Mr. Bear's Catalog of Characters

[Ars Longa Vita Brevis]

Name: Paul Michael Bjornsen
Age: 32
Hometown: Minneapolis, Minnesota
Appearance: He stands roughly 6'6" with long, dirty blonde hair falling to mid-chest/back. He has a thick main of dirtier blonde hair hanging from his chin to his chest, kept moderately in-check in a curly forest around his jawline. He has a barrel chest, with raw muscle rather than a defined 'beach body'. Other than a few minor knicks and scars, the only noticeable mark in his skin is a large tattoo of a bear in mid-swing, with the word Bjornsen written on his lower back, beneath the beast.
Normal Human: No

Bio:

Born to two loving parents, Aalo and Eric Bjornsen, Paul came into the world with all the love and support he could stand. He always remained very close to his parents growing up, especially so with most of the other kids intimidated by his unnatural size and strength. The typical group to befriend him were the average parent's nightmare type. What Aalo and Eric didn't understand was, they were just like their son.

Growing up with the 'class rejects', didn't stop him from easily underachieving with average grades. He went to school with little ambition in mind until classes like wood and metalshop opened up. Happily he put his hands to work, it seemed his growing collection of leather and jean clad friends shared the same interests.

On the offchance someone was disagreeable with Paul or any of his cohorts, they soon learned that a broken nose or losing teeth just wasn't worth it. Though...he always had the common decency to escort them to the school clinic and explain the disagreement in a completely civilized manner. This unwritten code of honor, combined with fear and respect, made him a natural choice for the leader of their new "gang", affectionately dubbed "Dying Breed".

After some years had passed and Dying Breed Motorcycles had been opened, Paul's club had become something of a landmark. By trade, he was a mechanic, certified for motorcycles, trucks and cars. He worked personally on each and every member of the club's bike, even if the other mechanics rode with the gang, Paul officially fine-tuned everything.

Often enough he got into a bar fight with someone wanting to prove they were tougher than the big-bad leatherclad guy whose enormous stature damn near commanded a stare...Often enough Paul carried half-drunk and bleeding men to his bike and drove them to the hospital, or at the very least, escorted his group of suddenly sober friends.

Eleven years after celebrating his official license to buy booze - and in the very same bar that had let him for 13 - a particularly nasty fight broke out. Someone knocked out one of his best friend's over a game of pool. A fucking game. This beast of a man drew his fist back, unaware the stares he had gotten, unaware the sober look of pure terror, Paul put his fist through the man's skull. With a sickened howl of pain, the now-faceless man's friend drew a gun and fired.

The bullet fell to the ground, no sooner than the one who pulled the trigger flew through the wall.

On his 32nd birthday, he was reported to the police for the first time for murder and labeled an emergent.