Jacob Delaney

A man should do what he thinks is right.

Essentials

  • Name: Jacob Delaney
  • Nicknames: Jake to friends, Delaney to loose acquaintances, but generally prefers Jacob.
  • Age and Birth Date: 43
  • Location: the Countryside, making his home in a small township called Dimitry.

Public Knowledge

Jacob was made Deputy in the town of Dimitry around the age of seventeen; before this, he spent most of his time working on his father's ranch, primarily fending off attacks from the bandits that came up from the surface to try and make off with his livestock. Among the Frontiersmen of the Countryside, a strong hand and a firm sense of justice, just giving enough to allow the world to keep functioning around him, helped Delaney quickly take a hand in more cities, eventually rising to the rank of Sheriff. Now he elects deputies of his own, organizes the Frontiersmen in the handful of small towns and cities that make up the Countryside, and lends a hand in dealing with the bigger problems that might arise.

Appearance

Years in the sun have turned what was once a light gold skin to something darker and rougher, a leathery sort of bronze. Lines cut from the corners of his eyes, the edges of his mouth, and his eyes are a faded blue that are usually bright and cheerful in his face; all of it marks him for a man with good humor, who appreciates the better things in life, who knows how to laugh. He is tall and strong, even if there's a layer of fat over top of the muscle, leaving him looking a bit pudgy through the middle and softer than he really is. His hair is a rich orange-gold, messy and curly, usually just twisting out under the brim of a faded leather fedora to keep the sun out of his face and out of his eyes.

Generally, he dresses in a casual manner; instead of fine suits and formal uniforms, he tends toward jeans and chambray, worn boots that conform to his feet due to years of wear, and frequently a hint of stubble along the square edge of his jaw. His badge is a bit battered.

Personality

At the heart of things, Jacob is a rare thing to find in the ranks of the Frontiersmen: a good man. He believes in the Writs, and follows them, but is willing to abandon them if he feels there is a better way to handle a situation. He will frequently operate based on his own judgment of if someone is good or bad, instead of guilty or innocent, and will bend laws or adjust evidence to help people he doesn't believe deserve to be deported. He is shockingly difficult to bribe, to the frustration of his superiors and their friends, and this is likely why he will never get out of the Countryside.

On a more personal level, Jacob is best defined by two things: his solitary nature, and his drinking. He is a long time bachelor, lives alone in a small home on the edge of Dimitry, and is frequently fed and nudged into socialization by a handful of older women in the area. Off the job [and sometimes on it] he drinks almost constantly, a flask of something strong at his hip and a red flush across the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears. It's not that he's unfriendly, but that he seems to like living alone.

He has never been married. There are rumors about what this might mean.

Abilities

Jacob's strength probably lies not in the breath and bone of most Frontiersmen but instead in blood magic; he is a soothing man, charming, easygoing, relaxed, who leaves people feeling comfortable and can argue his case extremely well. He's a good shot and he's strong, but he's not exceptional. He can sit a horse very well due to his upbringing on a ranch.

Sample

This porch was his court, in a way. Narrow, old, a bit rickety, one of the steps up buckling in the center, all of it painted white with a delicate fence along the outer edge, it didn't look like much; his ancient rocking chair, turned out toward the greenery and the growth instead of the jutting shape of the Rift, certainly didn't have the look of a throne. Jacob, sprawled in this seat with a pipe in one hand and a couple fingers of something strong in a glass in his other hand, certainly looked more the part of roughened hand than illustrious leader.

However, this was his home, his sanctuary and his place of business all wrapped up in one. Here he sat and downed a pale pink cactus liquor, worked his way slowly through a pot pie brought by Mrs. Macavery around the corner, and dozed in the dying light. Here he cleaned and maintained his guns, patched up the holes in his socks with a surprisingly expert hand, worked a fresh hole into a new belt. Here his deputies brought him news or asked for his help, made their reports, admitted to their failures, took rewards or lectures...

And here he spoke to judges, or locals, offering them tea or drink, whatever food he had at hand. Here he plead cases that he thought had gone the wrong way, or gently suggested new courses of action, quietly resolved issues that probably should have undergone more elaborate proceedings. He didn't govern the countryside, precisely, but he did what he thought he had to, kept it running smoothly, soothed hurt feelings and kept arguments from turning to feuds...