08-17-2019, 05:03 AM
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Tired.
That was how one could describe Charles Luciano. Exhausted, definitely beaten, and perhaps a bit lost. He hadn't looked the most collected upon arrival to the town — he had looked like a goddamn mess. Ruffled clothes stained with dirt and sweat, his naturally curly hair stringy and dangling gracelessly, his lips chapped and tasting of stale blood (and, more noticeably, the right side of his face sporting an ugly scar). Once upon a time, he had lived like a king, residing in the penthouse suite of a oceanside casino and proudly staking his claim at the top of the local "foodchain". At one time, he had an entire mafia at his command, who fulfilled his wishes at the snap of his fingers.
Now the glory days were gone.
He was the leader who had fallen from grace, his throne now nonexistent. The people under his regime were likely dead, moved on, or currently serving the new leader of the city... whoever that was. Perhaps the group had crumbled after his disappearance — it had all happened so suddenly, after all.
Charles had managed to escape the living hell he had been subjected to for months, dehydrated and starved and confused. He didn't necessarily care to find his way back to the Badlands — it could have been miles and miles away, for all he knew. No, he needed attention urgently, and that was how he had stumbled upon this place: Los Santos. This post-apocalyptic band of survivors operated in a similar fashion to his old crew; perhaps this was just the universe's way of trying to be humorous. Charlie had been hesitant to stay in this place, as he had not stained his hands with crimson in a long time. He had not dealt with the business of dealing product or carrying out orders since he himself led his group.
However, he ultimately decided to see how things went. That was the best way he could put it. Now that he was liberated from his stony cell, maybe it would be beneficial to contribute to something once more. After all, the "business" was all that he really knew. It was his specialty, if you will. If he had nothing to strive towards, no goals or rewards to reap from life, then what really was left for the former gangster? It certainly would be better than being a loner and dwelling on his misfortunes. If he thought about Kit again... if he thought about the child he never knew... he would probably end up consumed by insanity.
The man had managed to clean his dress shirt of most of the stains that had built up onto the fabric. Only a few small tears remained, and they were quite unnoticeable. Charlie still had yet to gather a full wardrobe, and until he did, he had to work with what he had. He sat on the porch of one of the old buildings that morning, simply basking in the sun's warmth for a bit before taking to the streets. A wandering dog had caught his attention, however. One of its eyes was missing, and its body was covered in scratches. It seemed that he found something in common with the canine.
Charles beckoned over to the dog — a pitbull, to be exact, "C'mere." The dog lifted its cranium and cocked it curiously before approaching him. He scented the rough, calloused hand of Charlie and swiped its pink tongue over his knuckles. The Italian had never owned a dog, really. He had always been too preoccupied with other matters. However, nowadays, he could probably stand to have someone to keep him company. Glancing at the pitbull's missing eye, he sighed softly, and muttered, "You 'n me both, buddy." He stroked its head.
( just gonna pretend that he's been here for a short while or so :> your character is free to have been acquainted with him or whatever, up to u!! )
Tired.
That was how one could describe Charles Luciano. Exhausted, definitely beaten, and perhaps a bit lost. He hadn't looked the most collected upon arrival to the town — he had looked like a goddamn mess. Ruffled clothes stained with dirt and sweat, his naturally curly hair stringy and dangling gracelessly, his lips chapped and tasting of stale blood (and, more noticeably, the right side of his face sporting an ugly scar). Once upon a time, he had lived like a king, residing in the penthouse suite of a oceanside casino and proudly staking his claim at the top of the local "foodchain". At one time, he had an entire mafia at his command, who fulfilled his wishes at the snap of his fingers.
Now the glory days were gone.
He was the leader who had fallen from grace, his throne now nonexistent. The people under his regime were likely dead, moved on, or currently serving the new leader of the city... whoever that was. Perhaps the group had crumbled after his disappearance — it had all happened so suddenly, after all.
Charles had managed to escape the living hell he had been subjected to for months, dehydrated and starved and confused. He didn't necessarily care to find his way back to the Badlands — it could have been miles and miles away, for all he knew. No, he needed attention urgently, and that was how he had stumbled upon this place: Los Santos. This post-apocalyptic band of survivors operated in a similar fashion to his old crew; perhaps this was just the universe's way of trying to be humorous. Charlie had been hesitant to stay in this place, as he had not stained his hands with crimson in a long time. He had not dealt with the business of dealing product or carrying out orders since he himself led his group.
However, he ultimately decided to see how things went. That was the best way he could put it. Now that he was liberated from his stony cell, maybe it would be beneficial to contribute to something once more. After all, the "business" was all that he really knew. It was his specialty, if you will. If he had nothing to strive towards, no goals or rewards to reap from life, then what really was left for the former gangster? It certainly would be better than being a loner and dwelling on his misfortunes. If he thought about Kit again... if he thought about the child he never knew... he would probably end up consumed by insanity.
The man had managed to clean his dress shirt of most of the stains that had built up onto the fabric. Only a few small tears remained, and they were quite unnoticeable. Charlie still had yet to gather a full wardrobe, and until he did, he had to work with what he had. He sat on the porch of one of the old buildings that morning, simply basking in the sun's warmth for a bit before taking to the streets. A wandering dog had caught his attention, however. One of its eyes was missing, and its body was covered in scratches. It seemed that he found something in common with the canine.
Charles beckoned over to the dog — a pitbull, to be exact, "C'mere." The dog lifted its cranium and cocked it curiously before approaching him. He scented the rough, calloused hand of Charlie and swiped its pink tongue over his knuckles. The Italian had never owned a dog, really. He had always been too preoccupied with other matters. However, nowadays, he could probably stand to have someone to keep him company. Glancing at the pitbull's missing eye, he sighed softly, and muttered, "You 'n me both, buddy." He stroked its head.
( just gonna pretend that he's been here for a short while or so :> your character is free to have been acquainted with him or whatever, up to u!! )
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THERE'S NO RETURN FROM WHERE I'VE BEEN
❝ TRIED TO PRETEND THAT I'M AROUND . . . ❞
————————— BIOGRAPHY / FORMER BOSS OF THE BADLANDS