Name and Deed Name
Bobby Mercer Thrice Born, Twice Judged
Born: October 13th, 1979, Redhills, Cavan, Ireland.
Member of the Sept of River's Might
Breed: Homid Auspice: Philodox Tribe: Fianna Rank: Adren
Title:
Physical Description: Mercer stands 5'10 with a shaved head and blue eyes. Mercer has no obvious breeding, and in crinos his fur is a deep red and his eyes maintain their blue color. He almost always wears blue warpaint on his arms and torso. His clothing changes based on his current mission but almost always consists of a heavy belt with all the bits of metal, replacement parts for his armor and small amounts of raw materials his smithing may require, a highly modified biker jacket, and a trimetal scaled glove on his left hand. His left arm is almost always covered, concealing a scar from a fight he had with a balefire elemental. His torso is covered with the tattooed names of his former packmates and fallen friends.
When not actively engaged in a mission he can be found at his forge located at the stag shrine working one project or another, occasionally he seems to be simply hammering away with no specific project underway.
Relevant Merits/Flaws/Pure Breed: His forge is rarely silent and he seems to not sleep and is only away from the forge to tend to the mammoth shrine or his boat.
Character Information
Packs:
Glacial Stampede
Ends of the Earth
Fox Pack
More to come
Personal Totem:
Morrigan- The Celtic War Goddess
Renown
Glory 6
- Battle (fomori)
- Capitol Raid
- Hive Raid
- Medicci Assault x2
- Megalodon Raid
Honor 7
- Following Cuckoo One Year x-1
- Hive Raid
- Investigating Thistle
- Lost Job to Protect Sept x0 (Lost for Causing Sept Turmoil)
- Medicci Assault
- Performing Duty Beyond the Call
- Starting x3
- Using Police Info for Sept
Wisdom 7
- Calling Grain to Aid the Sept
- Coving Veil for Atraxia
- Following Cuckoo One Year
- Protecting the Veil (5-Aug-06)
- Reciting Litany at Moot (grand moot)
- Timely Reinforcements (medicci assault)
- Wise Planning (Capitol Raid)
Stories:
History: Born, Robert John Mercer in Ireland in 1979 to Mary "Relentless Pursuit" Mercer, Homid, Fianna, Ahroun, and Jack Mercer, Kinfolk. His parents moved to Baxter, MN. Mary's pack, Merlin's Speed, was pursuing a pack of Black Spiral dancers. The BSDs were tracked to an abandoned mine in Manganese, MN. In the course of the battle the mine was collapsed killing both the BSD and the pack of Merlin's Speed.
Jack Mercer slid into a depression and lost contact with the bulk of the Garou nation. Bobby was raised in various trailer parks in northern Minnesota with minimal contact with his family, until the death of his father. Jack Mercer died of cirrhosis of the liver in 1992, Bobby went to live with his maternal grandmother in Moeville, IA. There he became close with a cousin Megan, but with no pure breeding, and having reached 17 without going through his first change Bobby was of little interest to the Tribe.
He graduated the California Police academy in the summer of 1998 and was assigned to Imperial county drug interdiction. On his first week on solo patrol he chased a beat up El Camino to a roadhouse bar he had been warned to avoid, what would follow changed the course of his life forever...
First Change:
The bar sat on a nearly forgotten dirt road that runs into the mountains overlooking Slab City. The frequent sand storms had long since scrubbed the paint from the grey, cracked clapboard siding. A long since tubeless neon sign proclaimed the bar "Goddard's Pit". The dusty, wind blown gravel parking lot wrapped around the building where a rusted propane storage tank pinged softly in the heat.
Blood pounding in his ears, Mercer's squad slid to a stop 20 feet from the crooked double doors of the long neglected saloon. A sign proclaiming "COLD BEER", flickered through the dust dimmed windows of the saloon, only to be reflected in his perfectly polished mirrored glasses. With a trembling hand he reached over and silenced the siren. The fingers of his right hand briefly clenched into a fist, causing the skintight leather of his frisk gloves to squeak slightly. It was a tic that he had picked up during the academy to calm his nerves. The thrumming in his ears eased and he stepped from the car.
His spit shined boots were immediately dimmed by the dust listlessly drifting across the parking lot as the slight crunch of his boots drowned out the ticking of the El Camino's engine.
Rusted, desert scoured, and covered in a multitude of dents and scratches, the El Camino reminded him of the hookers in Bombay Beach, once lovely but now abused beyond repair. From under the rusted yellow hood a steady stream of white smoke poured, the sickly sweet smell told the final chapter of the battered beast. On the lone utility pole at the corner of the lot a transformer buzzed, bringing to mind the cicadas of his youth.
The Camino was the only vehicle in the lot aside from his own crown vic. He reached into the car and slowly pulled the mic from it's cradle and pressed the button. An off-tone warble confirmed the mountains interference with his radio.
His mind flashed to his training officer, Dale Morgan. A large man with a walrus mustache and thirty years of donuts threatening to overcome his duty belt at any moment, Dale had told him about a tradition with the Highway Patrol called the Lonesome Grab. "Every officer ends up alone, without backup, at some point," Morgan had said between gulps of coffee that smelled a little irish for 9am. "You can either hide in your car, like a pussy. Or you can go get the dirtbag, like a real man. That's what separates the men of the Highway patrol from those girl scouts at Palm Springs PD."
Mercer hung up the mic, reached down and touched the sharp hatchmarks on the grip of his 9mm service pistol, issued just month prior, and whispered a prayer through his cracked lips "May God send me no need of thee." He then set his jaw and resolutely ignored the drop of sweat that had worked it's way down his spine and was pacing back and forth looking for the road further south.
Purposefully he strode to the front door, his boots crunching through the gravel. His boots thumped hollowly on the worn board walk like a mallet shimming a coffin closed. He paused briefly at the doorway gathering himself and filling his lungs. Cocking his hips in preparation to kick the door in, he bellowed "California Highway..." and then a flash seeming to come from behind his eyes knocked the world sideways. As he lay on the weathered boards tasting copper and dust he saw the door open and a pair of immaculate black alligator boots step into view. He looked up and the butt-stock of a rifle obstructed his view and the world went suddenly black.
He awoke with a throbbing headache, tied to a chair in a room that reeked of old dried blood, fear, and something else. The third smell he couldn't quite place, it was somewhere between the tang of rancid meat, the cloying smell of old decay and a slight whiff of sulfur. His head throbbed and his breath whistled through an almost certainly broken nose. As he was taking stock of his situation he noticed his duty belt hanging on a large nail on the wall in front of him, at the base of the stairs. Dust drifted down from cracks in the floorboards as at least six people paced the floor above him, seeming to be in a heated arguement form the broken snatches of conversation that slipped through the Tom Waits music that scratched it's way out of an unseen jukebox.
"... so stupid, how many times..."
"..was I supposed to do?"
"Not bring a DAMN cop here."
"I couldn't lose the shipment....already late...."
"Why put him in the basement?"
"She.....snack for later."
"His blood is on your hands."
"...ing righteous now? Not like you haven't..."
"No I mean.....towel for chrissakes."
There was the unmistakable loping thunder of several bikes pulling up out front and all discussion cut off. The tinny off-tonal jingle of the bell above the door announced the arrival of a new player. Crisp, precise steps echoed through the floor, and the 'wrong' smell got worse...
(to be continued)
Comments (0)
You don't have permission to comment on this page.