Gaol Moretti

## Appearance

Gaol is a young man of above-average height and medium to athletic build, yet still remaining somewhat lithe despite his musculature, standing at about 179 cm and 80 kg.

Some of the man's most prominent features would have to be a rather crooked nose from one too many brawls in his youth, the serious to angry look always plastered about his face, compounded by the expressive eyebrows that dominate wide eyes. However, even more so than that lies a thick head of wild hair, often spiked short or slicked back, occasionally held up in a short, drooping, almost sad pompadour.

Even in official settings, aside from ‘business’, Gaol remains particularly unprofessional in clothing, often found clad in high collared leather jackets of a deep shade, dark purples and blacks. Combined with slacks of similar colour, with ever a seemingly infinite supply and plain white undershirts. Otherwise, you’ll find him in slate black, suit and tie, ready to show off the great Moretti flair.

## Personality

The young man often disparages his own intelligence, clearly understanding that he isn't particularly bright, nor does he believe that he can make decisions well, instead relying on the 'higher ups' to do thinking for him. Yet he remains surprisingly humble in other aspects for a bloated man of bravado.

Gaol has an implacable temper, finding himself blowing up situations far worse than they might be through his demeanor. Though, in all honesty, he rarely holds any true fury. Seemingly obscuring his more calm and collected nature beneath, still the built man is still very much a delinquent, a holdover from his youth that was far from squashed through his time as a mafioso.

Once childish, and unprofessional, even to those of higher rank than he, begrudgingly taking orders, rarely without quips of his own, that, on the other hand, was quickly beaten out. For his line of work, a man must be composed. However still top of this, his sense of humour has not progressed, in the slightest, hardly 'hunter' material.
Amidst all of this awful degeneracy, the dude can remain perhaps slightly redeemable in his general 'hidden' demeanor. This has left much of his thoughts as insular, introspective and the like, despite his exterior, he’s far less sure of himself than he lets on. Those little marks denote the fact that Gaol believes in-fact that his caring nature is closely guarded, where just about anyone who bothers, or is forced, to get to know him can see plainly.

## Backstory

Yorknew City. . . To the unawares and uninformed, a name synonymous with 'auction', Jenni, lights and all. Yes, a population center of the world itself, flooded and choked by flesh and foul. Any setting so gorged by beings, many of little note, it's impossible to know all those whom slip through the cracks. Undesirables, the trash, the criminals, the Mafia. Shadow streaked masters of the sprawling underground. . .

A rhythmic calling tolls thrice upon their wooded door. Six sunken orbs amble and waver, bringing their attention to the storefront, naught but a scattering of boards and nails blotting out the light of the night. There they sat, frozen, the steam of their oatmeal lightly obscuring the anxiety plastered across both a man and woman's faces. In that instant, as the pounding came again, louder, stronger, the seated man turned his attention toward the round face of their young child, with a feigned grin. Running a hand through his droopy pomp, he spoke his final goodbye. . . "Gaol, go to your room. Your old man'll be in to tell ya a story in a lil' while. . . Go now."

The child was no fool, he followed his father's words, unable to witness his loading of the family shotgun. Nor the familiar horrid faces bursting in, nor the few words exchanged trailing off beyond, "Ah. . . Forgive me dolls, thought you were open tonight. How can ya possibly pay your taxes when ya ain’t doing your job?"

A brief exchange of fire sunk the weight of one thousand stones into the pit of the young Gaol's stomach. Though, even hidden 'neath his bed, it wasn't long before the child heard smooth yet sulfurous words that would ever stick in that mind, "Your pops cost me a couple good men just now, and that don't make me too happy ya dig?" The index of a revolving barrel resonated louder than a bomb against his forehead. Harrowing slit eyes behind rosey-shades probed deep through Gaol's own, "So, ya gonna be trash forever, kid. . ?"

Those wild eyes tore open beneath that garish hairdo. There, the wavering pupils fell under the duress of countless bright lights, purples, pinks, and crimson reds, the sound of laughter, of thrill, desperation too. He stood before the club’s rose-emblazoned lounge doors. A countless array of suckers and high-rollers all playing the game surrounded him, unaware of the mafioso’s plight. Adjusting the dark suit and tie that wrapped the figure's built body, his ivories ground slowly against one another, working up just enough grit to force the threshold open and step in. By candlelight there he sat, garbed as ever in pinstripes of purple, gently cutting into a well-garnished meal.

“Gaol, my man. Come in.” That whimsical voice poised, heralding the mafia boss to stand, his palms planted firmly upon the gilded table before him. “Big day, huh kid? Take a seat, let’s chat.”

“Nah boss. Not this time.” The wheezed voice of the underling fell upon the lavish spread with a patter, his brows furrowed ever further despite the smoothness of his speech. “I’m quitting ya got that? Done. Outta here. End of the road.” Every word grew more ragged, more harsh as they tore out of Gaol’s throat.

"You can't quit your family. . . Gaol Moretti." So matter-of-factly the boss replied, his expression unchanged from that pursed smirk. He couldn't help it, the young man winced at his own 'name', stepping haphazardly forth, a pair of pistols set to blow him away. The boss however, raised a hand to gesture his flanking guards off, slowly jaunting about the room to meet his disgruntled goon. Swiftly, almost immediately fury boiled forth, that purple purloiner's collar was taken, held firm in the punk's shaking fist.

"I'll say it again, make sure you listen well this time. . ." The smooth talking boss began, folding those pink, circular glasses of his away so that either set of eyes could share their gaze unabated. Two, cold and sunken, yet still razor sharp as slits, and the others wild and wide, pupils dilating by a long kindled rage. Angelo, the family-head, then spoke again, "Deeper than blood, thicker than steel, you will always be a Moret--"

A wicked smash of knuckles into his boss's harrowing visage, bone against bone, sent the man spiraling back, clattering across his unfinished dinner. Clenching his shattered fist, Gaol throws it forward, his index finger pointing on, "I'm gonna take ya all down where ya belong! ALL A' YA! The bosses, hell the goddamn fuckin' dons too! I'll crumble this whole shit-heap city to bits. . !" That very same fractured hand brought a thumb in toward the delinquent's chest, eking out a few more unrestricted words, "Ya got that, bastard. . ?"

At first there was no response, no retaliation for his utter disrespect, that only infuriated Gaol further. He nearly spun about to leave before the other man stood fully, dusting his finery, adjusting his bow-tie, and wiping the oozing red from his chin. It was only then that the thug could truly feel his looming presence, the crushing weight of this man’s intentions.

“Get that license of yours cat. Seeing the world’ll do ya some good, and Chosun’ll meet ya there too.” Angelo cooed as if nothing had happened to begin with. His were plans set firmly in stone. “When you’re ready, come on back, I have a feeling you’ll have picked up a little thing or two along the way. . .”

**“Your family’s always here for you, Gaol.”**

## Abilities

### Physical Stats

 Strength
 Speed
 Dexterity
 Aura
 Control
 Total

### Fighting style

Brawling - Gaol is hardly refined in his movements, it's not as if the guy trained night and day under some mountain-monk-master to learn the sacred art of who gives a fuck. Rather, this mobster merely comes to the fight with his fists, wit, AND manly conviction alone, there's no technique, there's no special moves, just all the power and speed he can pack behind those two weapons.