Tommy Knockraha

The fuckin' pikey.


Breed: Homid
Auspice: Theurge
Tribe: Fianna
Virtue: Hope
Vice: Wrath
Mental Attributes: Intelligence: 3, Wits: 3, Resolve 2
Physical Attributes: Strength: 3, Dexterity: 2, Stamina 3
Social Attributes: Presence 2, Manipulation 3, Composure 2
Mental Skills: Craft 2, Medicine 3 (surgery), Occult 4 (fey), Rituals 2 (renown)
Physical Skills: Brawl 3, Larceny 1, Weaponry 3 (staves)
Social Skills: Empathy 2, Expression 1 (Music), Persuasion 2, Socialization 2, Subterfuge 1
Merits: Fetish 1, Friend (Frankweilers) 1, Friend (Lykos) 2, Friend (Pyewacket) 2, Staff Fighting 2, Seldom Sleeps 2
Armor: 0
Defense: 2
Initiative: 4
Speed: 10
Size: 5
Renown: Glory 0, Honor 0, Wisdom: 0
Rank: Cub (0)
Health: 8
Willpower: 4
Rage: 1
Gnosis: 5
Gifts: Sense Wyrm, Apecraft’s Blessings, Spirit Speech


Image: A not too tall scrappy youth that looks in his late teens. He’s grown quite a mohawk it seems, but it’s been arranged into dreads and scraggly bunches. He’s tied things in there, little scraps of metal, bird’s skulls, trinkets, even some little pieces of shiny mirror and a host of other things. All his hair is ablaze in bright, natural orange, which offsets the piercing yellow-green of his eyes. These are usually rimmed in a dark kohl, which can sometimes be indistinguishable from any black eyes he might’ve earned. Under his clothes he’s practically covered in tattoos – some from home, some from New York City, and some from just after he was adopted as a cub from a fellow Theurge.

He can usually be seen in an old leather motorcycle jacket covered in buttons and pins, grungy jeans that are too short and stop at his ankles, and tall socks with Vans high-tops, and faded old t-shirts that are generally too long.

History:Well, you’re as useful as tits on a bull.
Tommy was born into a blurry, confusing world, with someone hitting his ass on the way out. Dumped on his father’s doorstep in Tuam, Galway, the boy was raised by a man who had no intention of raising children, in a society that deemed such things women’s work. Now, that hardship being said, Tommy’s dad did the best he knew how – he made the boy as much clammy formula as he could eat, let him shit in the yard when he was tired of changing diapers, and had him fall to sleep to bare-knuckle boxing as a bedtime story. Tommy was raised with fists and honor and family values, when his dad didn’t leave him alone for a round at the pub, and so the boy had to become self-sufficient quickly. The other boys messed with him just to see how hard he could knock a punch, the bastard boy raised with no mother, and scrapes lost earned no love from his father. But when he won, oh the glorious celebration at home! So Tommy learned to win, and he learned to be fast. Masculinity was prized above all else, and so the boy grew a swagger and a confidence that wasn’t always his own. Sometimes he could even swell and bluster his way into making his foes shrink off, which was no less a win to his father. Everything was a competition, and Tommy was primed to come out on top.

And so he was close to being that way with the young boys in his local band by the time he reached eleven, and by thirteen they were throwing him into the boxing ring. His father taught him how to busk and how to beg, and how to swindle gullible tourists and rich folk. All was progressing as Pavee life should, up until the boy was sixteen. Then, without a word on his birthday, his father suddenly handed him one-way tickets to New York City. “For a better life,” was all he mumbled, clearly not himself. Something was amiss, “Your mother…. your mother.” And that was it, the entire explanation. Tommy protested. He begged. He pleaded. He went down on one knee. But his father, grimly, was stalwart. He had to go. When could he come back? “I’m not sure boyo.”

Bitter, wounded, confused – to a Pavee being exiled from one’s family is disastrous, and Tommy was at a loss for what he’d done to deserve such a thing. He knew it had do to with his mother and little else; but what of his mother? His father told such stories of her. Was she waiting for him there? Was this her decision?

“The grandest dame west of County Kneath,” his father would start when he was a young boy, after throwing him into an over-sized shirt as bedclothes, “The most brutal fighter to ever live. She knew the fairies, boy, the Folk, and she fought great evil your mother.” Like a fairy tale heroine, Colleen Kelly roared through beasts of the night, bad folk of all kinds, saved people in distress and was funny and pretty to boot. The one element left out was the fact that his mother was a shape changer, a Garou. The fantastic nature of the rest simply came as wonderous to a young child, eager to idolize the mother he never knew. Of course, as he grew, the stories faded and mundane life took over, fantastic tales replaced by cruel realities and the spotty nature of his father’s parenting.

His early New York City life was a blur. Without a place to stay, he frequented what little homeless shelters were available and slept mostly the public parks. It didn’t last long, it was just a few days, in reality, when his Fetch went out. But it wasn’t, as bad luck would have it, the local Fianna that came to get him. No, despite New York City’s enormous Irish werewolf population, the Fetch managed to find the only pack of Glass Walkers living in the financial district. Kidnapped from sleeping the dangerous, crack addict addled badlands of Bryant Park, Tommy found himself embraced by his own kind. Well, sort of.

Cub-hood with the Glass Walkers was not the best of times. Technically not the worst of times either, but certainly not the best. Tommy tried to follow along the best he could, but the Glass Walkers were hardly understanding of the strange pikey Fianna cub who wouldn’t speak, read, or write. The only person who would deign to teach him appropriately was the pack Theurge, who initiated him into the ways of the spirits, the Umbra, and gave him some tattoos. The rest, well they sent him on dangerous, highly technically oriented missions that he invariably botched. And they made him clean all their computers three times a day. And then there was Molly.

Molly was a Garou. Well, she was a cub, specifically, a Glass Walker cub. They were often assigned together. She was smart, and she was funny, and she was beautiful, and Tommy soon fell in love with her despite the Litany. It wasn’t long before they were sneaking in trysts, the Fianna far too addlepated to really acknowledge the consequences, and Molly full of amorous intentions. They were able to keep it up for a full year, but it was not to last. Caught by one of the Ahroun Cliaths, they were both hauled directly to the Philodox and punishment began instantaneously once both were forced into truth.

Instead of being killed outright as might have happened in another tribe, the Fianna was branded a Charach and sent out of the pack, sent marching through an old tire fire normally infested with Fomori. This was a place the Glass Walkers had been busily clearing out, so sheer stupid luck and lesser Fomori numbers saw the boy through to the other side….but he was banished, and in deep trouble. A Garou on its lonesome is never good, especially a cub. Tommy never saw what became of Molly, and he still doesn’t know if she’s alive or dead.

But that was it, the City was no longer home to him. He was not welcome in the other city tribes, even with fellow Fianna, and with little option he hopped aboard the LIRR headed straight to the end of the line: Montauk. Hoping to seek better fortunes there, Tommy has found himself a new stomping ground.
“‘Ey, it’s the Irish kid. Hey Irish kid!”
“Slum hawrum, boyos!”
“What’s he say? I can never understand him.”
“I think he just said hello.”
“You goin’ to Montauk, Irish kid? There’s a band there, man. And My Axe.”
“Yeah you gotta see ’em!”


Thin Lizzy – Whiskey in the Jar
The Rumjacks – Uncle Tommy

Tommy Knockraha

Blood and Silver neojackal Boiler