Dwindain massacre, in which the Republic surrounded and summarily executed a group of peaceful Yultish dissenters during the Reckoning.

A dark day for Dwindain, and for Yultac, but not so for Charlie. His father, ever a thrifty opportunist, managed to claim a wooden sphere that had come over the fence after the enraged fans rushed the field, during the ensuing riot. For Charlie, it was the beginning of a lifelong passion.

Signed to the Galehorn Canaries in 1336, Charlie was a standout pelter— familiar as he was, by now, with hurling the sphere to devastating effect. His rookie season in the Junior Official Unofficial Yultac Swerve Sphere League he led the league in ‘Technical Loss of Consciousness’ submissions. His standout playoff performance amid a mediocre field gained him the attention of the Foundry, looking to fill out the ranks of the Yultac Club of their Republic Swerve Sphere Team.

In 1337 he entered Foundry service, paying to play the beautiful game in what was a shaky rookie season as part of the club’s practice team. Overmatched by the team’s first string, and set up to fail in order to boost the confidence of the team’s highborn roster, it was a crucible for Rook. Struggling to make the foundry fees to play, even as their play schedule kept them on the road and occupied for seven out of every eight days. It was Rook’s transient upbringing and his people’s talent for eking out a living on the road which allowed him pursue the dream.

After four grueling years he would go on to join the Official Unofficial Yultac Swerve Sphere League and sign with the Dwindain Rams in 1341, the team having since rebranded from the Dwindain massacre.

Where others couldn’t hack the brutal, and sometimes downright inhumane, conditions of Official Unofficial Leagues, Rook persisted. He would later recount this experience in an interview with the Republic Sentinel, SINNER TAKES ON SAINTS. Rook had this to say:

“Ain’t a life fahr most. Can ye ‘magine, sleepin wit ten ahther men in cattle cars? Wahrkin sahmtimes two, three jahbs ta even be able ta play— boeht noaht bein’ able ta ‘ahld even one down ahn accoohnt o’ bein’ ahn dee road seven days ooeht o’ eight?

Lookin into dee faces o’ brahken lads, knowin’ deir sufferen’ was fer naught— deir dream o’ playin dee beautifoehl game in dee beg leagues was o’er due to injury ahr seckness ahr agin ooeht.

It makes a man inventive. Ya steal. Ya lie. Ya cheat. I ‘ate to tell ya, boeht a fella can’t soehrvive dat life any o’er way. Ye’ve given oehp so moehch already ta get where ya are, ‘ow cooehld you naht?”

This attitude, apparently, paid dividends. Rook’s unconventional playstyle and bombastic off-court attitude made waves even among the lowborn of the Official Unofficial league, but no one could deny his insatiable love and incredible aptitude for the game. It wasn’t long before his innovative, agile, explosive– and often selfish– playmaking started garnering attention.

In 1342, after significant internal debate amongst managing partners and external debate with the Redholme League’s governing authority, the Drayside Reed Cats offered to contract Rook under a starting pelter position. His dream of playing in the big leagues was finally being realized.

But no dream was ever realized in Redholme without substantial cost. His given name, deemed unpalatable for Redholme high-society and audiences alike, was stripped. And so, he became Charlie Rook.

Unfortunately for Rook, the moniker wasn’t enough to shed his reputation, nor was it enough to overcome the audience’s natural suspicion of westerners or purist fan’s disdain for his less than gentile birth. His blustering attitude, his ungentlemanly chirping, and his unconventional style of play— which was seen as dirty by most— made him the perfect villain for Redholme audiences, and the perfect heel for the gentry who opposed him on the court. Though unclear to Rook at the time, this was exactly the reason he was called up.

Fortunately for Rook, he seemed to thrive on controversy. The more pressure the league put on him, the more sanctions he was under, the better he played. His rookie season saw him leading the league once more in ‘Technical Loss of Consciousness’ submissions, and though he was a leading contender for rookie of the year, the RSSA (Republic Swerve Sphere Association) issued a controversial ruling that his HGS (Head and Groin Shot) average was too high to warrant eligibility.

In a strange turn, the RSSA’s heavy-handed ruling won some of Swerve Sphere’s most ardent fans to Rook’s side. Taken by his flashy on-court play, his biting quips to reporters hecklers, and his general devil-may-care attitude, his following grew by leaps and bounds— particularly among the new money of Redholme, who themselves felt ostracized by Prelacy institutions.

Rook would go on to have a divisive career— each success marred by some controversy or governing-body imposed roadblock. As his following grew, and his approach to Swerve Sphere began to proliferate through the league, there were powerful cries to crack down on what some described as the “pollution” and “desecration” of the beautiful game.

In one of his more notable escapades, Theodore “The Stick” Barlow, in a fit of anger, crossed the center line and began to angrily poke Rook in the chest and accuse him of unbuttoning his VF-430 leather pistol mount, an accusation which Rook vehemently denied. Rook, purportedly “not keen to having a finger in his face, nor his honor impugned” elected to sink his teeth into Barlow’s finger as the other man attempted to solicit a penalty from the officiant. Both received technical submissions for “ungentlemanly conduct”, and Rook was ordered to make a begrudging statement apologizing for his “gross misconduct, unbefitting the sport.”

In professional play, Rook would set a number of league records; being the player to be found to have had the most of his own bones broken in a single match without succumbing to submission.

He was the first player to score a glut of gluts, performing five gluts (five technical submissions in one match) in five consecutive games in standard league play– a feat which prompted a number of unsubstantiated claims of Rook using weighted, illegal spheres.

He pioneered what was dubbed by the media as the “Rook Hook”, a pelting style in which the ball would curve at the last moment, sticking unsuspecting opponents who believed themselves outside of the strike zone of the heavy wooden ball.

Some of his most notable achievements include:

By 1346, he’d broken the career record for gluts by a single pelter.

In 1347, he achieved the record for most technical submissions in a single season.

In 1348, he led the Drayside Reed Cats to championship contention for the first time in a decade.

This success, though, was marred by controversy. Haunted by doping allegations since his breakout season in 1340, they finally caught up with Rook in 1348 when a suspicious syringe was found in his locker. The Venerated Apothecary Corps would lead an independent inquiry, determining it to be a Drox blood syringe, but adding they were unable to determine to sufficient certainty it belonged to Rook— noting conflicting interests, being a “much maligned” figure, and ease of locker room access as “sufficiently degrading to confidence” that the syringe did indeed belong to Rook. Further, their report dictated that Rook’s eager submission to mutagen testing did not reveal any substantial outliers that would have indicated illicit use.

But even as the doping controversy was quietly smothered by the VAC report, another was kindling. In Goldleaf, 1348 Rook was sanctioned by the RSSA for alleged match fixing. Rook adamantly denied the allegation to the Republic Sentinel, reportedly saying that the League Commissioner had failed to implicate him over the planted syringe and was now trying to implicate him on a false charge in the hopes of burying the Drayside Reed Cats’ championship bid. Rook was censured, sanctioned and fined by the RSSA for this outburst, who released a statement saying that “no one player or team is above the sanctity and purity of the sport” and that “if the allegations are false, the RSSA’s independent investigation will reflect that.” They did not comment, however, if the Drayside Reed Cats would be allowed to compete for the championship, or if the next seed would take their place.

Briefly state your character’s intentions or motivations for entering the First Province:

Rook is purportedly on a promotional tour pending the findings of the Republic Swerve Sphere Association, tasked with drumming up interest and support in the region through contractual obligation.

Scenario Response:

“I said, ‘Next applicant’.” Came the insistent, indignant demand from the officiant.

Rook blew out his cheeks in annoyance. “Ahhhhhh, weeeeell tank you fahr gracin’ me. Who's dee archbeshap? I've been waitin’ so foehckin’ lahng I figured I shoold ask.”

He could feel the eyes of the crowd as his back straightened, and he did his best to look disinterested as he slid the visa across the counter, pulling the hood of his cloak a little tighter to ward against the Frostmarch winds.

“Rook, Charlie.” The officiant read through pursed lips, his eyes narrowing slightly. He cast a cursory up, and then down at the visa, then back up. “Yeah, and I’m Aurelius Sicero. Hood down.”

“Ah feck off, bud.” Rook muttered, his hands shifting his hood down and his annoyed gaze sweeping aside and then down. Even avoiding the look of the officiant and crowd, Rook could feel the gawking stares settling in. He shifted from foot to foot impatiently, finally casting an expectant and demanding glance up at the officiant.

“Ohhh, the terror from Teramer himself.” The officiant crooned, a wide and mocking grin forming as he leaned in, his voice laced with disdain. “No swerve sphere here, galey. Finally kick your rotten ass out of the league, did they?”

“No craic, lad. Prahmotional tooehr, wahnt be 'ere lahng. Get ahn wit’ it, would ya?”

The officiant leaned back, attempting to conceal his shit-eating grin beneath a thin drape of professionalism. “No ‘craic’, Mister Rook. I’m afraid the morality clause under article eighteen allows me to refuse service entry to any ‘person or persons the perimeter authority finds to be of objectionable moral character or reputation.’”

“I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.” The officiant added as he leaned forward again, jutting out his lip, his voice overly saccharine and his words laced with a quiet delight.

“I came to get ahn dat train, boeht I’ll settle fahr knahckin’ yooehr foehckin’ teet’ in you—” Rook began, taking a step forward, his hands balled into tight fists.

“Charlie Rook, as I live an’ breathe!” Issued a booming a voice, the warmth and amity it carried a far cry from the exchange taking place.

Rook wheeled on a heel, temporarily disarmed by the friendly notice, and never one to miss engaging in positive attention. “Who’ave we 'ere den.”

“Frank Riordan, vicar to th’ perimiter ‘thority.” The robust man chimed, smiling cheerily and offering a nervous chuckle. “Well, get him stamped then.” He added, shooting an incredulous gaze to the officiant.

“I’m not sure Mister Rook here meets the moral quali—” The officiant squirmed, his previous joy having turned to a rock in his gut.

“I’m -quite sure- Mister Rook more than meets the requirements to entry, thank you.” The vicar retorted to the sound of a stamp falling angrily, his arm finding its way around Rook’s shoulders. “Glory t’th’ Orange and Brown, all hail Drayside.” Riordan whispered, offering a wink and a squeeze of the man’s shoulders before ushering him onwards

“-Next.- Applicant!” Sounded the officiants seething call from behind.

[Coty]

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