@page { margin: 0.79in } p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120% }

WARNING: Suitable for all Sires, Neonates, and Fledglings.  This is a fictional Angel to help the Characters when they are about to die.  Roscoe is a Deus Ex Machine.  I used generic stats from my custom PnP system.  Just convert them to 5th edition.  I don't have the book yet.  I think it comes in the mail tomorrow!  This is the first paper I did that got me into online work.  Please enjoy!  MONITOR YOUR FLEDGLINGS.

Name: Roscoe Michael Presley the III the III in service to Michael, Arcangel of War


Description: A tall wide framed man with long blonde hair. Dressed in nice desert cowboy attire with a rabbit fur cowboy hat (synthetic fur made in Heaven of course) . Always seems to be cheerful enough, but don't get on his bad side. He'll let you know to back up before violence is involved, but is perfectly willing to let ANYONE know the talent of his trick shooting. Many a being has walked away in shock as the gun they were reaching for was shot repeatedly out of their hand and kept in mid air for a few seconds. 

Location: Any campaign players need help with the ruff and tumble. Probably trick shooting at a Rodeo or on the Internet. 

Back Story: Roscoe started his career as an archer serving Michael back in the dark ages. His original name was lost in the sands of time after the pepper-box pistol was invented, also known as a Roscoe. Even thought the primitive firearm was still far from the peak of achievement, Roscoe "knew" that the pistol would evolve into a deadly weapon given enough time and effort. Roscoe couldn't have dreamed of what would happen to pistol design during the American Civil War, WW1, and WW2. Any Angel who called him out on his "sloppy" choice of weapon certainty wouldn't want to say that his face now a days.

Motivation: Stop Hell's servants with his 9mm pistols. Clean his 9mm pistols. Shoot his 9mm pistols. Go to the Rodeo and have fun! Party!

Mission/Goals: Right now Roscoe is digging up dirt on the Demon community. He keeps as low as a profile as possible for a party animal, but some how blends in with the human community.

Knacks(6pts creation + 3pts flaws + 12pts from role playing):
9mm Berreta Pistols +6 (+3 very specific)
Athletics +4 (-3 very broad)
Quick Draw 9mm Pistols +6 (+3 very specific)
Contact : Drinking buddy that knows whats going down +1 (+0)
Item : 9mm Berreta pistol +1 (+0)
Item : 9mm Berreta pistol +1 (+0)
Item : 9mm clip of Celestial ammo +1 (+0)
Item : 9mm clip of Celestial ammo +1 (+0)

Obsessive Compulsive With Guns -2 ; No kidding.
Party Animal -1 ; Usually very fun to party with, but occasional Roscoe's been known to get the whole Coterie arrested. They always laugh about it in Texas though.

Roscoe eyeballs the demon driving headlong into him at 50mpg. Instinctively his feet spring into action and he hops out of the way gripping his lucky rabbit's foot, a 9mm pistol, and a clip at the same time. He deftly puts the clip into the gun as the rear view mirror breaks off hitting his side spinning him around throwing him sprawled onto the ground. Getting his bearings and rolling onto his knees and feet, Roscoe points the 9mm pistol at the tire and lines up the iron sights. BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!!! Sparks fly off the wheel well as four bullets ricochet in various directions. The car screeches around the corner blowing past the red light, smoke thick in the air stinking of burnt rubber. A homeless man awakes and screams "F you buddy!!!", mumbles to himself, and then drunkenly goes back to sleep on his cardboard bedding.

Roscoe gets back up on his feet and holsters his gun thinking he hasn't had to reload during combat in ages? "I must be getting soft" he says to himself with a sigh. He tips his hat in the direction the car fled moments ago and looks up to see a flashing neon sign reading, "OPEN". A run down dive bar with boards covering windows broken from bar fights long ago stands before him. He smiles to himself and casually strolls to the entrance with a beam on his face. "We'll get em next time", he assures himself confidently. The smell of alcohol and vomit assault Roscoe's senses giving him a sense of nostalgia. Roscoe starts counting fingers on his hand, slowly pondering as he walks through the entrance. "Well cuz? That puts you at 12,398 me at 12,399" he says under his breath. "Yup, i'm getting soft. Bar keep, I'll have a whiskey and beer back please!", Roscoe yells politely over the noisy crowd as he casually slides onto a bar stool and cuts loose for the evening.

Hope Roscoe helps saves the Characters' bacon or tells them no some day,

Sensible Cenobite

Community content is available under CC-BY-SA unless otherwise noted.