Full name: Fenrir Bloodfang

Nickname(s): Whistler(friends), Anklebiter(enemies)

Age: 17

Homeworld: Nar Shaddaa

Race: Human

Occupation: Criminal(pickpocket/thug)

General Description&Clothing:
As dirty as the huttan moon itself. A bedraggeld but tough-looking young man, with a cynical grin and a tendency toward overall spikeyness. Honestly, you feel like you're sleeping on a bed of nails just looking at him. His size, 1.95 meters, doesn't help a bit in that regard, but does help with the intimidating demeanor.
Starting with his teeth, which he has filed into an impressive set of minature fangs, the feeling of sharp continues through the comforting blanket of an old green leather coat covered in rivets, nails and rusty shrapnel and culminates in the festering red metal implants in his knuckles. Under this porcupine's skin, he wears some old once blue pants which have been repaired countless times with whatever he could get his hands on, turning them into a patchwork of different fabrics,colors and designs. Same thing goes for his shirt, as well as the various utility belts and ropes he uses to hold this bold contraption of fashion together. The base of the iceberg is a pair of old republic combat boots which happened to fit.

Eyes: Green, with a lot of red in the whites

Hair: Black, turning grey

Weapons: Hands and feet :-)

Other equipment: A stolen sandwich, two middle fingers and a small windpipe(harmonica-like musical instrument he aquired from a Shistavanen and the real reasion he filed his teeth: He can produce quite a bit more complex melodies and finally utilize the full potential of the instrument, now that his mouth resembles a wolf-mans).

Transportation:

Inventory:

Family: None that he knows of, although his late mother often spoke of a number of brothers and sisters on some backwater drekplanet called "Tantooine". His closest family are the other members of the Sewer Chewers, the gang which basically raised him. Although their reknowned leader, El Capitan, remains aloof and distant, he has grown fast friends with most of the others, particularily the Rodian Grobold, the Chadra Fan Wippith and the young wookie Churrwrr. Churrwrr, Grobold and he make up the brawn of the gang, while Wippith, his devious kinsman Skrit and the two younger humans Mortimer and Iridia are the designated pick-pockets and food gatherers. El Capitan's lieutenant, a Gammorean named Grunz, remains incapable of civilised communication.

History:

Born a slave, always a slave. Well, not quite, because although he was born the son of a Hutt's dancing girl, he did manage to escape at the age of 6 with the daring sacrifice of his mother. Before that, his life was an explosive mixture, a russian roulette of pure terror and excitement. For, in Nutoka the Hutt's court, you never knew who would be next to feed the krayt dragons. It was because of this and an adventerous stranger that his mother decided to flee the Hutt's premises and embark into the dismal, but predictable underworld of Nar Shaddaa. Fenrir doesn't remember much about his flight other than the horrifying site of a trandoshan's talons ripping his mother's throat out and the last words the mysterious stranger said to him before disembarking on his spacecraft: "The hell I'm raising some dead whore's runt. Here`s ten credits, now sod off, kid." Needless to say that man's face is one he'll never forget.

It was a miracle he survived the next few years, but he was fortunate in his choice of friends as his plight endeared the heart of the young wookie hunter Churrwrr, who took him in and introduced him to El Capitan's gang. There he spent his first years as a scavenger before learning the fine art of pick-pocketing from a helpful little rodent by the name of Wippith. After a few years of more or less successful heists, Fenrir entered puberty and a massive growth spurt. Because of this sudden increase in size and visibility, not to mention the teenage hormones running amok in his system, his success as a thief soon began to dwindle. It was then that he had his first encounter with Grunz's bad side, after coming home an entire week with nothing to show but a more alert port authority.
After this devastating beating, Churrwrr took him under his wing once again to teach him the fine art of ripping a man's arm off with your pinky. As this produced unsuccessful and impossible for human physiology to accomplish, Churrwrr's fellow thug, the insectoid Grobold, grudgingly taught him the fine art of the hunter. During his training, Grobold and Fenrir developed a close friendship due to the youth's surprising aptitude at the Rodian style of combat. Even Grobold's slugthrower presented little problems for the enthusiastic youth.
During his time as a gutter thug, Fenrir ran afoul of an unnamed Shistavanen while expanding the Sewer Chewer's territory. In a hand-to-hand duel containing a level of brutality seldom seen even in Nar Shaddaa, Fenrir made himself a name as an utterly deranged sociopath. Nothing could be further from the truth, since among the wolf man's possessions, he found the most peculiar of devices: A small, metal box which produced different sounds depending on how you blew into it. This instrument proved a source of countless hours of fascination for him and his compadres, especially the painstaking process of actually learning to play. In the next few years, his life continued much the same way, with the small windpipe being one of the few sources of escape from his dreary existence.

RP-Sample:

Ah, bloody hell, it's festerin again!

With disgust, Fenrir looks down at his swollen and throbbing knuckles. The disturbing red lines were already spreading through his veins and he could only imagine the designs they would carve upon his flesh if the infection were allowed to continue.

Gotta see the damn doc again...

"Oi, Churrwrr, I'm headin' out to the ole glitbiter's flat. You comin'?"

A couple of seconds pass and there's still no response, so Fenrir figures Churrwrr's probably asleep already. With a shrug he sets off to see the doc again, kicking around a small rat's skull until he loses it in some hobo's humble abode. On the way a small, lizardlike shape approaches him with obvious intent, but his bared teeth and a hefty snarl send it scurrying back into the shadows were it came from.

Filth. Maybe I should put an end to it's miserable existence. Nah, gotta see the doc first.

At this hour, Nar Shaddaa is usually quiet, so crossing the turf of two rival gangs presents little problem. Fenrir knows that won't be the case on the way back, especially if that trandoshan was a look-out for the Skullsplitters or the Moshaboyz. Then again, the Moshaboyz only took in Gammoreans, so it'd have to be Skullsplitters, if any.

Eh, looks like the doc's already busy with somethin. Lessee here...

Quietly, Fenrir moves to an open window and looks inside.

"Sithspawn!"

With one swift kick of his steel-toed boot, Fenrir sends the improvised window of the docs flat flying to the floor and slips into the room. A quick look around assures him nobody apart from himself is present, so he makes the most of it and hurries to the medicine closet. And yes, it IS inside.

Thanks for overlooking this, you runts!

Pocketing the anti-biotics, he carefully steps around the doctors dead body and leaves as quickly as he came. He needs to get back to his turf before somebody finds the doc dead and comes to the wrong conclusions.

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