Character's Name   : Quentin Sickleclaw (JP)

Character's Age    : 21

Animal Species     : Mutant Allosauroid (Gengineered Chicken Throwback)

Animal Adaptations : Claws & Fangs (well, naturally. The claws on his fingers are sort of retractile, those on his feet not - and between them and his muscles, just about anything he kicks falls over. Biting on the other hand goes about as well as you'd expect from a jaw that most people could lose their head in - forget thighbones, if he were so inclined (and sufficiently drunk) Quentin could probably crack open crankshafts), Predatory Speed & Strength (NJ-35's are currently the Apex predator of the U.S. - though there are a few overgrown insects (mantids notably) that are perhaps meaner on a weight-for-weight basis, packs of between twelve and fifty of the descendants of particularly badly thought-out gengineered chickens are pretty much the most trouble the average traveller is likely to run into. Quentin's something of a genius runt by the standards of the species, weighing in at less than a tonne but being able to pronounce the word 'tonne'), Leaping & Incredible Eyesight (NJ-35's are visually-keyed ambush and pursuit pack-hunting predators. He's got a better sense of smell than a human (who doesn't), and pretty good hearing, but his eyesight is exceedingly acute in most conditions and comes with some pretty epic spatial perception. Given his taste in shirts however, the odds are that he doesn't see colour the way most people do).

Psionics           : Empathic Receptor-Transmitter (Quentin can feel, and project feelings out to around sixty feet, though physical contact of any sort increases both the strength and clarity of the communication to very nearly telepathic levels. Unlike true telepathy, this ability is effective even with non-sentient creatures, though has not noticably stopped the large Raptor from his ongoing program to expand his cullinary acquaintence with as many of them as possible). Most notably this means that strong emotions and sensations in his presence tend to get rebroadcast or amplified - putting an even brighter glow on Dayna's music (as if it needs it), a sharper buzz on a fine night's drinking... or making it awfully difficult to get really /private/ personal time if he's awake and in the area.

Appearance         : When he stands straight up, rather than remaining in his usual tail-balanced forwards posture, Quentin is rather alarmingly more than seven feet of quiveringly deadly muscle and scale kept in check for the most part only by a truly dreadful sense of humour which has sadly been allowed by circumstance and situation to extend to his dress sense. Handsome for a prehistoric throwback, his eyes are a glittering yellow-gold, but obviously don't see colour the way the rest of the world does, since though he does go in for the fairly conventional dark & worn leather trousers the majority of the population has to make do with (suitably adjusted to take account of his physical peculiarities), at some point in the unspeakable past he's had the good fortune to stumble across a 'tall and wide' store's stock of eye-hurtingly bright Hawaian shirts, which he usually wears open to mid-chest, the better to reveal the brightly polished Imperial Officers Tabs (a Majors, as it happens) he wears on a chain around his neck, presumably having acquired them from their official owner by less than friendly means. His scales are a healthy brown-gold, patterned almost like a Tigers with stripes of alternating colour plainly designed to conceal him in tall grass or autumnal woods, whilst a heavy Cardanian .48' hangs from his belt, one of the few weapons a creature with claws like his can readily manipulate - in the unlikely event that he should ever want to (It's long been established however that if he should draw the weapon, the safest place to be standing is between him and his target - a natural marksman, he's not). As a side-note he has a persistant and not entirely unpleasant scent compounded of musk and something unidentifiable and spicey - it's generally a good gauge to his mood and a handy early-warning system for the state of his stomach, right along with the polychromatic (that means multi-coloured) crest of fine short feathers that usually lies flat along the crown of his head and neck, raising up in display of anger or excitement whenever... well, he gets one or the other really.
 Of late however, people like Jean-Claude (and a shortage of new shirts) have been persuading him to shift his dress sense a little - he's put on inches of height and just a few more pounds of muscle in the last year or so (which still makes him a runt by the standards of an NG-35, the chicken-throwback allosauroids tending to run to three tonnes of dumb-as-a-rock pack-hunting appetite), and now tends to dress in devastatingly dark motorcycle plain leathers, open to the chest - it's a cliche of course, but that just makes it rather more fun - and besides, he enjoys the way it makes people feel around him.

Personality        : Quentin (assuming no-one is stupid enough to make an issue of his name) is essentially good-natured and amiable, preferring to go with the flow of things rather than forge ahead or take the lead - on the other hand, if good and worked up in the presence of even relatively small amounts of blood he's been known to chew through the side of vans to get to whatever has made him angry and require (extensive) physical restraining to calm down again, something he's aware of and has long been trying to get under control. In the last year or two he's grown up some, becoming a little more adult in his outlook and a touch more responsible in how he behaves. Unfortunately, this has come hand-in-hand with his having finally noticed girls, and it's generally expected that there'll be rocky times ahead - though fortunately he doesn't seem to have the least ounce of real 'jealousy' in him when it comes to Deliverance or their good friends.

Background         : More or less born amongst the slaves of Labour Camp 619 of the Empire of Man, Quentin had the sort of life that would breed in more thoughtful hearts the sort of rage that would take a soul up to the gates of heaven to give them a good kicking, but part and parcel of the same mindset that makes his rage so deadly also makes him constitutionally incapable of holding a grudge, so after the death of most of his family, a few years of laboriously building walls and carrying rocks and an assortment of other indignities he snapped (That's where the chewing through a truck thing comes in), which came as a great surprise to the guards, and soon precipitated a wide-scale riot followed by a rather smaller-scale breakout (pitching unarmed, even righteously angry slave labourers versus armed and armoured soldiers tends to result in a fair amount of natural wastage). Now he's out and about in the wider world with no particular plan and no real intention of stopping for self-examination - time enough tomorrow to deal with what tomorrow will bring, and all that.

Bike               : Superficially, Quentins bike resembles a Dodge Tomahawk in that there's what amounts to a truck engine strapped between four heavy-duty tyres with a seat mounted on the top. It's a comfortable fit for his body shape, and has the power necessary to throw his considerable frame around readily, whilst he has the strength to handle it the way someone else might a sports bike. On the other hand, because it's a jury-rigged piece of junk with potential, it handles exactly as it looks it should and, despite being able to go like a bat out of hell on the straight, drinks fuel in the same way he eats meat. It's another of those things he'd love to see sorted out, when the chance arises.

http://www.allpar.com/cars/concepts/tomahawk.html