Here We Go Again!

[crawfordsands]

Application

Player Info
Player Name: Sara
Player LJ: sandpuppeteer
Player Instant Messenger Type and Handle: AIM--CrawfordSands
Player Email: sandpuppeteer@gmail.com
Are you 18 years of age or older? Yes

Character Info
Character Name: Crawford Sands
Character’s Age: 26 (looks a bit older)
Fandom: Original
Timeline: Post a_trialbyfire

Appearance: In a word, rough. Technically, he is six feet tall, but his slouch is so bad that it takes several inches off. His red hair is choppy, and messy, as he has a bad habit of cutting it himself and not bothering with it when he wakes up. His relationship with a razor is as limited as possible, so if he does remember to shave he's still got some stubble going on. His face shows a scattering of scars, all from one fight or another. He is far from slender, with a broad frame and is a bit soft in the middle. His back and arms are covered in various scars. In highest number are those from cigarettes, but the most prominent are an inch-wide band across his shoulder blades and a burn the size of a man's hand on the lower left side of his rib cage.

His clothes are as rough as he is. A thread-bare sweatshirt held together with patches and safety pins. The patch on the back bears the logo for his short lived band, The Puppets. Under it is just a plain teeshirt, which may or may not have been clean before being put on. Blue jeans that have seen better days add to it, as well as a pair of plain black boots. And, finally, a pair of ratty old almost-black hobo gloves. In his pockets will always be found a pack of cigarettes and a silver zippo with a shamrock engraved on the corner on the front.

He is often seen carrying a black back pack. In it is a small supply of his favored drug (vicodin), a clawed hammer, two spiral notebooks, a handful of pens and pencils of various working order, a small flashlight, a few guitar picks, a tee shirt that had belonged to his brother, one working plastic lighter, one dead lighter, a spare pack of smokes and a photo of his brother with a habit of shifting expressions.

Scars:
- Thick band across shoulders, still causes him pain as the muscles beneath didn't heal quite right.
- Large burn on lower left side of torso toward the back from an iron.
- Cigarette burns on arms, cigar burn on left shoulder
- Smaller cuts from step father's ring over body, two on face--one under left eye, one lower on left cheek.
- Deep, matching scars on front and back of right calf from a knife. Causes pain still, muscles badly damaged by a knife.
- Long slice from nape of neck down to buttocks, following spine.
- Right side of lower lip, where a lip ring was torn out when he was a teenager
- Cuts on left wrist (suicide attempt when he was a teenager)

Images as follows:
http://fc00.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/150/b/0/More_Icon_Doodles_by_sandpuppeteer.jpg
http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs32/f/2008/198/1/6/9_Levels_of_Hell___Crawford_by_sandpuppeteer.jpg

History: Crawford's life could have been easy, simple, and bright. He was born to a young couple, both happy and full of life. At least, this is the impression Crawford has. They had their problems like anyone else, but they were more or less well adjusted. His father, William, had been kept late at work one night and decided to stop off and buy dinner for his wife and some flowers. He never made it home. Another man--rushing to his own family and injured daughter--ran a red light and struck William's car at full speed. The driver of that car died on the scene, when paramedics were delayed in responding. William was rushed to the hospital, but died from internal injuries in the ER.

Crawford was just barely a year old.

His mother, Cybil, was devastated. William had been her high school sweetheart. The love of her life. With her brother's help, she was able to cope and move on, getting her and her son settled once more. In this time, she met someone. An acquaintance of her brother, an up-and-coming figure in the political world, a man by the name of Leon Sands. He offered her the moral support she needed, and she grew attached to him. It wasn't the same, intense love she'd had with William, but it was comfort.

At the age of four, Crawford was the ring bearer at their wedding. And by the age of five, he had himself a baby brother--Donavin. Upon meeting this small, squirming bundle, Crawford vowed to be the best big brother he could be. As they grew up, Donavin was proving to be a quiet and withdrawn child. By the time the boy was three, Cybil began to suspect there may be something wrong with him, but the doctors said it was far too early to diagnose any mental disorders. A mother's intuition was not enough to make a diagnosis. Crawford knew his little brother was different, so he did all he could to compensate. He was about the only person who understood the younger boy and the only one who could make him smile. This became even more apparent as they grew older.

Things were going quite well. Leon was making friends in all the right places, and soon found himself rapidly climbing through the government. At last, he landed himself the title of Senator, where he was content to stay.

Crawford was nine and Donavin was five when it all fell apart.

Crawford had been at a friend's house for the night when it happened. He came home to find his house crawling with police and other officials. His mother had been killed in the middle of the night. Within a few days, it was ruled as a burglary turned homicide and was investigated no further. But even at that age, Crawford suspected something was amiss. His half brother looked at the Senator as if he were a monster, flinching any time he came near. The man Crawford had seen as a father for five years suddenly became cold and distant, focusing on other matters, leaving the care of his step son to hired staff.

As time passed, things grew increasingly worse. He would find his brother crying at night, and sometimes there were strange bruises. Any time Crawford was found to be out of line in the Senator's eyes, punishment was usually far more extreme than it should have been. The boy ended up in the hospital every few months, for burns or broken bones. Using the expensive stereo in the living room without permission led to a broken arm. Later, in a fit of rebellion, Crawford got his lip pierced and promptly had it torn out. Any time he was found with a cigarette, it was put out somewhere on his skin.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Donavin saw far worse than Crawford. And at age thirteen, the older brother discovered what was going on. He was supposed to be staying at a friend's house, but once it was time to go to bed, he grew more and more upset. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to stay the night somewhere after that night his mom was killed. And just like those times, he asked to go home. This time, there were no cop cars, no bright lights, nothing to signal what waited inside. No one was dead, but what he heard killed something inside him. He should have done something, but instead he just ran.

That's how he became friends Dane. Dane had always been a bull to him in school, picking on the kid because he wouldn't fight back. Dane found Crawford huddled in an alley, shivering and sniffling. Instead of succumbing to his bully tendencies, he sat down next to the kid and offered him a beer. Obviously the best thing to give a distraught thirteen year old.

After that, Crawford redoubled his efforts to get help for his situation. He tried talking to the cops, but no one believed him. He was the rebellious step son of a well-known senator. Of course he'd be making up stories. Teachers and counselors had a similar attitude. Especially since he'd stopped trying to ignore the bullies and actually started fighting back. Once in a while, someone would believe him. A rookie cop that didn't know the full story took pity on him and actually started asking deeper questions. A week later, he was reassigned. One of the counselors took interest. He worked with Crawford for a month, trying to pin down what the truth was. But once he started taking action, he found himself without a job.

The problem was that the Senator was doing all he could to squash Crawford's claims. A lot of money changed hands to make sure no action was taken.

His eighteenth birthday came and went, and he had yet to succeed in rescuing his brother. The day after he graduated high school (just barely), he was without a home. The Senator no longer had any legal obligation to care for him and kicked him to the curb with all the possessions he could carry. It was the most heart-wrenching day of his life, as he was forced to leave his brother there. No one to protect him. Dane, who now had a comfy job as security at a large club, offered assistance. He put his friend up in his apartment until he could get his own place. Thankfully, at sixteen, Crawford's uncle (his mother's brother) had given him a job at a small coffee shop. In the face of his current misfortune, he was given a full time position and promoted to assistant manager. For being so angry and gruff with everyone, he was actually somewhat decent at the management aspect.

Four years passed. Crawford fought tooth and nail to get his brother out, but he had no legal standing and couldn't get near the house. At last the day came when Donavin could leave on his own and go into college. As strange and antisocial as the boy had become, it wasn't exactly the most sane plan. But it was the only one Crawford and Dane could cook up. With their combined connections, they managed to get Donavin into a college and thanks to a typo here and a mis-printed word there, they were able to proved enough cover that the senator wouldn't easily find out where his son had gone. He was none too pleased about this.

The following year, Crawford had to rebuild his relationship with his brother. A lot of damage had been done in their time apart. The Senator had convinced Donavin that Crawford had left because he hated his younger brother. But in this time, many things came to light. Donavin revealed to Crawford the truth. The fateful night that their mother had died, it had not been a burglar. Donavin had walked in to find their father standing over their mother, knife in hand, covered in blood.

With this new information, Crawford tried to get the case reopened, but the police didn't seem to care. It was a fifteen year old case, and a five year old was not a reliable eye witness.

Family issues were not the only ones he had to deal with. Dane's job was proving to be less satisfactory than first thought. Osiris, the owner of the club and close personal friend of the Senator, was seeking to build himself up to rival the Italian, Irish and Russian mobs that had stake in the city. His ace was a drug he'd had a hand in producing, known as Venom. It could only be acquired at the club. It was THE party drug. And it was this drug that led to far more trouble than Crawford ever wanted. There was a pop star that felt he owned Osiris, when in fact it was the other way around. It was after a hearty dose of this inhibition lowering drug that the pop star decided to go for a walk. About a month before, Crawford had encountered the pop star and had a few scathing things to say, including breaking the man's CD in front of him.

Crawford, stumbling drunk, tried to fight the man and lost. In the end, he was face down on the cold sidewalk, wearing only his boots and gloves, with a knife all the way through his calf. Dane, being a coward, had fled the scene when the fight began. It was Donavin who found his brother and called the ambulance. He also called a second number. Osiris. Not fully knowing the consequences.

Once Crawford was able to walk again, he found himself growing addicted to the vicodin he'd been prescribed. The pharmacy kept refilling his prescription without question. It was a great way to get away from the pain, both mental and physical.

He was twenty six, his back and arms covered in scars and a head full of memories he wanted to avoid.

He was as settled as he would ever be. He was content to support his brother, knowing he was safe. Donavin had found someone else he trusted, a young man he was room mates with at college. Crawford was satisfied with this. He needed help with how unstable his brother could be. At least it left Crawford able to see his one and only friend with out fearing his brother might be jealous. So he spent his days drinking away what little extra money he had, checking in on his brother when he could and just passing the time.

Then his world changed. Not in any mundane sense. He got so drunk one night that he blacked out. When he came around he found himself in a town about as different as Manhattan as anyone could find. Bearing the name World's End, it looked the part. A small town looking as though it had just barely survived an apocalypse, populated by some of the strangest things Crawford had ever seen. He dedicated his first days to finding a way out and punching the face of anyone he met. The main target for such things quickly became a young man claiming to be an angel named Michael.

Soon he crossed paths with Zelda. Despite his unsavory attitude and accusations of theft, she did all she could to help him. She saw to it that he was fed and given a place to live that wasn't in a run-down building. It was the first time in many, many years that he'd had a mother figure in his life. And her help aided him in adjusting far more quickly to the town than he had in his first week.

Without the police and anyone with mafia-like tendencies, he found himself without a general enemy to despise. But that was soon rectified. He started butting heads with the celestial members of the town. Most notably Michael, Lucifer, Shuldig and a number of others. Crawford made no secret of his hatred for these things, going so far as trying to start a fight with Lucifer himself. But most of the time, he just fought with Michael, getting his ass kicked every time.

But his attitude was re-aligned when Michael's murder was broadcast to the entire town. He was running out to do something about it before he realized what he was doing. He was even willing to put aside his differences with Lucifer to help the angel. But that didn't mean he started liking their entire kind. A single conversation with the angel Gabriel only served to solidify his hatred for angels.

As time passed, things got confusing. He actually started making a few friends...and more enemies. He fought a guy named Alex and would have bled to death if not for the intervention of an elf he'd been bickering with. He slowly became something like friends with a man named John Constantine, sharing their hatred of angels over a few stiff drinks. And he was still willing to break teeth at the drop of a hat. He even ended up being able to tolerate Lucifer to such a point that he ended up working at the bar he ran. There were some tough spots, but Crawford inevitably proved himself to be worth it when he protected the bar from some of the town's monsters.

The gods liked to play tricks with people. From shared dreams to strange colored zombie rabbits roaming around. But the biggest trick of all was dropping everyone in Manhattan. Crawford did his best to keep people from getting themselves killed. Granted, his "best" was yelling at people to not be stupid, but he was trying. Most of his time was spent tracking down people he knew would be trouble--Michael, especially. And once they were found, it was all about getting John out of the mental hospital.

The return to World's End left him restless and homesick. He went so far as to make a deal with one of the gods to get something from home (a guitar). But it meant acquiring something of Lucifer's. He was actually smart, for once. Instead of trying to steal it, he talked to Lucifer. And he agreed to give the item up to the gods, but he would not let Crawford so much as touch it.

It was on his way to meet with Lucifer so they could make the trade that he got lost. Going from Zelda's housing to the Lux was an easy trip. He'd made it every day for the past month. And yet, the road was not what he knew. Blaming it a number of things, he tried to get his bearings. But by the time he had himself sorted out, he was outside of the town. But this town, it wasn't the one he'd been living in for several months. This one seemed...cleaner. Nicer.

Game link: http://community.livejournal.com/a_trialbyfire/
Time spent there: 2 and a half months

Personality: Stubborn, abrasive, violent, grumpy--just a few words used to describe this guy. On his good days, the best he will come off as indifferent. That isn't to say he isn't incapable of mirth or humor. He's been known to laugh from time to time, but he can be a little bit on the cruel side. He was something of a bully in high school. However, that behavior was something he never quite grew out of. Picking a fight is his preferred means of stress relief. He is often drunk when doing so and uses few weapons. He carries a hammer with him at all times, but often forgets he has it, so he turns to means such as broken beer bottles to aid him in getting the upper hand. He is a dirty fighter, a brawler, with little sense of 'honor' in a fight. He is very much an 'act now, think later' sort, who would rather charge head first into something than think it out. And even when he does so and finds himself in the middle of an impossible fight, he doesn't get scared very often. There are, however, two things that can shake this stubborn redhead without fail: His step father and public speaking/performing. Yes, the angry brawler has stage fright.

He has his soft spots, as well. He is extremely protective of those he considers friends--though they are few and far between. But above all else, he will protect his younger brother--even if it meant sacrificing himself. Everything he is, everything he lives for, is ensuring his brother's safety. This leaves him few resources for himself, but he perseveres. This big brother complex extends to others to a lesser extent, mostly kids without someone to watch out for them.

Powers/Abilities: Crawford has no supernatural abilities. He has a high pain tolerance, increased by a pain-killer addiction. He is also a skilled fighter. Well, a brawler--he fights dirty.

Limitations: Having no special powers, there isn't anything to limit. However, his vicodin supply was dwindling when he left, so there will be some interesting withdrawal effects once that runs out (unless he can find more).

Writing Samples
Third Person Sample: It started in a bar. These things always start in a bar. This particular bar wasn't anything special. A run-down, hole-in-the-wall place that didn't water down their drinks too much. Which was all Crawford needed. As usual, the night quickly escalated into punches being thrown at a guy he didn't even know. It had just been someone sitting beside him at the bar, who accidentally sloshed half his beer all over Crawford. Two less drunk patrons helped the bartender get Crawford to the door, and assisted him out of it by force.

The bartender went back inside, as the rowdy redhead was no longer his problem to deal with. The two men who assisted, however, were not finished. Crawford staggered to his feet, squinting at the two guys. "The fuck you want? I ain't here to--"

He grunted hard as a large, meaty fist rammed into the softest part of his gut. He would have fallen to his knees if the second guy hadn't grabbed his arms. Drunk as he was, he didn't realize he'd been pinned until it was too late. "Hey! Lemme go!" He slurred, but they weren't listening.

"Don't you remember me?" the guy with the fists said, getting uncomfortably close to Crawford's face.

With one eye squeezed shut, he tried to get the other to focus enough to make sense of the blur before him. Even when he wasn't seeing double, the face was a mystery to him. But, then again, he wasn't one for committing such things to memory. And he tended to not pay attention to faces when fists started flying. "Ya look like any other ugly fuckin' mutt in this city," he grumbled. "What'm I s'posed to--"

The next punch hit him in the jaw.

"My brother," the man hissed. "Is in fuckin' traction cause of you. Spine busted up in three places! Jaw wired shut! Half a dozen other busted bones! A week ago, you knocked me out and kicked the ever livin' CRAP outta him!"

Crawford squeezed his eyes shut, his head far too fogged over to pull out any details older than a few hours. "Not ringin' any bells. Better--"

"I'll ring some fuckin' bells for ya!"

This time he didn't throw just one punch. Fists rained on the redhead while the other guy held him tight. Crawford kicked and fought as hard as he could, but the two had waited until he was well past the point of effectiveness. His boot met empty air with every kick.

When at last it ended, he was on the rain-slicked pavement, staring up at burnt out street light. Distantly, he thought he heard sirens and shouting. A strange, red light was flickering on everything he could see. Then everything just went dark.

First Person Sample:
[ Voice ]
[ His tone is gruff and strained, carrying with it the distinct accent of a native New Yorker. ]

Y'know, I'm gettin' real sick of this shit. I just wanna go home, check up on things and live my god damn life. But the gods gotta keep dickin' us around! Manhattan wasn't enough for those sick fucks? Now they gotta drag us to this...cookie cutter piece of shit place? AND WHERE THE FUCK IS EVERYONE?! Did they just decide to leave half the fuckin' people behind this time?! First time I see one of those pieces of shit I'm gonna break their scrawny little necks!

[ A grumble and sigh of pure frustration. ]

Boss, you make it across, at least?