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Samson Apollinaire
{ALIASES}He absolutely insists you call him “Sam”.
{AGE}42
{GENDER, SEXUALITY}Male, pansexual
{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}Human, native-born Solartan
{HEIGHT/BUILD}6’5”, beefcake
{OCCUPATION}Inquisitor, Osprey, Pilot Noble
{RESIDENCE}Solarta, Aedolis
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IN DEPTH STUFF
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{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION} Quarter Winnebago; Sam is a big guy. The kind of guy where you turn around to look at who just spoke and you go “holy shit what did they feed you as a kid”. He stands tall, and solidly muscled, with broad strong shoulders and biceps to rival some thighs. It makes shopping for shirts a real pain in the ass, because while he’s bulkier up top, his waist remains trim, which he blames on never having a spare minute to stuff his face.
Solartan sun; Sam was born and raised on one of the rancher grids to the far southern end of the dome, where most of the desert sunlight hit without the surrounding cliff face to shield the worst of it. He still maintains the same deep brown tan he grew up with, which throws the vivid silver of his eyes into sharp relief. Softly angled, with thick lashes and a solid set of crow’s feet, you’d never look into his eyes and think about how his job involves the brutal interrogation and execution of other Pilots.
Non-regulation; His hair, thick and coffee-brown, Sam keeps about shoulder-length, since he suffers from way too many stubborn cowlicks to cut short and not look a total fool. Besides, considering he often wears a wide-brimmed hat out of doors, it cuts down heavily on hat-hair when all you have to do is shake the mess out and retie your ponytail. He usually knots it into a messy bun at the base of his skull when he needs to keep it out of his face, but when he’s particularly stressed he’ll undo it and start running his hands through his hair over and over.
His facial hair similarly varies. He tries to keep it trim and neat, but if he’s been working several days straight in a row he’ll forget to shave, resulting in some rather frequent stubble.
{PERSONALITY} ONCE A FARM BOY; Samson values hard work, the result of getting in with your bare hands and through your own sweat and effort and coming out successful. When he puts himself to something, it’s with 100% of what he’s got, and he’s not “above” any task. Sometimes it feels like he tries to do everything himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right, but really it’s more that he can say with absolute surety it’s done if he himself saw it done. Nothing gets on his nerves quicker than asking what went wrong and getting an “I don’t know” in response.
P’s AND Q’s; Samson is very polite. He toes the line between familiar warmth and due propriety, and his mannerisms follow suit. He will always remove his hat if he goes indoors, he will always address a person by an honorific or similarly acceptable terms regardless of their civilian or military status, and he certainly will always wait for an invitation before walking into someone’s space (no matter how many times the other person might insist he just waltz in).
Still, this doesn’t tend to come off as overly formal, rather it’s so natural to him that anything less would be supremely bizarre even to his closest friends and family. It’s just how he was raised, and he doesn’t expect to get anything out of his manners than the satisfaction of having manners.
COLD KILLER; Still, sunshine smiles and “yes ma’am”s aside, there is no doubting who or what Samson is. He is a highly trained Inquisitorial agent, and he does not hesitate in the slightest when it comes to hunting down and executing traitors, or punishing those who step out of line and do both their fellow soldiers and their country a disservice. He goes into his job with the kind of ruthless tenacity that will hear no pleas for mercy or excuses, and certainly no quick easy ways out.
“You only need to hang mean bastards, but mean bastards you need to hang.”
Fun Facts!:- Writes poetry in his spare time, and has several collections of poetry in both physical book format (for the more special cases) as well as digitally in his comm. He’s usually reading in his downtime.
- Gave up smoking years ago rather than either let it interfere with his running speed or go through the process of getting robotic lungs. But certain habits are there, and so he tends to keep a toothpick in his mouth, or chew pieces of grass if he’s out in the rural grid.
- Goes bonkers for robot fighting matches. The more whirling blades of death the better.
- Crochets.
{SPECIAL ABILITIES}Telepath - Standard, better at shielding his thoughts to evade detection than he is at probing.
Telekinesis - His main talent, as he often uses it to manipulate his surroundings in the pursuit of his quarry. Often psychics a literal lasso like the old-timey bumpkin he is.
{RELATIONSHIPS}TBD, probably a fairly sized family who still run a farm or ranch or what have you.
{HISTORY}Also TBD because lazybones.
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