Francis Ramsay St. Michael

Started by RUNE, September 15, 2019, 06:23:49 PM

RUNE

Francis Ramsay "Frank the Tank" St. Michael












Age:  39
Gender:  Male


Primary Occupation:  Spacer
Secondary Occupation (optional):  Certified Powerloader Operator
Equipment:  Federal Powerloader License, coveralls, worn boots, back brace, carpal tunnel gloves, bottle of extra strength anti-inflammatory medication, case of cold brewskis, a modified .357 Magnum, and what co-workers believe is the same cigar he just keeps chewing.


Appearance:  Middle aged, stocky build, somewhat out of shape. Looks like he might've been an athlete once, but preferred lifting 12 oz weights if you know what I mean.
Faceclaim:  Mike Hagerty


Initial Personality:  Gruff, somewhat entitled blue collar type who always believes his age and experience is more valuable than any newbies to the crew fresh out of technical training courses despite the fact that he's never learned to do much more than operate a power loader. Is afraid of change.
Underlying Personality:  Is also afraid of dogs.


Known History:  Won't confirm whether or not he graduated high school, but loves to tell the story about how he totally banged three chicks at the same time.
Other History:  Didn't do either of those things, but has had two failed marriages and most of his pay goes to alimony.


Skills and Strengths:  Runs a powerloader like nobody's business. Does the same with his mouth. Claims to have killed a guy, but who knows?
Weaknesses:  Deathly afraid of dogs due to being bit by one as a kid, but always leaves out the part where he was throwing fire crackers at it. Isn't very smart, or confident, despite putting on a gruff act. Has more health issues from his sedentary career choice and otherwise terrible personal decisions than he wants to admit, and is always looking for a way to be compensated for what he claims are "work-related" conditions. The most the company has ponied up is a donut seat.



I know that I hung on a windy tree nine long nights, wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin, myself to myself, on that tree of which no man knows from where its roots run.
No bread did they give me nor a drink from a horn, downwards I peered; I took up the runes, screaming I took them, then I fell back from there.
The songs I know that king's wives know not Nor men that are sons of men.
So do I write and color the runes.

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