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G i v e n N a m e:: Broddi Aaron Grimm -- No relation to the Grimm Brothers
O t h e r N a m e s:: Nah. Jus' Broddi is cool.
A g e:: Twenty-Four
B i r t h d a y:: January 2nd
O r i g i n:: Somewhere out there in the paw-paw patch.
S p e c i e s:: Human!...ish...Alright fine. Werewolf.
H a i r C o l o u r:: Chocolate-Brown
E y e C o l o u r:: Fog Gray...maybe Stormy Gray. Depends on what time of the day it is.
H e i g h t:: Five Foot Eleven Inches
B u i l d:: Slight muscles--though, of course, looks are deceiving...
S e x u a l i t y:: I like those of the female type too much to appreciate anything else.
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C o l l a r::
Oo. Leather or Velvet. Nicey-Nice.
C h a r m s::
~ Crutch - Optional
~ Broken Heart
~ X - Yeah, I am that daring
~ Book
C o l o u r s::
~ Orchid
~ Hot Pink
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L i k e s::
☑ The sense of danger
☑ Those wickedly pretty ladies
☑ Rabbits -- They're cute!
☑ Tree Houses
☑ Fighting
☑ Heated yet logical debates
D i s l i k e s::
☒ The Moon -- Stupid thing in the sky
☒ Corn
☒ Folks who are montonic in personality
☒ Advanced mathematics
☒ Black Jelly Beans
T a l e n t s:: Well, if you count being rather cool as a talent, then I will most certainly take that. Other than that, just your average guy who never picks fights, but ends it--and it never goes well for the person on the opposite end of my fists...or sword.
Q u i r k s:: Quirks? Pft! I am just your regular Joe-Schmoe. Although, I do have a bit of a head tilt apparently and scratching of the side of my head like a dog would with its ears.
S k i l l s:: I do like being in the kitchen from time to time. Also dig...what do the wimps call it? That's right. Sparring. Oh! Enjoying the fresh air is cool, too! Someone was stupid enough to create a portrayal of what I become from time to time.
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P e r s o n a l i t y:: A cocky jokester through and through. I also have a tendency to finish up those fights and arguments that I don't start! Honest!
H i s t o r y:: Well, I guess I start from the beginning.
I never knew my mother and my father died when I was nine. He was kinda a loud-mouth and it got him into trouble one-too-many times at a bar. I didn't understand what the Hells was going on, but in retrospect; he was kind of a redacted. My uncle--my father's older brother--took me in and cared for me and his own son, my cousin. I was younger than him by a hair over a year, so maybe that was one of the many reasons why we never got along. Also could be the fact of his own father liking me more than him. But whatever.
I never wanted the competition--until I was hitting sixteen. Just like my father, got into a lot of fights. Never started them, though. I normally finished it, be it the other person on the ground or me on the ground. My uncle frowned upon this deeply, but he saw some kind of potential in me. What that was, to this day I have not a damned clue. My uncle took me to this elite fight club--don't worry, it's the one you can talk about--and basically placed me in training of it. I did not need much training as I was one of the youngest pupils to advance into a rather popular trainer within less than a year.
Now, one would think this would be something to laugh at or just merely shrug, but my popularity grew immensely to the point where many folks believed I was my uncle's own son rather than my cousin. This, obviously, placed him rather put off.
It was about a few months after I turned eighteen my uncle died. He kind of left me his estate and a good chunk of his inheritance he gained from betting and gaining profit from those elite fight clubs. This sent my cousin over the edge of sanity. I was the epitome of his hatred. I could see why, honestly; but he went a bit too far to try to kill me. Not once. Try five times. It was the sixth time, though, that was just a hair different than all the others. The sixth hit-man was a werewolf and my cousin intentionally hired him during his time of Turning. Sure, the wolf and I duked it out and whatnot; but of course I was rather damaged to near death. My cousin, whom also became slight collateral damage and had his legs scratched up, threw me into the dumpsters close by a random bar.
Luckily, this random bar was frequent by one of the regular fighters and took me back to the estate where he nearly took out my cousin. I showed mercy to the guy, but sold him like cattle. Most likely he would have done the same to me had he bested me. I have not seen him since the bouncers of a bar some towns away called me as his emergency contact. I took him to the nearest hospital, took any evidence of me within his possessions and I was simply passed off as some good samaritan.
For years, I have been doing my best to stay in the elite fight club, but I guess I am on another level then most of the men as I got kicked out for possible drug enhancements. On the plus side, no one sued me--but down-side, I lost all the interest I gained for the sport since my return. It is no fun when you get enhanced strength by some supernatural thing and no many known to match it. I even tried to see if there was some underground werewolf fight-club kind of thing, but no dice--at least those that were of equal opportunity.
For a couple of years now, I have become an on-and-off physical trainer to those who sought outside of the gyms and assigned fight-club trainers. Not really much of an occupation, but it helped pass the time and helped me sustain any madness that came during those times of the month.
CaptainTapole
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