Post by jack sullivan on Jul 4, 2010 19:51:49 GMT -5
jack sullivan
[/b][/color][/size] A Mr. Jack Sullivan at the dear age of twenty-three has found himself upon the most curious of situations - entering into London's most tantalizing gossip. "[/i][/color][/font][/size][/ul][/blockquote]
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W R I T E R .
name: brianna
RP experience: lots and lots!
how did you find us?: i made us!
age: 21!
gender: a lady
P O R T R A I T .
eye color: brown
hair color: dark brown
height: 6’ 2”
body type: athletic
distinguishing features: freckles, small scar on his cheekbone, a thick scar running along his abdomen
fashion style:
M A N N E R S .
profession: “businessman”
adoration for:
distaste for:
dreams:
fears:
secrets:
main:
P A S T .
family:
Leah Sullivan, sister, 19, whereabouts unknown[/ul]
main:
”What ‘bout his chink, guv?”
The tall figure crouched down to the bloodied body and stared for a moment. He reached inside the body’s vest and pulled out a worn wallet. It contained a couple shillings and a one pound note. No criminal carried more than a five on him. He knew Bobby Jennings had the rest at the bottom of the barrels at the warehouse. No one tried to take Whitechapel from Sullivan. The hazy moonlight filtered through the fog and shone a gray light on the man’s face. A worn tweed cap doffed his wavy dark hair. Freckles coated his cheeks and nose, giving a strange playfulness to his gruff appearance. Only the group of men around him knew that the usual carefree and teasing quality he carried was only a mask. With cold, unblinking eyes he looked to the bloodied mess that had once been Jennings face. Jennings had learned. Others had been taught the same lesson. He tossed the wallet to the stout lad across from him.
”Toss ‘im.”
His scars have always told his stories – though no one but him know them, they know not to ask. He was four when his father threw a bottle at him. Luckily, his father had been drunk and couldn’t aim for a bean. The glass instead shattered on the wall nearest Jack, the shards slicing along his cheekbone. It is the only memory he has of his father. His father soon left afterwards, leaving his young mother, one-year-old sister and him, alone.
He had been born to a seventeen year old Mary Sullivan, and never knew his father’s name. His mother refused to talk about him, and when she did only referred to him as “your father,” in a tone that inflicted blame onto Jack. His mother was a kind woman, as kind as a young woman raising two babies in Whitechapel could be. She worked long days at a mill that manufactured matches. The smell of tinder still reminds him of her. While she worked, he and his younger sister, Leah, stayed at their aunt’s house. He has always been a Whitechapel lad – growing up, playing on its sour cobblestoned streets. He was ten when he got in his first fight. Landed the kid who had stolen his pocket money a solid fist to the nose. Unfortunately, the kid was twice the size of him. He was fourteen when he finally won his first fight, and has never lost since. By the age of twelve, he had already gotten in trouble with the law – stealing some sweets for him and Leah. He promised her one day he would be able to get nice things for her, they wouldn’t have to worry about the coppers no more. He would make himself respectable, and take her and Mum to the country. But when he was fifteen, and Leah eleven, everything changed.
His mother had gotten the cough from all those hours spent breathing in the toxic fumes at the matchstick mill. She died in April. His aunt, a harsh, rough woman, threw them to the streets. It was then that Jack had to learn the back alleys of London. It was either that or die. He and his sister survived for a month, sleeping in doorways, stealing food off the costermongers. One day, Jack had gone to nip an apple for them and when he returned to their corner, he saw two cops trying to pull his sister to their cabby as she kicked and screamed. Upon seeing Jack, she cried out his name, reaching for him. He dropped the apple and ran to his sister’s side and tried to pull her away. One of the cops let go of Leah and reached to grab him. Jack pulled a right hook on him, a resounding crack heard as his fist collided with the cop’s nose. The cop groaned and covered his face with his hands. Jack thought he had won. But another police cabby drove up; two other cops jumped out and wrestled Jack into the cabby. Jack slammed himself against the carriage, desperately trying to get out. He paused for a moment and peered through the bars as he watched his sister thrown into the other cabby. She reached out to him through the bars, the tears silently flowing down her face. He still dreams of that moment – the last time he ever saw her.
He was in prison for three years, because of the punch to the cop. He was one of the lucky ones - they only used the whip for bad behavior. Jack quickly learned to be quiet. It was there that he met twenty-three year old Jim Hastings who was in for stolen goods. It was Hastings who gave Jack some kind of hope of getting out. He would have been lost to the madness had Hastings not told him about his Whitechapel crew, and the promise to be someone. Hastings saw something in the young Jack Sullivan that he knew would be a good addition to his crew – a fire that burned. Hastings got out six months before Jack and told him to find him when Jack was out.
Hastings taught Jack everything about the London underworld – how to deal with the coppers, the transactions of their business dealings, how to get men to trust you. Hastings was the first man Jack killed.
The thick scar that runs along his abdomen is a reminder of the night he killed his mentor. It had to be done. If Jack was going to get anywhere in Whitechapel, Hastings had to be done away with. Jack had gained the respect and following of Hastings’ boys – Hastings had never given them the share they believed to deserve. Hastings was a poor leader, but a Whitechapel boss was never “fired.” You were in for life.
Hastings had known though, as any cunning Whitechapel criminal knew. He had been prepared. He had been smoking a cigar, alone in his lounge when Jack went to stab him. Hastings had turned and attempted to knife him back. In the scuffle, Hastings sliced a deep wound across Jack’s stomach, but it was Jack who gave the last jab deep into Hasting’s chest. From then on Jack was head of the Whitechapel boys. He was only twenty-one.
He spent the next two years building his reputation into one of the most wanted men in London. He spends his days keeping an eye on the dealings of Whitechapel, and his nights at the pub he patronizes, or in the arms of a warm, feminine body. The only one he will ever love is his sister, Leah. He fears one day he will see her among the dead in the streets, or worse, among the prostitutes. He goes through each day just wanting to see the next.
And each night as the shadow he has become.[/ul]
E T C .
play-by: casey taylor
password:
rp sample:
’ello![/blockquote][/size]