Post by Frank Castle on Apr 17, 2015 16:22:15 GMT
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GROUP UNAFFILIATED
AGE 43
GENDER M
HEIGHT 6'3"
WEIGHT 227LBS
POWER LEVEL 5
POSITIVE + determined + vengeful + skilled + efficient + professional
NEGATIVE - obsessive - defensive - narrow-minded - remorseless - cynical
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[attr="class","dupertext"]GUNS - Frank's bread and butter. The Punisher is a marksman in his vigilantism before anything else, and his skills with conventional ballistic weaponry, from pistols to shotguns, rifles to shotguns, are unparalleled.
MELEE WEAPONS - When the chamber clicks empty, it's time to move on to something a little more personal. Frank trains as vehemently with knives and other blades as he does with firearms.
SURVIVAL - A lifetime of being alone in the Empire Wasteland, both the city and the Dead Valley, has bred a kind of survivalism into Frank: he is, and always will be an elite, solitary unit able to sustain himself even in the most dire of circumstances.
REPAIR - The only good weapon is a well-maintained one. It doesn't matter how accurate you are when you pull the trigger if the bullet jams in the chamber; it doesn't matter how strong your armour is if your enemy sticks a knife in that broken part you were going to fix last night. Frank knows as well as any wastelander that the best arsenal is one in the best shape possible, and has adapted to repair all of his own equipment.
MEDICINE - Forty-three years Frank's been alive in this godforsaken wasteland, and for nearly twenty-five of those he's been hunting and killing every deplorable excuse for a human being the Valley that he can find. His time in the Empire Wasteland has brought him more wounds than he'd like -- he hasn't made it this far without learning to yank a bullet out of his side or field-dress a laceration.
STRAIGHT RAZOR - The first weapon Frank fashioned after the death of his wife and son, Frank hunted and survived using only this straight razor for almost three weeks. After the first, the blade snapped out of it, and Frank crafted his own hardier blade out of a large piece flint -- allowing it to additionally serve as a firestarter when necessary, yet remain deadly sharp. Frank tucks his straight razor into the side of his boot.
9 IRON - Never a fan of golf, not long after he emerged from the outlying areas of the cemetery, Frank discovered this sturdy 9 iron. After disarming the first of the seven raiders he would come to kill in his search for revenge, Frank used the raider's weapon, this club, to interrogate and brain its former owner. Frank seldom uses this 9 iron.
BOWIE KNIVES - Held by a knife enthusiast, and the fourth of the seven raiders Frank hunted down without mercy, these twin Bowie knives have been weighted to make dual-wielding viable. After wiping the stained blades clean, Frank slit the throat of their last wielder, before going on to claim many more lives with the blades. Frank keeps his Bowie knives sheathed at each side of his waist.
.45 AUTO PISTOLS - Frank liberated his signature .45 Auto M1911A1-model pistols from the fifth and sixth of the seven raiders responsible for the death of his kin, respectively. Both were in terrible states when he reclaimed them, the one belonging to Number Six jamming with the shot he would have used to execute Frank himself. Since their assimilation into his arsenal, the pistols have been well-cleaned and maintained, and repainted black, with the signature white Punisher skull on their inlays. Frank keeps his .45 pistols at his hips along a gunbelt.
.45 AUTO SUBMACHINE GUN - Reclaimed from the last of the seven raiders Frank slaughtered in his quest for vengeance, this weapon remains to be one of the best-earned in his entire arsenal. Carrying more than a few scars himself from the very same .45 Automatic SMG, Frank has fitted it with customised drum magazines and refurbished springs. When he wields it, Frank keeps his .45 SMG at his back or over his shoulder.
12-GAUGE RIOT SHOTGUN - One of the more formidable weapons in his arsenal, Frank's 12-gauge shotgun is a semi-automatic, drum-loading street sweeper best suited for urban combat. Taken from the corpse of a slain raider chief known only as "Nought-Nought" for the type of buckshot he preferred, Frank thankfully has endured no wounds from this shotgun. When he wields it, Frank keeps his riot shotgun at his back or over his shoulder.
5.56MM ASSAULT RIFLE - The most versatile weapon in his arsenal was claimed from a corrupt NCR Ranger who had fled the west after being sentenced for murdering his platoon in a coverup. Found -- and since kept -- in near-pristine condition (for the wasteland), the rifle came with a foregrip, telescopic sight, and bipod, all able to be removed and reattached at will, though he has added a Punisher skull to its lower receiver. When he wields it, Frank keeps his assault rifle at his back or over his shoulder.
.308 SNIPER RIFLE - A heavily modified .308 semi-automatic sniper rifle, Frank's was constructed from the remains of a specialist marksman rifle he acquired in an old U.S. Army bunker in Illinois, along the Damned 66, after liberating it from Viper gang members. In very good condition, Frank repainted it and fitted a suppressor, and custom-painted the receiver, magazine well, and each individual magazine, to create a Punisher skull when it's loaded. When he wields it, Frank keeps his sniper rifle at his back or over his shoulder.
PRE-WAR TRENCHCOAT - Sturdy, warm, and only recently unearthed from downtown Brooklyn, Frank purchases a new, iconic trenchcoat -- doubling as a travel coat -- every year or so. With additional pockets sewn into its lining as specialised magazine holders, Frank's iconic trenchcoat hangs over his armour, keeping the elements out and the warmth in. Frank's current coat reaches to his knees, made of old black leather.
NYPD RIOT ARMOUR - Only worn when Frank's travelling through unmarked territory or a known war zone, Frank wears his armour under his coat but above his normal clothes, covering his torso, shoulders, elbows, and forearms. The armour itself can easily keep out small arms calibres, balking at .308. Armour-piercing and greater rounds, such as .45-70 and .50 MG, will penetrate it. The impact force often still leaves Frank with massive bruises and the occasional broken rib, but his armour has served him well all these years. It's daubed at the front with a painted white Punisher skull, as one would expect.
THE FACE OF PUNISHMENT - The thick woolen mask daubed with a white skull Frank wears doubles as a beanie whenever he's not out on the road. Serving to conceal his identity, spread his reputation, and incite fear in his would-be targets, the eye-level area is instead replaced with a strip dark, yet perfectly visible gauze, meaning Frank can see out of them without any impediment whatsoever, even to his peripheral vision.
IN 2268, new parents Franklin and Michaela Castle, with their newborn son Jacob, moved into one of a set of supposedly-guarded newly-constructed warehouse-conversions just north of Albany Trading Post. Frank had been a Great Khan in a former life, having left the Canyon a few years prior in search of a quieter life out west after his father, loyal as ever to the Khans, passed away. He had his life's fill of excitement and gun-battles, and, now, well-trained and tired of it all, Frank Castle wished to settle down.
It was on the fringes of society, their little tin hut, but it was cheap. There was room enough for Frank to hang his coat and for the pair of them to raise their child whilst he worked as trading post security on late-night shifts, never raising his shotgun once, and undoubtedly one of the more reputable for his bold history, imposing appearance, and rigorous training regime.
All it took was one shift a few minutes later than the other on the week that all the other tenants had been leaving. Nobody really knew why; some hearsay about raiders coming in from the north. Frank knew as well as anyone that it was nonsense; the SHIELD guard towers and contingents kept them safe from raiding parties. That was what they thought, at least.
He still remembers the smell of blood. The sight of his dead, raped, brutalised wife clutching that bloody little bundle, their pitiful excuse for a marital bed stained crimson. By the time he'd raised his rifle to fire, it was too late; Frank felt the blade in his side. He fell, and he went down, but he landed shots on three of the seven animals before it all went dark.
Three graves, they'd dug, and three graves, they filled. Six by two, six by two, and one by one for the kid. The leader, with his .45 SMG hanging by his side, pulled Frank up, out of bloody unconsciousness, and snarled at him. They made him watch as they buried Michaela and Jacob, spitting in the dirt as they did so, desecrating the Castle family graves they set up too early.
When all was said and done, they stuck him with a blade a few more times, and shot him a couple, just for good measure. He was warm, but he was limp. The father they hadn't counted on arriving was done for, surely, with three slugs in his gut and bleeding like a stuck pig into the dirt. "No way anyone could survive that," They said to each other, heading back into the hills from there. "He's dead." That was the only mistake they'd ever needed to make.
Vengeance can do terrible things to a man. It will chew him up, and spit him out, a shadow, a remnant of what he once used to be. It will devour his soul and leave him cold and empty on the inside long after all the cartridges are spent and the smoke has cleared. It will rend him apart and tear him open from within. But it will keep him alive.
Nobody knows how long he spent in that rotten pit, not even him. But when Frank woke up, he had the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth, his half-healed wounds still weeping. The traditional Khan and Castle tolerance kicked in; Frank gritted his teeth and bore through the agony. He mourned and wept at the edge of his family's graves. He wept until his eyes were dry. And then he felt his skin burn with the fury of a husband wronged and a father whose son had been taken from him.
For three weeks he refused to brave society. With nothing but a straight razor carved from flint he hunted, taking all the skins and needles he needed. He wrenched the three mushroomed bullets free from the open wounds in his chest with the rib splinters of a molerat. He used the wiry hairs of a yao guai to make himself stitches, sealing the deeper cuts whilst the surface lacerations healed by themselves.
And when his three weeks were over, he walked back to Albany, a changed man for what he had felt. He had nothing left. Nothing but the cold desire to see these men and men like them writhe and twist and burn for what they had done. The vengeance kept him going, but it consumed him, and when those seven were dead, Frank Castle could not turn back. He was a changed man, and a new man. A broken man. A dead man walking.
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[attr="class","dupertitle"]FRANK CASTLE
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AKA "THE PUNISHER"GROUP UNAFFILIATED
AGE 43
GENDER M
HEIGHT 6'3"
WEIGHT 227LBS
POWER LEVEL 5
POSITIVE + determined + vengeful + skilled + efficient + professional
NEGATIVE - obsessive - defensive - narrow-minded - remorseless - cynical
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I AM THE SHADOW
AND THE SMOKE IN YOUR EYES
AND THE SMOKE IN YOUR EYES
[attr="class","dupertext"]GUNS - Frank's bread and butter. The Punisher is a marksman in his vigilantism before anything else, and his skills with conventional ballistic weaponry, from pistols to shotguns, rifles to shotguns, are unparalleled.
MELEE WEAPONS - When the chamber clicks empty, it's time to move on to something a little more personal. Frank trains as vehemently with knives and other blades as he does with firearms.
SURVIVAL - A lifetime of being alone in the Empire Wasteland, both the city and the Dead Valley, has bred a kind of survivalism into Frank: he is, and always will be an elite, solitary unit able to sustain himself even in the most dire of circumstances.
REPAIR - The only good weapon is a well-maintained one. It doesn't matter how accurate you are when you pull the trigger if the bullet jams in the chamber; it doesn't matter how strong your armour is if your enemy sticks a knife in that broken part you were going to fix last night. Frank knows as well as any wastelander that the best arsenal is one in the best shape possible, and has adapted to repair all of his own equipment.
MEDICINE - Forty-three years Frank's been alive in this godforsaken wasteland, and for nearly twenty-five of those he's been hunting and killing every deplorable excuse for a human being the Valley that he can find. His time in the Empire Wasteland has brought him more wounds than he'd like -- he hasn't made it this far without learning to yank a bullet out of his side or field-dress a laceration.
STRAIGHT RAZOR - The first weapon Frank fashioned after the death of his wife and son, Frank hunted and survived using only this straight razor for almost three weeks. After the first, the blade snapped out of it, and Frank crafted his own hardier blade out of a large piece flint -- allowing it to additionally serve as a firestarter when necessary, yet remain deadly sharp. Frank tucks his straight razor into the side of his boot.
9 IRON - Never a fan of golf, not long after he emerged from the outlying areas of the cemetery, Frank discovered this sturdy 9 iron. After disarming the first of the seven raiders he would come to kill in his search for revenge, Frank used the raider's weapon, this club, to interrogate and brain its former owner. Frank seldom uses this 9 iron.
BOWIE KNIVES - Held by a knife enthusiast, and the fourth of the seven raiders Frank hunted down without mercy, these twin Bowie knives have been weighted to make dual-wielding viable. After wiping the stained blades clean, Frank slit the throat of their last wielder, before going on to claim many more lives with the blades. Frank keeps his Bowie knives sheathed at each side of his waist.
.45 AUTO PISTOLS - Frank liberated his signature .45 Auto M1911A1-model pistols from the fifth and sixth of the seven raiders responsible for the death of his kin, respectively. Both were in terrible states when he reclaimed them, the one belonging to Number Six jamming with the shot he would have used to execute Frank himself. Since their assimilation into his arsenal, the pistols have been well-cleaned and maintained, and repainted black, with the signature white Punisher skull on their inlays. Frank keeps his .45 pistols at his hips along a gunbelt.
.45 AUTO SUBMACHINE GUN - Reclaimed from the last of the seven raiders Frank slaughtered in his quest for vengeance, this weapon remains to be one of the best-earned in his entire arsenal. Carrying more than a few scars himself from the very same .45 Automatic SMG, Frank has fitted it with customised drum magazines and refurbished springs. When he wields it, Frank keeps his .45 SMG at his back or over his shoulder.
12-GAUGE RIOT SHOTGUN - One of the more formidable weapons in his arsenal, Frank's 12-gauge shotgun is a semi-automatic, drum-loading street sweeper best suited for urban combat. Taken from the corpse of a slain raider chief known only as "Nought-Nought" for the type of buckshot he preferred, Frank thankfully has endured no wounds from this shotgun. When he wields it, Frank keeps his riot shotgun at his back or over his shoulder.
5.56MM ASSAULT RIFLE - The most versatile weapon in his arsenal was claimed from a corrupt NCR Ranger who had fled the west after being sentenced for murdering his platoon in a coverup. Found -- and since kept -- in near-pristine condition (for the wasteland), the rifle came with a foregrip, telescopic sight, and bipod, all able to be removed and reattached at will, though he has added a Punisher skull to its lower receiver. When he wields it, Frank keeps his assault rifle at his back or over his shoulder.
.308 SNIPER RIFLE - A heavily modified .308 semi-automatic sniper rifle, Frank's was constructed from the remains of a specialist marksman rifle he acquired in an old U.S. Army bunker in Illinois, along the Damned 66, after liberating it from Viper gang members. In very good condition, Frank repainted it and fitted a suppressor, and custom-painted the receiver, magazine well, and each individual magazine, to create a Punisher skull when it's loaded. When he wields it, Frank keeps his sniper rifle at his back or over his shoulder.
PRE-WAR TRENCHCOAT - Sturdy, warm, and only recently unearthed from downtown Brooklyn, Frank purchases a new, iconic trenchcoat -- doubling as a travel coat -- every year or so. With additional pockets sewn into its lining as specialised magazine holders, Frank's iconic trenchcoat hangs over his armour, keeping the elements out and the warmth in. Frank's current coat reaches to his knees, made of old black leather.
NYPD RIOT ARMOUR - Only worn when Frank's travelling through unmarked territory or a known war zone, Frank wears his armour under his coat but above his normal clothes, covering his torso, shoulders, elbows, and forearms. The armour itself can easily keep out small arms calibres, balking at .308. Armour-piercing and greater rounds, such as .45-70 and .50 MG, will penetrate it. The impact force often still leaves Frank with massive bruises and the occasional broken rib, but his armour has served him well all these years. It's daubed at the front with a painted white Punisher skull, as one would expect.
THE FACE OF PUNISHMENT - The thick woolen mask daubed with a white skull Frank wears doubles as a beanie whenever he's not out on the road. Serving to conceal his identity, spread his reputation, and incite fear in his would-be targets, the eye-level area is instead replaced with a strip dark, yet perfectly visible gauze, meaning Frank can see out of them without any impediment whatsoever, even to his peripheral vision.
IN 2268, new parents Franklin and Michaela Castle, with their newborn son Jacob, moved into one of a set of supposedly-guarded newly-constructed warehouse-conversions just north of Albany Trading Post. Frank had been a Great Khan in a former life, having left the Canyon a few years prior in search of a quieter life out west after his father, loyal as ever to the Khans, passed away. He had his life's fill of excitement and gun-battles, and, now, well-trained and tired of it all, Frank Castle wished to settle down.
It was on the fringes of society, their little tin hut, but it was cheap. There was room enough for Frank to hang his coat and for the pair of them to raise their child whilst he worked as trading post security on late-night shifts, never raising his shotgun once, and undoubtedly one of the more reputable for his bold history, imposing appearance, and rigorous training regime.
All it took was one shift a few minutes later than the other on the week that all the other tenants had been leaving. Nobody really knew why; some hearsay about raiders coming in from the north. Frank knew as well as anyone that it was nonsense; the SHIELD guard towers and contingents kept them safe from raiding parties. That was what they thought, at least.
He still remembers the smell of blood. The sight of his dead, raped, brutalised wife clutching that bloody little bundle, their pitiful excuse for a marital bed stained crimson. By the time he'd raised his rifle to fire, it was too late; Frank felt the blade in his side. He fell, and he went down, but he landed shots on three of the seven animals before it all went dark.
Three graves, they'd dug, and three graves, they filled. Six by two, six by two, and one by one for the kid. The leader, with his .45 SMG hanging by his side, pulled Frank up, out of bloody unconsciousness, and snarled at him. They made him watch as they buried Michaela and Jacob, spitting in the dirt as they did so, desecrating the Castle family graves they set up too early.
When all was said and done, they stuck him with a blade a few more times, and shot him a couple, just for good measure. He was warm, but he was limp. The father they hadn't counted on arriving was done for, surely, with three slugs in his gut and bleeding like a stuck pig into the dirt. "No way anyone could survive that," They said to each other, heading back into the hills from there. "He's dead." That was the only mistake they'd ever needed to make.
Vengeance can do terrible things to a man. It will chew him up, and spit him out, a shadow, a remnant of what he once used to be. It will devour his soul and leave him cold and empty on the inside long after all the cartridges are spent and the smoke has cleared. It will rend him apart and tear him open from within. But it will keep him alive.
Nobody knows how long he spent in that rotten pit, not even him. But when Frank woke up, he had the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth, his half-healed wounds still weeping. The traditional Khan and Castle tolerance kicked in; Frank gritted his teeth and bore through the agony. He mourned and wept at the edge of his family's graves. He wept until his eyes were dry. And then he felt his skin burn with the fury of a husband wronged and a father whose son had been taken from him.
For three weeks he refused to brave society. With nothing but a straight razor carved from flint he hunted, taking all the skins and needles he needed. He wrenched the three mushroomed bullets free from the open wounds in his chest with the rib splinters of a molerat. He used the wiry hairs of a yao guai to make himself stitches, sealing the deeper cuts whilst the surface lacerations healed by themselves.
And when his three weeks were over, he walked back to Albany, a changed man for what he had felt. He had nothing left. Nothing but the cold desire to see these men and men like them writhe and twist and burn for what they had done. The vengeance kept him going, but it consumed him, and when those seven were dead, Frank Castle could not turn back. He was a changed man, and a new man. A broken man. A dead man walking.
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LAIKA OF GS!
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