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Occupation: Tabor & Hurst Mining Co. Foreman
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Jack Skinner

Miners

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Jun 5 2017, 10:24 AM
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Jonathan Skinner

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<div class="head">basics</div>
<thing>full name:</thing> Jonathan Skinner
<br>
<thing>nicknames/aliases:</thing> Jack
<br>
<thing>age:</thing> Forty-eight
<br>
<thing>date of birth:</thing> March 30th, 1820
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<thing>place of birth:</thing> Milledgeville, GA
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<thing>current residence:</thing> Coalchapel, WY
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<thing>hometown:</thing> Savannah, GA
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<thing>gender:</thing> Male
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<thing>occupation:</thing> Tabor & Hurst Mining Co. Foreman
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<thing>member group:</thing> Miner
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<div class="head">appearance</div>

<thing>playby:</thing> Garrett Dillahunt
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<thing>height:</thing> 6 ft 3 in / 192 cm
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<thing>build:</thing> Athletic
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<thing>hair color:</thing> Dark brown
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<thing>eye color:</thing> Blue
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<div class="head">relationships</div>

<thing>relationship status:</thing> Single
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<thing>current partner:</thing> N/A
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<thing>children:</thing> Possibly a gaggle of bastards
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<div class="head">Appearance</div>

<p>
Though he does tower, Jack towers aided not only by his impressive height but also by the careless fashion with which he carries himself and the simplicity of his superiority. While in the mines his weight is matched or exceeded easily, his frame still demands a certain respect – no wonder he only goes down there himself when something goes wrong or very, very right, given the likelihood of him bumping his head. The first thing to connect with the rough ceiling would be his dirt-brown hair, which is clinging onto youthful thickness despite increasing age and wear; though a selection of strands have taken to greying, the majority of his coarse coif has been spared that proliferating disease.
<p>
His earlier controlled yet goofy moustache has expanded to swallow half his face in a rugged beard, much more suiting to his demeanour and a much better companion to his wicked, looping grin, framing the slight offset of his left front tooth perfectly. He’ll have you think this is courtesy of a lack of care and etiquette, but the attention he brings to maintaining a properly kempt bristle should tell you a lot about his personality.
<P>
Despite his dishevelled demeanour the man knows to dress the part, favouring black attire with no fringing coupled with white shirts, a bit of a haphazard combination in the swelter and dirt. On occasion the heat might get to him and his bare torso will display a rather impressively cultivated body with scars crisscrossing in great number all over. It is a source of more pride than frustration, for though it means he too gets hit and he too bleeds like any other, it signifies he is the one who gets hits and bleeds yet survives. (No matter who eventually came out on top of that damn war.)
<p>
Even in full sunlight his eyes appear borderline black thanks to the shade of a well-placed hat, but come up close and personal and they’ll twinkle blue. Just maybe don’t get close and personal?

<div class="head">Personality</div>
<p>
As a surprise to those who know him only by reputation, Jack can also come off learned, polite, and – dare he say – downright likeable. He might seem like one of the most rewarding and genuine people that an individual could care to meet, by behaving thoughtfully and considerate, and his manner mirrors his accent in chivalry – he’ll hold doors open, pull out chairs; the kind of little flutters of affection which can so often be missing from relationships, be they sexual or otherwise. It might seem at times he does not know the meaning of the word ‘stranger’, and within a few hours of meeting someone he will endeavour to know their name, their family history, likes, dislikes, and what he or she plans to do with the rest of their life. By the time they part, both parties might very well feel they have known each other for years, not hours. Thus he finds it easy to inspire trust in others. Behind this exterior, however, rests a far more cynical individual. Jack will not think twice about taking a life or exploit the hapless characters resting comfortably under his wing.
<p>
This distance from small-talking gentleman to soulless villain is a short one. It’s the sinister side of his personality that most associate with him, and there’re numerous reasons why Jack splits the town in two regarding their perception of him as a human being – and only a few of those reasons can be attributed to his confederate loyalty. On the one hand he is, arguably, the worst possible person given his history and penchant for violence, but on the other he brings much-needed profit to the area and has a rare business acumen not often seen in beings seemingly ruled so intensely by their baser instincts. The patience with which he contrives friends and establishes relationships implies a man whose goals do not simply fade whenever something new arises, however convenient that might have been.
<p>
He is not opposed to attacking men with their backs turned either, and while Jack is employed by those with the heaviest purses and gravitates towards employment that grants him a modicum of power, ultimately he serves only himself and should be offered up with a disclaimer – if only the victims of his double-crossing still remained in the functional world to warn the rest of them.
<p>
That said, Jack is not a heartless bastard. Not entirely. He can border on egocentric but the man is by no means void of any feelings, and the dominant ones are not jealousy, greed or cravings; there is an equal balance, as in any other being, and he does not lack empathy. His is just severely damaged, possibly incurably so. Everything is not black or white, and he strives to hinder himself from perceiving it that way, however often emotions tend to criss-cross to enable confusion – he can harbour a grudge for twice as long as forever. Painstaking in his exploration of others, he is loath to institute a similar exploration of himself. He’ll always remain the proper man he was raised to be, to whom introspection is vulgar, who perceives a man's task as assaulting that which is seeable, fixable, doable.
<p>
At his most accessible Jack is a romantic, but at bottom, he is a realist who understood that what he wants does not always bear on what he gets. He is an attentive man when the moment takes him, but rarely parades this particular side of himself to the hoi polloi. It does take a lot to truly get to his heart and capture it completely, which is why he’s quicker to revert to carelessness and a warped sexual ideal. His tendency towards handsiness has had him thrown out of more saloons than he can count (surprisingly not literally) but he is nothing if not perseverant in his exploits.


<div class="head">History</div>

<p>
He was the product of misfortune and has, tragically, never strayed too far from the path chance laid before him prior to his birth. His real father, his proper, biological father, was not in the picture following the tryst that resulted in his miraculous conception. Therefore, Jonathan does not have a clear picture of him in his head. Was he the asswipe some claim him to be? The handsome devil with a terrifying backhand? Tall and dark and not belonging to their world, apparently, given the haste with which he left. The resulting son grew to harbour a fair few grudges about this. He started off blaming himself, next his mother, and then his stepfather, and concluded with the world in general. People have their own worries and problems and clearly his father’s life was rooted deeply elsewhere – which doesn’t excuse anything.
<p>
However Elizabeth Baker, swollen with child, received undue pity from travelling cotton broken William Skinner and no sooner had the little baby popped out did he get swept away from political Milledgeville to economical Savannah to be neatly christened ‘Jonathan Skinner’. And for all intents and purposes that had been his intended name all along.
<p>
This 1820 excursion marks his first and last foray further east than his birthplace.
<p>
A new location and faux prosperity suited a grandstanding personality poorly, a developing selection of traits William quickly attributed to the elusive father, whose exploits morphed into a myriad of less-than-realistic tales at the hands of the forgotten son. Maybe he had been an outlaw! Or a lawman. Really the one factor all Jonathan’s fantasies seemed to have in common was that they featured a man, which remained the sole defining characteristic Elizabeth dispensed when pressed. Through gritted teeth and a fair few tears she’d implore Jonathan to stop his pestering, but her prayers were always answered solely by a jutted jaw and defiance. From this defiance and those unanswered questions he developed an unbecoming habit of demanding attention by either doing something reckless, stupid or deadly – or, borne from his tendency toward hyperbole, all three. More often than not it was other parishioners who would have to step up and give the boy a scolding, and not everybody treated him kindly. Especially the house servants delivered admittedly well-deserved justice when William turned his back, something he took to doing with increased frequency as Jonathan continued his rebellion by refusing to mould into something mild-mannered and compliant.
<p>
Surrounded by continuous disappointment, both inwardly and outwardly, unbecoming bursts of anger became his trademark and spelled doom for his social life. As a kid he did not hesitate on pestering others, yet refrained from such behaviour in the vicinity of elders. His attitude did not change with his age, and he was not at all that pleasant during the first years of puberty. Combined with quick fists and a keen sense of belonging wherever he went, there were few friends involved in his earlier years. Where William displayed a selection of traits revered at the time – honesty and integrity; self-sufficiency and mastery – Jonathan rapidly took care of the remaining pillars: A reputation for martial courage and strength, as well as a willingness to use violence to defend any perceived slight to his reputation. Together their duo was a potent one in Antebellum Georgia, but they rarely agreed on anything.
<p>
The one pursuit they ended up having in common – curiously at first, until a dark motivation revealed itself – was cotton. But whereas the elder sought this for solely economical reasons, the youngest Skinner turned to the industry as an outlet for the pent-up malcontent he’d been unhealthy nursing all his life, only enhanced by fierce whacks and shaking heads. In a misguided attempt at catering to this newfound interest, stepfather and stepson travelled north to a plantation in Augusta where they were meant to showcase William’s talents by escorting a fresh shipment up from the harbour city. However ‘might make right’, and at fourteen Jonathan already towered above six feet. Not easily ignored, he caught the eye of the overseer for other reasons entirely. So it was that William returned to Savannah just before the winter of 1836 without his prodigal son. Lost lamb indeed.
<P>
Good riddance.
<p>
Suddenly enveloped by an environment in which his antagonistic streak and swift backhand no longer inspired condemnation but rather the stark opposite, he thrived. While no slave himself, essentially Jack functioned as a slave driver and his presence was felt rapidly. No longer Jonathan, he endeavoured to ignore his semblance of culture in favour of blending in with the ungenteel white men whose company and behaviour he rapidly idolized. Before there had been no method to his madness but these kindred spirits gave him methods in abundance, be they effected by field tools or knives or whips or… well, any odd object within grabbing distance at the moment of utilization. The overseer himself, the notorious Timothy Holden, contributed with mental punishments, tearing families apart on seeming whims, and his disregard for their humanity transcended mere bloodthirstiness.
<p>
Naturally Jack didn’t leap from rebelling upperclassman to foul-mouthed sadist over the course of one day – this particular conduct took years to instil properly and more often than not Timothy hampered the development by taking him aside to curb efforts of blind brutality toward a more refined approach, often viewed as the most dreaded sanction of all. The years employed at Rathlin Plantation proved more educationally successful than whatever it was Elizabeth and William had tried to imbue in his childhood; here they did not try to crush his potential, rather they cultivated it alongside their crop. His penchant for violence coupled well with a refined keenness to set him apart from the crowd in more significant ways than mere physical height.
<p>
However all good things must come to an end. When old Richard Coalson died in 1845 the plantation was inherited by his son, Charley, and Charley, being of weak disposition, reformed the rules to discourage, among other things, ‘undue cruelty’. Barely a month into new leadership Jack was discharged, followed shortly by Timothy, who, despite his best intentions, hadn’t managed to keep it together and was caught dipping into the Christmas dram.
<p>
Alone, properly alone, for the first time in his life, the Milledgeville romantic did what he considered the only likely option: He travelled back to his birthplace to grapple for an open position at the Georgia Penitentiary. Unfortunately for him, his distance from proper sophistication had him miss out on the manner this particular penitentiary was governed and how exactly they treated their prisoners. Much too kindly, he came to understand. Right away his traditional views on what constituted proper punishment – none of this ‘the prospect of confinement alone will strike fear in a would-be perpetrator’s heart!’-bullshit! – clashed with the board of inspectors but luck would have his uncle at that table, whose lenience with his nephew sadly spelled his exclusion from proper society in 1849 and Jack’s transfer further west the same year. Twenty-nine year-old Skinner was no benevolent gentleman in the face of hardened criminals, determined to prove the efficiency of physical retribution. Timothy might have disagreed, he conceded, considering the undeniable toll prolonged incarceration was bound to have on the mind, but Jack had come to certain tastes regardless of his old boss’ noble goals. Simply sitting around rattling cages wouldn’t do.
<p>
To applaud Jack’s dismissal of the mild treatment outlaws began to receive by officials as ‘commendable and noble’ meant missing the mark entirely. His aversion to this pandering stemmed not from a condescending view of the average criminal but instead his perverse joys. Next followed a search for work that granted these tendencies the leniency they deserved, a search that elsewhere might have landed him at odds with the law and in a penitentiary himself – but these were days for men like him, and a full season had not passed before he found himself back at a plantation, in Alabama this time. What respite from the shackles forced upon him guarding lowlifes!
<p>
Here there were no rules or law prohibiting him from doling out encouragement however his overseer saw fit to keep production rates high and thus maximize profit. This particular fellow, a Cecil Griffith, put it rather bluntly to Jack on his second day: “Wiser men than us ‘ve set about calculatin’ this, to find the most cost-efficient way to manage our slaves, and y’know what? Prolongin’ their lives through moderate workloads and mollycoddlin’ do not achieve the best results; we must endeavour to stress their tolerance and productivity through hard usage – and when we wear them out we buy new ones to fill their places. This way we never struggle with old age, and we’ll always have a fresh stock.” Put like that it seemed reasonable beyond his own personal preferences, a factoid of numbers to fall back on should he ever be questioned about his motivation.
<p>
Putney Plantation was one of the most successful in the area – a source of pride to all involved – and expanded rapidly in the 1850s, at its peak covering about two thousand acres of fertile land and housing roughly 248 slaves. Jack worked there from the middling age of thirty until two days before he turned thirty-seven, though he would have stayed there for much longer had he not expressed interest in a slave past what was considered acceptable.
<p>
While the blatant access to female slaves combined with hierarchy resulted in numerous indulgences, these indulgences, however commonplace, were not bragged about or described in great detail even to one’s peers. So was it also should mulatto slaves be born on the premises, instances brushed away as slaves coupling with other slaves. Indeed such was the case at Putney as well: Jack had arrived when it was still an absentee plantation, but the owner returned with his substantial family in 1853 to supervise its growth and take unwarranted credit. This development naturally struck Cecil the hardest, having gotten used to working unmonitored and with borderline unlimited resources, but for Jack it meant to arrival of Viola Dorsey, wife to Orville, the owner, and mother to five of his eight children. Not that she knew of the remaining three: They were indiscretions ranging in age from five to sixteen, working slaves in their own right, and their lighter hue had been attributed to the neighbouring plantation’s overseer, who was known as an uncouth and low-class barbaric.
<p>
Viola took a shine to Jack after encountering him on a stroll through the premises, and much to his amusement he became an unlikely confidant on whom to dump careless gossip and vent frustrations. From her he learned that the half-breeds running about the estates of their friends were bastards, while when he questioned her, rather unkindly, about those ploughing this land, she waved them away as “a normal variation in Negro physiognomy”. Clearly the physical remains of an illicit tryst were reduced to somebody else’s folly or variations within a gene pool, depending on what benefited her the most. Though Jack had no formal education past elementary school, he was no fool and this sort of self-deception entertained him greatly.
<p>
It was not his numerous dalliances with Viola that eventually him had him struck off the record books however, it was his genuine fondness for Rose. In plural a fondness for the flower ought not have garnered him the unhappy ending it did – maybe a few odd looks though – but Rose was merely one entity, a human one, and she belonged at the receiving end of his whip, not his affection. The first time he saw her was when Cecil spotted her attempting to forego her duties of the day, lounging around in a different field than intended, a transgression that earned her a proper lashing. At the time Jack did not think much of her – he ignored her pleas for refrain and was rather impatient to get going with his day – but later he’d come to remember, distinctly, the look in her eyes. Defeat, but also defiance and tolerance. Dignity – but why?
<p>
Albeit not an active hunter, much too casual, Jack often found himself the target of varying interest amongst the opposite sex, though the one person he ended up caring for most was seventeen years his junior and arguably of the wrong colour. Her accent too was different, but still her name rolled off his tongue nicely. Just like the physical her, in throes of sweat, a faint memory made stronger when they parted ways that morning. Consensual too, which was an odd concept to grasp at first. But a year later and his mind was no longer alone; she was there, ever present, flinging cotton balls at him and smiling through her forest of curly hair. She was laughing, teeth flashing, as she tugged his shirt closer when he was about to leave. She filled his day with wonderful scents, scents he trailed to her neck later. She made every day about her until she was the highlight and her alone. Perhaps this was inevitable. Perhaps it had to happen in order for the world to keep on turning. It was luck within unluck that was the onset. With time, she would disappear.
<p>
Or, rather, die.
<p>
Jack knew, prior to getting into the tangled mess, that Rose ought have been granted the same surname as Viola, though for hereditary reasons rather than familiar ones. Precautions could only be effective for so long, and when Cecil found out he deemed it a personal affront. Rather than go to Orville directly, he told another individual entirely: Viola. Viola, scorned by this union for numerous reasons, seethed with fury and found vindication through another driver. It only took her a day to begin her revenge, and at the end of day two Rose lay dead at their feet. Equally as enraged, possibly infinitely more, Jack spared no time killing the instrument of her reprisal for the lack of access to Viola herself. Well, access he had in abundance but right he did not. Offing a black slave driver? Formally all Jack got was his last pay and a discharge. Orville was even sad to see him go, oblivious to the full reason behind the carnage.
<p>
Between the years 1857 and 1861, Jack bounced from plantation to plantation. Tarnished by the occurrence at Putney, sometimes he went by the name Timothy Holden and though that occasionally inspired pause and a comment on how healthy he looked for his age, the extreme need for effective drivers discouraged deep inquiries and he was employed under whatever name he offered up. Emotional turmoil would have him lacking in restraint however, and he never stayed for too long. His turnover rate peaked with each relocation, such was the tension he brought with him, and for the most part he remained on the same farm only for the duration of one growing season before seeking his fortunes elsewhere. Regardless the prosperous cotton economy left him with no shortage of options, so high was the demand for a stern and just hand. Sadly he found few occasions to be just.
<p>
When the war inevitable broke out in 1861 Jack jumped into action immediately. Age would have him excluded from the compulsory draft for another few months after its implementation in 1862, but by that time he was already well invested as part of the 1st Regiment Tennessee Volunteer Infantry. There he woke up to struggle through the dirt, alongside fellows who did not know he could wiggle his ears, recite Meek’s Nature’s Lesson verbatim, or that in another life his ideal profession might have been deacon – if he wasn’t so busy spreading blood rather than comfort.
<p>
He came to find his Unionized brethren – he’ll use the term lightly – just as he had overheard his previous overseer dismiss them to his planter one smoky afternoon: “Stuck up sons-of-bitches.” He had not spared it much thought at the time, but he was to land on the same conclusion. So when Jack was offered a role as guard in Cahaba Prison, where he might get to meet the enemy face-to-face rather than rifle-to-rifle, he accepted the offer in a heartbeat. What he had not foreseen was the humane treatment these trespassers received courtesy of the commanding officer’s religious beliefs. Needless to say Jack did not share them, and found himself much in the same position he’d been all those years before in Milledgeville: All purpose, no outlet.
<p>
This was his sordid fate until the building of another prisoner-of-war camp started in Millen, Georgia. They needed experienced and able-bodied men to oversee what was meant to grow into the largest prison in the world and naturally the prospect appealed to him. This endeavour continued as promising as it started, minus cumbersome weather… until it had to be abandoned only six weeks of its first prisoners arriving. Frustrated by now that the God he’d never truly cared for equally didn’t care for him, he accompanied a cluster of prisoners west to Camp Sumter. Where Millen had been subdued, courteous even, the Andersonville Prison was anything but.
<p>
There was a time in his life when the noise of hundreds of men did not inspire instant dread; when such situations were meant for conversation, laughter, joy. A time when he did not know of the man that would struggle to get out of the masses, one hand clinging to a corn bread pressed to his body, the other shoving and pushing bodies near him away. A time when hardened eyes have yet to darken at this man, heaving and writhing but moving scarce a yard – until he got wedged, stuck, and another fellow snatched the bread. And despite his best intentions he was unable to wrench it back, beating at the other’s face in desperate futility until he was inevitably trampled into the mush, his body down amongst a mass of legs that devoured him, clothes and all. Jack never saw properly what happened. Cold calculation and healthy cynicism had him safely assume they just stamped the light out. Nothing could be done, and his attention was required elsewhere.
<p>
Not an edifying sight.
<p>
The war offered years of scarce sleep, initially thanks to blistered feet and loud fire, and later the noisy hum of thirty thousand men on the verge of death and despair inside the camp. There was little rest for the wicked, and at the end there was no grand fanfare or glorious celebration. It was all muted, taking on shimmering shades of grey, both outwardly and inwardly. The glorious yellow of his dreams dulled; the fresh red went black. They said the war was over but it never was. He returned to a Milledgeville in shambles, dragging Georgia forward into uncertainty and strife for years to come. But instead of bemoaning this twist of fate, digging claws deep into a rose-tinted past, Jack aspired to continue his growth elsewhere. West, where he might dare to venture north without fear of death.
<p>
With no plantations in which to thrive anymore, Jack sought out another cutthroat trade in which to invest himself despite his advancing age: Mining. Was that not why all men came west? Fortune and glory? Now, he didn’t expect to strike quite so comfortably but he was confident in his ability to adapt and decidedly not ready to keel over just yet. Endowed with a zest for opportunities and an adventurous and aggressive nature that he had retained, for good and ill, throughout his life, Jack jumped from boomtown to boomtown, mining on occasion but mostly attaining acquaintances of similar or more loathsome disposition with whom he might strike other deals. On one occasion he sent a letter to a friend further south, suggesting a move up despite the rowdiness and barbarity prevalent at the time, believing those facts to be self-evident to a fellow veteran of the region’s raucous mining camps.
<p>
In the early winter months of 1868 he was offered a job by the Tabor & Hurst Mining Company as a foreman at a mine in Wyoming, by some godforsaken town he’d never heard of – but they all were unknown, these towns, until suddenly gold or silver struck and their place on the map was secured for the ages. Bringing with him a dog-eat-dog demeanour and commanding presence, Jack Skinner arrived there to crack his whip shortly after. Because if there was one thing he’d spent his life doing, it was maximizing profits for other parties.
<p>
Only this time he’d save some for himself too, no matter how illegally these profits were acquired.

<div class="head">Writing Sample</div>

<p>Unfortunately not a freshly written example for this site.
QUOTE
Stress, however common a feeling, had transformed into something more looming and more sinister than ever before, greedily stealing away sleep and disabling him from digesting anything but bitter coffee, the sort that would eventually burn through his stomach's walls. Pacing, searching, there was no end to it. And to imagine that one precious days had been lost in the chaos, because Abigail had been sleeping over at Sarah's house for the start of it all. The start of whatever it was. The entire town falling asleep, ominous rain... Theodore had not been able to make sense of it; nobody had. But at least Abigail was alright, enabling them to stay in while a sense of foreboding threatened to devour him whole. Seven months were allowed to pass before it all happened at once. How foolish of him to have temporarily entertained the idea that this year, maybe this year, the curse was broken. Broken, gone – not a factor. But it was always a factor.
<p>
When the older girls were reported missing, he volunteered to search and spent hours trawling the swamp for bodies alive and well. Good thing Abigail was at Sarah's house, since her parents barely poked their head in the door before heading out again. What a dreadfully boring few days that would have been for her, poor girl. Yeah, it was a good thing she was at Sarah's place. Until, suddenly, she wasn't? Those news had not gone over well.
<p>
And so the search turned frantic, desperate, while outwardly he tried his utmost to at least seem sensible, politely dignified, worried but optimistic. She was too young anyway. Maybe she had just wanted to help and gotten herself lost. That was also alarming, given the treacherous topography, but it was not girl in white-alarming. The long, tiring second day of scouting at least brought with them the extraction of twelve tired, but breathing young women. Around midnight the Whites were ordered home, with stern instructions to get some hot food and a decent night's sleep. It had all been a scare, then. Everybody were alive and well. Surely the next morning Abigail would be found by the sheriff's department and driven home for a good shower and warm clothes, while her father embraced her tightly and gently asked her to never scare them like this ever again. Not with a sliver of anger in his delivery, but fright.
<p>
The next morning the phone call did come. Abigail had been found. But something about the tone of voice was off.
<p>
Now they were in the car, and they would have been speeding had Theodore not suffered from a severe inward battle between hurrying the f*** up and upholding the actual law. The result was some miles over the limit but nothing that drew attention to their car making its way to the hospital. Mentally cursing himself for not pushing the pedal to the floor, his jaw set tight and his gaze remained stiffly ahead, refusing to acknowledge Evangeline's equal exasperation by his side.



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<div class="head">about</div>

<p> Summa summarum Jack is a bit of an asshole, but he can mask it well in the wrong right company. He is of a singular mind, has a flexible morality in the face of, well, <i>anything</i>, and wields a harsh whip. Some have labelled him ‘sporadically insane’, and they are not missing the mark entirely. (Quite frankly it’s the addition of ‘sporadic’ that ought be questioned.)

<div class="head">friendly</div>

<p> Charisma is not an unknown word in Jack’s vocabulary and he is quite capable in social circumstances, though unless he puts his mind to it he might come off as a brash brute. It’s his most natural state and not something easily set aside after one too many beers. He has a few irreversibly peculiar penchants that even friends might shy away from, like a tendency for violence and a disregard for the law, but despite his blights and genuine personality Jack should have a handful of proper allies, in addition to those he grants favourable treatment in the mines – his posse, if you will.


<div class="head">romantic</div>

<p>
He has always had an extremely hedonistic and borderline sadistic approach to the sugary-sweet land of cotton candy and love, which is why it might come as a surprise that he actually had good role models for this growing up. He won’t go all-in for a serious relationship but men have urges and his can be satisfied by the opposite gender indeed, preferably in exchange for money – it’s such an effortless arrangement for all parties involved. Though he has yet to do so, he has the potential of becoming an abusing part should he find someone more permanent to bother. Needless to say it’s not a recommended relationship to seek out, jealousy and possessiveness key traits of his, but welcome to try.

<div class="head">antagonistic</div>

<p>
With the job (and his nefarious approach to it) comes a fair amount of negative attention in the wrong environments, and there’ll probably be a substantial share of enemies, achieved either in the past by being a sadist, in the present for being a braggart, or in the future for [insert here]. He’s a good sport when it comes to hate and will reciprocate your feelings tenfold; the sinister flair to his persona comes to show in that crooked grins he gives, eying a wounded enemy with almost irrational satisfaction. As a shocker for no one he’s participated in a few gunfights and escaped from them with his life intact, but whether he finished them fair or not? He’ll stab you in the back if you are stupid enough to walk away from unfinished business. He won’t loose no sleep over it neither.

<div class="head">other</div>

<p>
TL;DR! But Jack is pretty much open to anything. Well, he’s not. I’m going to force him to anyway, stupid bastard.<br>
— Join him Tabor & Hurst and be showered in affection loyalty money and convoluted but ultimately intriguing plots as we go along ;<br>
— If you are in search of a mediocre miscreant of violent tendencies and a slew of psychological issues to satisfy an idea, Jack is quite possibly your man ; <br>
— Naturally I’d very much like to explore his exploits in the fairy-tale, puffy-pink-clouds-and-unicorns world of genuine romance, however badly it’ll end for all parties ;<br>
— Should you for some reason fancy returning a person from his past into a recurring individual for the future, hit me up! ;<br>
— Offered up on a silver plate, apple in mouth, for anything pertaining to damaged goods and misplaced empathy/pity #plzhelp’im ;<br>
— Got anything else? Think it sounds farfetched? Believe me I’ll work tirelessly to bring that ship ashore!


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<div class="head">LIINEN</div>

<thing>age:</thing> 26
<br>
<thing>pronouns:</thing> She/her
<br>
<thing>timezone:</thing> GMT+1
<br>
<thing>contact:</thing> PM or Discord @ liinen#7956
<br>
<thing>triggers:</thing> None
<br>
<thing>mature threading:</thing> Open
<br>

<thing> How did you find us?:</thing> RPG-D
<br>
<thing>about me:</thing> Basically I'm a blanket. Nice to meet you. Use the right fabric softener and we'll be friends forever. Just remember to leave me out to dry. More to the point: Hi, yes, I’m open to about anything plot-wise. I’m a sucker for group threads and for tossing unlikely characters together to see where we might go. Feel free to add me on Discord for sparring ideas, watching obscure made-for-TV movies and/or blabbering general nonsense. I’m real good at exchanging pleasantries as well, though I tend to shut up completely when I’m writing a post.

<br><br><br>
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48. Tabor & Hurst Mining Co. Foreman. Miner. Garrett Dillahunt.
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<a href="http://shine.jcink.net/index.php?showuser=11594">thanks♥︎</a>
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