Oatmeal Brindell

*a scrawny boy in his early teens, continues sweeping for a minute, then blinks out of a daydream and answers warily* Oatmeal.

Right, yer real name?

*watches Daley nervously* Samson Brindell. *flushes at the name which far from suits him*

Shoa . . . age?

*brushes his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand* Fifteen.

Appearance? Or do I just put down 'ugly as sin' an' save ya da trouble?

*glances at the floor and shrugs* *is rather underweight* *His arms and legs are currently too long for him, as is his sandy hair. His brown eyes are likewise a bit large for his face, making him look younger than he is. Also, his arms are scarred with scratches and the occasional bite.*

What's yer story?

*looks back at the floor and shrugs* I woik heah. *was caught sleeping in the basement one day, nearly beaten, and finally given a job thanks to Beale's dubious generosity*

Dat da one yer tellin' da bulls?

*pales and his eyes go wide for a moment, then recovers* *to his broom* Don't tawk ta da bulls.

Single tanight, or datin'?

*flushes dark red, hunches down and continues sweeping* *knows he's being made fun of*

Any weapons? Ya drop 'em on da table.

*shakes his head*

What's yer game?

*glances up, then back at the floor* 'M in charge a' da fights downstairs.

Anythin' else we should know?

*looks up worriedly because that sounds ominous - like the prelude to a beating*