Post by Jedidiah Grimm on Oct 27, 2009 21:39:03 GMT -6
ID Photo: 
Name: Jedidiah Grimm
Age: 35
Height: 5'8
Weight: 160 lbs
Eye Color: Dark Brown
Hair Color: Black
Gender: Male
Date of Birth: December 14th 1889
Place of Birth: Maynard, Texas, U.S.
Ethnicity: American
Kin:
Natalie Grimm (deceased)
Eustes Grimm (Living)
Mary Grimm (Living)
Nathan Grimm (Deceased)
Matthew Grimm (Deceased)
Physical Description: Grimm is less than imposing according to his opponents. He is rather short, and he weighs next to nothing. His muscles are thick, however, and well toned. His skin is an olive tan from his time in the blistering Texas sun. He has scars that riddle his body from years in the business, but the main one that he is renowned for is the gruesome "X" carved over his heart. After years of breeding his fascination for human mortality he has finally replaced love with his own remedy: death. His fists are jagged and scarred from his years of boxing and wrestling. He is rather handsome in a roguish, rugged sort of way. He has a sort of haunting look about him. As if something has faded from long ago.
Personality: Cupid Grimm is one of those people you do your best to avoid, but you can't help but be drawn to him. He has a magnetism that can't be explained. He has strengths and moral short comings that make him somewhat of an ideal anti-hero, and a hero at the same time. He is selfish, and sees nothing wrong with sacrificing some to kill one. He isn't the cliche cold and calculating type, just blatant and realistic. He knows death is certain in war, so he embraces it. If a soldier dies, he knew it was his time because he enlisted in the army.
Medical History: Fractured Nose, May 4th, 1900
4 Broken fingers, December 9th 1911, March 20th 1915, and June 5th 1917
Gun shot wound to the leg March 20th 1915
Gun Shot wound to the bicep, forearm, and hand March 20th 1915, October 17th 1918, June 5th 1917 (respectively)
Shrapnel in left pectoral November 8th, 1916
Stab wounds in ribs, right pectoral, buttocks, and back November 19th 1916
Classification: "Doctor"
Sub-Class: N/A
Rank: N/A
Money: 90$
-2.50$: Cleaver
-7.95$: 7" Hunting Knife
-12.50: 2 9" Combat Knives
-6.45$: 14" Parang
-7.95$: Firemen's Axe
= 52.65
Occupation: Doctor
Personal History:
Firstly, something that should be known about Cupid Grimm is that he is no run of the mill Doctor. He isn't the "out to do the good thing" Samaritan that most doctors are. He's a curious one, who uses his medical knowledge to study things he doesn't understand. Mostly this deals with human mortality. He is fascinated with what makes the human body cease its functions and whatnot.
Jedidiah Grimm was born in Maynard, Texas, to parents who didn't necessarily want him. . . He was supposed to be an abortion, but it failed. He survived the abortion and was brought into the world. He was raised as a military and a farmer child, his father being an officer in the American army and his mother being the daughter of an officer in the same military. He was schooled in an all boys military academy, where he was well versed in military procedure, strategy, and history. It was there however, that he found a passion for medical studies instead, and so he was the first person in his family to go to college, to medical school in fact.
When he was 16 he graduated from the academy at the back of his class. Not because he was stupid or incapable, but because he simply didn't try. He didn't care if he scored high or not. He kept to himself and studied alone. He was usually found buried in a book about Napoleon Bonaparte or studies on Hannibal of Carthage. He was a very dedicated fan of both military figures.
When he was 18 he was enlisted in the navy where he was able to flaunt his natural talent for boxing, and utilized his upbringing around Greco-Roman Wrestling to show the members of his squad that he was a very capable fighter. In fact he won many fights, becoming one of the best the Navy had seen, although it held very little value except for himself. Through his prowess with hand to hand combat he became well trained with blades and other melee weapons. He preferred those over guns, although he never really got to use a firearm anyways.
When he was 26 he quit the navy as a corpsman during WW1 and went off to medical school. He wasn't about to die for them. If he was going to die, he wanted to know why. That strange fascination with human fatality came through once more. Why was he in Europe? He was sent to a French medical school to learn, which he did with exceptional tact. He was officially a licensed doctor. It wasn't until he was32 that he was caught experimenting on cadavers. It was illegal, as always, and was even accused of experimenting on real people, which he didn't defend his position on it. He was locked up, and only three years later he was released, but not by choice. The epidemic had flooded over Europe, and no one could maintain the prisons. Soon he was released because there was no one to keep him in there. He fled to Britain, which was supposed to be the only safe place. . .But he was wrong.
He has been wandering around, drunk, ever since. Although he still maintains his exceptional physical condition, continually training in wrestling, boxing, and knife fighting. He has met plenty of military and freelance groups, but none of them have appealed to him, not even for the advantage of numbers for survival. He despises most Mercenaries, and most soldiers and their obedient, dog-like behavior disgusts him. He hasn't found anyone he identifies with, and he doubts he ever will. . .That's why he has made his own platoon, the Grimm Platoon, consisting of World War 1's Grimm Reaper, and only him. Survival of the fittest he says, and he's the fittest one on the island.
>Skills:
Classification Skill: Medic
Mastered Skills:Martial Arts
Superior Skills: Blades
Minor Skills:Lab Rat
>Abilities:
Classification Ability: Observation
Mastered Abilities: Smart
Superior Abilities: Courage
Minor Abilities: Speed
>Equipment on Person:
-Gas Mask (Located hooked to his pack usually)
-Dirty White Lab Coat
-Several knife sheaths located on his body
-black sweater
-olive cargo fatigues
-black military boots
-canned tuna
-field bread
-(18) dried and salted meat sticks
>In Pack:
-simple gauze military dressing
-morphine
-needles and thread
-bandages
-Misc. chemicals
>In Storage:
- None
>Primary Weapon:
Weapon: N/A
Caliber: N/A
Location on Body: N/A
Modifications: N/A
>Secondary Weapon (Military or Mercenary only):
Weapon: N/A
Caliber: N/A
Location on Body: N/A
Modifications: N/A
>Melee Weapon:
Weapon: 14" Parang, Fire Axe, 2 9' Combat Knives, Cleaver, 7" Hunting Knife
Location on Body: Shoulder Blade and Back, Forearm and chest, hip, and thigh(respectively)
Sample Post:
After days of choking on smoke through his gas mask, Grimm finally ran out of cigarettes, much to his dismay. Currently stationed in London, England, he was slowly decaying of stagnancy. He hadn't moved from his small room in almost a week. There was nothing to move for. He had his booze by his side, his now empty cartons of cigarettes littering the ground at his feet, and an old record of Italian opera playing over and over again to his left. His conscience was slowly lulled into hypnosis almost two days ago. He simply stared forward now. He would take the occasional sip of whiskey, or lift his gas mask to stick another cigarette in his mouth and light it before slowly letting the mask return to its place around his face.
That's when he heard the shots and screams. Something was on the rise outside and he didn't move. He was a statue now. Until he was called upon once more in a time of need. He scoured the empty cigarette packages, but his search was in vain. There were none left. He looked towards the door, his hypnosis broken. He would have to go down the street to buy more. But did he want to? Not really. . . he wanted to remain in his rocking chair and listen to the mourning voice of the singer. But he needed more cigarettes. That was his lifeblood these days. He moved towards the door.
There was a noise on the other side. Someone was running through the halls. Rampant kids. . .He hated them. He finished his last cigarette, putting it out on his exposed arm. He opened the door only to be submerged in chaos. He was tackled to the floor by a small blond headed boy who was weeping and screaming with fear. The boy was gripping Grimm tightly, trying to stay away from something. An old lady, who usually haunts the downstairs lobby, came rushing in. She looked around wildly. Her eyes were filled with a starving, far off gaze. Her sight fed off of the two people on the floor. She lunged at them. Grimm, relying on instincts, rolled to the side with the boy. He tried to calm her down when he noticed the blood soaking her nightgown. Something was wrong and he needed to fix it. She came rushing at him again, he threw the boy to the side and pushed the woman down. She had incredible strength for her age. . .She rushed once more, and again. And once more. He grabbed the knife from its sheath on his shoulder and plunged it into her heart.
The woman twitched and grabbed onto him and threw him. He landed none too softly on the floor and skidded a foot or two. He scrambled to his feet while she charged, mouth gaping. He kicked her back, but she was relentless. She came back, throwing him once more. He struggled. The smoke filled his lungs. . .He could barely breathe. He grabbed her wrist and twisted, snapping it. She didn't blink. She continually snapped at his throat. He grabbed the knife from her breast and thrust it through her skull several times. He continued until she moved no more. He looked over in the corner where the boy was cowering. He didn't want to take chances. . .He was a murderer now, and he couldn't leave witnesses.
On the brighter side of things, he assured himself, was that this way he made sure that this madness didn't sink into the boy's head, perhaps causing him to attack unexpectedly. He hefted his axe that was leaning up against the wall near the rocking chair and approached the boy. He raised the axe, drawing in a deep breath of air. As he exhaled he allowed the blade to drop, connecting with the soft flesh. After repeating this process thrice more, he cleaned his axe and gathered his things. He was sure the police would be after him soon. . .He was a murderer. . .
As he left the small, single room apartment, he noticed the streaks of blood that marred the dusty wooden floor. Perhaps he wasn't the only murderer after all. . .He made his way down the stairs where. . .What was this? A man was devouring a woman. . .Something was terribly wrong. Perhaps he was better off in America. . .The Brits were collapsing before his very eyes. The man jerked his head towards him, and charged. He grabbed the man by the forearms and the inertia of the charge sent them sprawling across the floor. Using his wrestling training, he rolled the man through the crash and landed on top of him. He plunged the knife through the man's face. He did this several times. He didn't want to take any chances. He looked to see the woman charging him. He stood just in time to meet her throat with the blade, severing her head from her shoulders.
The blood sprayed across the floor and onto his black sweater. He grabbed for his gas mask and put it over his face. . .maybe the krauts weren't done after all. . .Maybe they had some chemical they were introducing to a victorious enemy. . .He wasn't about to be a part of it. He made his way out of the small hotel and looked out in the streets where chaos was ensuing at a rapid pace. People were being torn limb from limb, gun shots rang through the streets. Everything was in the air now. . .Just waiting to drop to the ground and shatter. Someone rushed towards him out of his peripherals. He drew his combat knife and threw it at the person, sticking them dead, and then approaching and stabbing them in the skull. He wasn't taking chances. . .Everyone was a hostile in his book. . .As smoke curled into the sky and the blood ran down the streets, he made his way to a place he felt would be a little safer. . .As he walked, a mocking, jolly old cobbler nailing a pair of old shoes grinned at him from a sign, the lettering, now blood smeared, read :Welcome to London.
Welcome to London. . .Welcome to Hell. . .
Name: Jedidiah Grimm
Age: 35
Height: 5'8
Weight: 160 lbs
Eye Color: Dark Brown
Hair Color: Black
Gender: Male
Date of Birth: December 14th 1889
Place of Birth: Maynard, Texas, U.S.
Ethnicity: American
Kin:
Natalie Grimm (deceased)
Eustes Grimm (Living)
Mary Grimm (Living)
Nathan Grimm (Deceased)
Matthew Grimm (Deceased)
Physical Description: Grimm is less than imposing according to his opponents. He is rather short, and he weighs next to nothing. His muscles are thick, however, and well toned. His skin is an olive tan from his time in the blistering Texas sun. He has scars that riddle his body from years in the business, but the main one that he is renowned for is the gruesome "X" carved over his heart. After years of breeding his fascination for human mortality he has finally replaced love with his own remedy: death. His fists are jagged and scarred from his years of boxing and wrestling. He is rather handsome in a roguish, rugged sort of way. He has a sort of haunting look about him. As if something has faded from long ago.
Personality: Cupid Grimm is one of those people you do your best to avoid, but you can't help but be drawn to him. He has a magnetism that can't be explained. He has strengths and moral short comings that make him somewhat of an ideal anti-hero, and a hero at the same time. He is selfish, and sees nothing wrong with sacrificing some to kill one. He isn't the cliche cold and calculating type, just blatant and realistic. He knows death is certain in war, so he embraces it. If a soldier dies, he knew it was his time because he enlisted in the army.
Medical History: Fractured Nose, May 4th, 1900
4 Broken fingers, December 9th 1911, March 20th 1915, and June 5th 1917
Gun shot wound to the leg March 20th 1915
Gun Shot wound to the bicep, forearm, and hand March 20th 1915, October 17th 1918, June 5th 1917 (respectively)
Shrapnel in left pectoral November 8th, 1916
Stab wounds in ribs, right pectoral, buttocks, and back November 19th 1916
Classification: "Doctor"
Sub-Class: N/A
Rank: N/A
Money: 90$
-2.50$: Cleaver
-7.95$: 7" Hunting Knife
-12.50: 2 9" Combat Knives
-6.45$: 14" Parang
-7.95$: Firemen's Axe
= 52.65
Occupation: Doctor
Personal History:
Firstly, something that should be known about Cupid Grimm is that he is no run of the mill Doctor. He isn't the "out to do the good thing" Samaritan that most doctors are. He's a curious one, who uses his medical knowledge to study things he doesn't understand. Mostly this deals with human mortality. He is fascinated with what makes the human body cease its functions and whatnot.
Jedidiah Grimm was born in Maynard, Texas, to parents who didn't necessarily want him. . . He was supposed to be an abortion, but it failed. He survived the abortion and was brought into the world. He was raised as a military and a farmer child, his father being an officer in the American army and his mother being the daughter of an officer in the same military. He was schooled in an all boys military academy, where he was well versed in military procedure, strategy, and history. It was there however, that he found a passion for medical studies instead, and so he was the first person in his family to go to college, to medical school in fact.
When he was 16 he graduated from the academy at the back of his class. Not because he was stupid or incapable, but because he simply didn't try. He didn't care if he scored high or not. He kept to himself and studied alone. He was usually found buried in a book about Napoleon Bonaparte or studies on Hannibal of Carthage. He was a very dedicated fan of both military figures.
When he was 18 he was enlisted in the navy where he was able to flaunt his natural talent for boxing, and utilized his upbringing around Greco-Roman Wrestling to show the members of his squad that he was a very capable fighter. In fact he won many fights, becoming one of the best the Navy had seen, although it held very little value except for himself. Through his prowess with hand to hand combat he became well trained with blades and other melee weapons. He preferred those over guns, although he never really got to use a firearm anyways.
When he was 26 he quit the navy as a corpsman during WW1 and went off to medical school. He wasn't about to die for them. If he was going to die, he wanted to know why. That strange fascination with human fatality came through once more. Why was he in Europe? He was sent to a French medical school to learn, which he did with exceptional tact. He was officially a licensed doctor. It wasn't until he was32 that he was caught experimenting on cadavers. It was illegal, as always, and was even accused of experimenting on real people, which he didn't defend his position on it. He was locked up, and only three years later he was released, but not by choice. The epidemic had flooded over Europe, and no one could maintain the prisons. Soon he was released because there was no one to keep him in there. He fled to Britain, which was supposed to be the only safe place. . .But he was wrong.
He has been wandering around, drunk, ever since. Although he still maintains his exceptional physical condition, continually training in wrestling, boxing, and knife fighting. He has met plenty of military and freelance groups, but none of them have appealed to him, not even for the advantage of numbers for survival. He despises most Mercenaries, and most soldiers and their obedient, dog-like behavior disgusts him. He hasn't found anyone he identifies with, and he doubts he ever will. . .That's why he has made his own platoon, the Grimm Platoon, consisting of World War 1's Grimm Reaper, and only him. Survival of the fittest he says, and he's the fittest one on the island.
>Skills:
Classification Skill: Medic
Mastered Skills:Martial Arts
Superior Skills: Blades
Minor Skills:Lab Rat
>Abilities:
Classification Ability: Observation
Mastered Abilities: Smart
Superior Abilities: Courage
Minor Abilities: Speed
>Equipment on Person:
-Gas Mask (Located hooked to his pack usually)
-Dirty White Lab Coat
-Several knife sheaths located on his body
-black sweater
-olive cargo fatigues
-black military boots
-canned tuna
-field bread
-(18) dried and salted meat sticks
>In Pack:
-simple gauze military dressing
-morphine
-needles and thread
-bandages
-Misc. chemicals
>In Storage:
- None
>Primary Weapon:
Weapon: N/A
Caliber: N/A
Location on Body: N/A
Modifications: N/A
>Secondary Weapon (Military or Mercenary only):
Weapon: N/A
Caliber: N/A
Location on Body: N/A
Modifications: N/A
>Melee Weapon:
Weapon: 14" Parang, Fire Axe, 2 9' Combat Knives, Cleaver, 7" Hunting Knife
Location on Body: Shoulder Blade and Back, Forearm and chest, hip, and thigh(respectively)
Sample Post:
After days of choking on smoke through his gas mask, Grimm finally ran out of cigarettes, much to his dismay. Currently stationed in London, England, he was slowly decaying of stagnancy. He hadn't moved from his small room in almost a week. There was nothing to move for. He had his booze by his side, his now empty cartons of cigarettes littering the ground at his feet, and an old record of Italian opera playing over and over again to his left. His conscience was slowly lulled into hypnosis almost two days ago. He simply stared forward now. He would take the occasional sip of whiskey, or lift his gas mask to stick another cigarette in his mouth and light it before slowly letting the mask return to its place around his face.
That's when he heard the shots and screams. Something was on the rise outside and he didn't move. He was a statue now. Until he was called upon once more in a time of need. He scoured the empty cigarette packages, but his search was in vain. There were none left. He looked towards the door, his hypnosis broken. He would have to go down the street to buy more. But did he want to? Not really. . . he wanted to remain in his rocking chair and listen to the mourning voice of the singer. But he needed more cigarettes. That was his lifeblood these days. He moved towards the door.
There was a noise on the other side. Someone was running through the halls. Rampant kids. . .He hated them. He finished his last cigarette, putting it out on his exposed arm. He opened the door only to be submerged in chaos. He was tackled to the floor by a small blond headed boy who was weeping and screaming with fear. The boy was gripping Grimm tightly, trying to stay away from something. An old lady, who usually haunts the downstairs lobby, came rushing in. She looked around wildly. Her eyes were filled with a starving, far off gaze. Her sight fed off of the two people on the floor. She lunged at them. Grimm, relying on instincts, rolled to the side with the boy. He tried to calm her down when he noticed the blood soaking her nightgown. Something was wrong and he needed to fix it. She came rushing at him again, he threw the boy to the side and pushed the woman down. She had incredible strength for her age. . .She rushed once more, and again. And once more. He grabbed the knife from its sheath on his shoulder and plunged it into her heart.
The woman twitched and grabbed onto him and threw him. He landed none too softly on the floor and skidded a foot or two. He scrambled to his feet while she charged, mouth gaping. He kicked her back, but she was relentless. She came back, throwing him once more. He struggled. The smoke filled his lungs. . .He could barely breathe. He grabbed her wrist and twisted, snapping it. She didn't blink. She continually snapped at his throat. He grabbed the knife from her breast and thrust it through her skull several times. He continued until she moved no more. He looked over in the corner where the boy was cowering. He didn't want to take chances. . .He was a murderer now, and he couldn't leave witnesses.
On the brighter side of things, he assured himself, was that this way he made sure that this madness didn't sink into the boy's head, perhaps causing him to attack unexpectedly. He hefted his axe that was leaning up against the wall near the rocking chair and approached the boy. He raised the axe, drawing in a deep breath of air. As he exhaled he allowed the blade to drop, connecting with the soft flesh. After repeating this process thrice more, he cleaned his axe and gathered his things. He was sure the police would be after him soon. . .He was a murderer. . .
As he left the small, single room apartment, he noticed the streaks of blood that marred the dusty wooden floor. Perhaps he wasn't the only murderer after all. . .He made his way down the stairs where. . .What was this? A man was devouring a woman. . .Something was terribly wrong. Perhaps he was better off in America. . .The Brits were collapsing before his very eyes. The man jerked his head towards him, and charged. He grabbed the man by the forearms and the inertia of the charge sent them sprawling across the floor. Using his wrestling training, he rolled the man through the crash and landed on top of him. He plunged the knife through the man's face. He did this several times. He didn't want to take any chances. He looked to see the woman charging him. He stood just in time to meet her throat with the blade, severing her head from her shoulders.
The blood sprayed across the floor and onto his black sweater. He grabbed for his gas mask and put it over his face. . .maybe the krauts weren't done after all. . .Maybe they had some chemical they were introducing to a victorious enemy. . .He wasn't about to be a part of it. He made his way out of the small hotel and looked out in the streets where chaos was ensuing at a rapid pace. People were being torn limb from limb, gun shots rang through the streets. Everything was in the air now. . .Just waiting to drop to the ground and shatter. Someone rushed towards him out of his peripherals. He drew his combat knife and threw it at the person, sticking them dead, and then approaching and stabbing them in the skull. He wasn't taking chances. . .Everyone was a hostile in his book. . .As smoke curled into the sky and the blood ran down the streets, he made his way to a place he felt would be a little safer. . .As he walked, a mocking, jolly old cobbler nailing a pair of old shoes grinned at him from a sign, the lettering, now blood smeared, read :Welcome to London.
Welcome to London. . .Welcome to Hell. . .
and i was a tad busy... >.> Damn school...