- Influence
- 20,103.00
General Information
Age: 52
Species: Stoat
Size: Extra Large (in girth)
Physical: Morbidly Obese (2), Cutlass (2)
Mental: Chronic Drunk (2), Vengeance (1), Captain (2)
Social: Rude (2), Negotiation (1)
Description
Former Captain Drumman Joshiah Crayfish Grogg is an enormously fat stoat with plaited fur and a pair of heavily worn large wooden clogs. His fur is an orangey brown, with a cream underbelly and muzzle. He is often seen dressed in tattered, poorly patched, and stained garments reminiscent of a captain. He is filthy, with tidbits of old meals still clinging to his grubby fur. Grogg is always in a drunken, boisterous state, and is always complaining, disrespecting other beasts, or chortling to some joke that only he finds funny.
Backstory
Drumman Crayfish Grogg had once been a name that struck fear, or at least mild concern, into the hearts of many a hapless merchant. He had commanded a fine ship, a seaworthy vessel with a sturdy hull, a half-loyal crew, and just enough leaks to keep things interesting. His days were filled with plundering, his nights with revelry, and his dreams with ever-greater ambitions. But, as the old saying went, a ship with two captains is doomed to sink, and Grogg’s misfortune came in the form of another stoat: Snaggletooth Jarrin.
Jarrin was everything Grogg wasn’t. He was cold, calculating, and competent. Where Grogg led with bluster and brute force, Jarrin preferred manipulation and patience. The crew, for their part, was split between the two; half admired Grogg’s carefree cruelty, while the others gravitated toward Jarrin’s ruthless pragmatism. When the ship made landfall on some forgotten stretch of coast, a forlorn cape perfect for villainy, the tension between the two stoats erupted into a full-blown power struggle. Jarrin's plan had been to construct a proper fort, a stronghold from which they could launch their raids, but instead, it became the site of their endless squabbling.
The arguments started small... who had the final say on rations, who got the best quarters, but they quickly escalated into full-on sabotage. Grogg would issue an order, Jarrin would countermand it. Jarrin would start fortifications, Grogg would demand they be torn down and rebuilt ‘his way.’ Crewmates were bribed, threatened, or simply turned against one another until, eventually, no one knew who was in charge. By the time the fighting broke out in earnest, the cape was littered with half-built walls, unfinished siege defenses, and enough resentment to last a lifetime.
Then came the climax of their feud. It was a battle not of strategy, but of sheer stubbornness. The two stoats turned their crews on one another, and by the time the dust settled, Jarrin lay dead in the sand, his last expression one of disbelief that Grogg had somehow bested him. But victory was hollow. Most of the crew had been slain, and those who remained wanted nothing more to do with Grogg or his 'command.'
Stranded and out of favor, Grogg had no choice but to submit to the authority of a new leader, a brutish weasel warlord who saw him as little more than a washed-up drunk. His days as a captain were over, his grand plans reduced to nothing more than bitter memories. That was, until a passing ship made port at the cape.
Recognizing the captain, a fox who owed him at least one favor, Grogg saw his chance. He played the part of the humbled sailor, spinning a tale of woe and betrayal, just pitiful enough to earn him passage back to civilization. And upon returning to the Vulpine Imperium, he made an astonishing discovery: his pension was still active. Some clerical error, some forgotten record-keeper, had failed to remove his name from the books. And thus, Grogg ‘retired’, if one could call it that, to a life of cheap spirits, bad company, and endless grumbling about vengeance.
To this day, he speaks of getting a new ship, finding a new crew, and reclaiming his place as a terror of the seas. But talk is cheap, and Grogg, slumped in the corner of some back-alley tavern, reeking of spilled ale and bad decisions, has long since stopped taking action. The sea may still call to him, but for now, his only voyage is from one cup of grog to the next.
Age: 52
Species: Stoat
Size: Extra Large (in girth)
Physical: Morbidly Obese (2), Cutlass (2)
Mental: Chronic Drunk (2), Vengeance (1), Captain (2)
Social: Rude (2), Negotiation (1)
Description
Former Captain Drumman Joshiah Crayfish Grogg is an enormously fat stoat with plaited fur and a pair of heavily worn large wooden clogs. His fur is an orangey brown, with a cream underbelly and muzzle. He is often seen dressed in tattered, poorly patched, and stained garments reminiscent of a captain. He is filthy, with tidbits of old meals still clinging to his grubby fur. Grogg is always in a drunken, boisterous state, and is always complaining, disrespecting other beasts, or chortling to some joke that only he finds funny.
Backstory
Drumman Crayfish Grogg had once been a name that struck fear, or at least mild concern, into the hearts of many a hapless merchant. He had commanded a fine ship, a seaworthy vessel with a sturdy hull, a half-loyal crew, and just enough leaks to keep things interesting. His days were filled with plundering, his nights with revelry, and his dreams with ever-greater ambitions. But, as the old saying went, a ship with two captains is doomed to sink, and Grogg’s misfortune came in the form of another stoat: Snaggletooth Jarrin.
Jarrin was everything Grogg wasn’t. He was cold, calculating, and competent. Where Grogg led with bluster and brute force, Jarrin preferred manipulation and patience. The crew, for their part, was split between the two; half admired Grogg’s carefree cruelty, while the others gravitated toward Jarrin’s ruthless pragmatism. When the ship made landfall on some forgotten stretch of coast, a forlorn cape perfect for villainy, the tension between the two stoats erupted into a full-blown power struggle. Jarrin's plan had been to construct a proper fort, a stronghold from which they could launch their raids, but instead, it became the site of their endless squabbling.
The arguments started small... who had the final say on rations, who got the best quarters, but they quickly escalated into full-on sabotage. Grogg would issue an order, Jarrin would countermand it. Jarrin would start fortifications, Grogg would demand they be torn down and rebuilt ‘his way.’ Crewmates were bribed, threatened, or simply turned against one another until, eventually, no one knew who was in charge. By the time the fighting broke out in earnest, the cape was littered with half-built walls, unfinished siege defenses, and enough resentment to last a lifetime.
Then came the climax of their feud. It was a battle not of strategy, but of sheer stubbornness. The two stoats turned their crews on one another, and by the time the dust settled, Jarrin lay dead in the sand, his last expression one of disbelief that Grogg had somehow bested him. But victory was hollow. Most of the crew had been slain, and those who remained wanted nothing more to do with Grogg or his 'command.'
Stranded and out of favor, Grogg had no choice but to submit to the authority of a new leader, a brutish weasel warlord who saw him as little more than a washed-up drunk. His days as a captain were over, his grand plans reduced to nothing more than bitter memories. That was, until a passing ship made port at the cape.
Recognizing the captain, a fox who owed him at least one favor, Grogg saw his chance. He played the part of the humbled sailor, spinning a tale of woe and betrayal, just pitiful enough to earn him passage back to civilization. And upon returning to the Vulpine Imperium, he made an astonishing discovery: his pension was still active. Some clerical error, some forgotten record-keeper, had failed to remove his name from the books. And thus, Grogg ‘retired’, if one could call it that, to a life of cheap spirits, bad company, and endless grumbling about vengeance.
To this day, he speaks of getting a new ship, finding a new crew, and reclaiming his place as a terror of the seas. But talk is cheap, and Grogg, slumped in the corner of some back-alley tavern, reeking of spilled ale and bad decisions, has long since stopped taking action. The sea may still call to him, but for now, his only voyage is from one cup of grog to the next.
