John 'Hercules Mulligan' McNally

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Herc
Name: John McNally
Deed Name:Hercules Mulligan
Tribe:Get of Fenris
Auspice:Ahroun
Society:Sanctum of Gaia
Rank:Fostern
Pack:The Rising Storm
Birthday:January 31, 1999








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Biography

John G. McNally was one of eleven half and full blooded siblings. Not the oldest and not the youngest, he suffered his share of beatings from his older brothers and sisters, but also protected his younger ones with his own blood, sweat, and brawn. The McNally family was a mix of inner city Fenrir and Bone Gnawers. There was enough good fighting to be had for the Fenrir bloodlust to be satisfied, and the Bone Gnawers were city natives their whole lives. They were a scrappy inner city caern, and their turf was more feared than respected.


The Apocalypse wrought death and loss to the clan as all their ranking Garou perished in those fiery battles. Their caern was destroyed, their surviving few members scattered, well versed in surviving despite the odds. Joseph McNally, Ahroun Bone Gnawer, famous for his use of Troll Skin to outlast his enemies and eat damage, fought until the very last flames died down into glowing embers when the new age dawned, and cursing and condemning the Wyrm with his rage choked dying breath as he returned to the Cycle. That left the elder McNally siblings and the few remaining cubs and Cliath to keep the clan together.


John always felt his Garou blood pumping through his veins, even during his years as a kinfolk. School was not a priority for him; it was more important to help his siblings and cousins defend their weakened turf in the City. Between fighting in the street, doing odd jobs (labor, construction, security) to keep food on the table and the lights on, he embodied the spirit of survival, and reading and writing just didn’t factor into that. So he dropped out of school when he was twelve. He could read simple things as necessary, but don’t ask him to spell hippopotamus. His handwriting is atrocious. His vocabulary is worse. But he spoke volumes with the sacrifices he made for his family.


One night under a glowing Full Moon, hours past the time when the street lights came on, he walked along the city sidewalks with three of his younger sisters and brothers after he picked them up from detention and ‘acquiring’ some dinner. He had a rusted, half broken bluetooth speaker he had salvaged from a dumpster plugged into his ancient and cracked Zune. He and his siblings were listening to the soundtrack of Hamilton, a music about New York City natives who were young, scrappy, and hungry like them.


It was the battle of Yorktown. The battle seemed lost. Immigrants outlasting even the best British Generals. Underdogs, those were the stories these Fenrir and Bone Gnawers cherished the most. In a world that wished nothing more than to snuff them out and forget them.


At the end of the alley where their run down tenement building sat, the darkest windows on the street, John froze, grabbing the backs of sweatshirts of the kids and pulling them back. He saw the ambush coming before they stepped into the dim, flickering streetlight. He threw the children back behind him as the huge, muscled Hispo in BSD gang colors pumped a brutal sawed off shotgun, aimed right at John’s head.


The kids screamed. John, hit directly in the face with the blast of the shotgun, hit the ground with the sickening thud of dead weight, the bluetooth speaker skipping a beat but continuing the tinny, passionate music.

"To my brother's revolutionary covenant. I’m runnin’ with the Sons of Liberty and I am lovin’ it…"

The rival gang member advanced with his shotgun still drawn, pumping it as he stalked toward his prey. The McNally children were not about to go down without a fight as they readied themselves to fight to the death if necessary to avenge their big brother.

"See, that’s what happens when you up against the ruffians. We in the shit now, somebody gotta shovel it."

John was dead. They knew they were only kinfolk and were just as fragile as humans, but they also could feel the rage pumping inside them. The boy pulled a switchblade from his sneaker. The two girls pulled out the sharp, cat shaped brass knuckles attached to their backpacks on keychains. They stepped up closer to John’s body, not about to let this son of a bitch lay a hand on his body.

"Hercules Mulligan, I need no introduction. When you knock me down ‘’’I get the fuck back up again!"

At that moment, another shot was fired, slamming into the too-thick hide of a Crinos Garou instead of the young kinfolk.


The McNally children remembered their father’s wiry black and gray Bone Gnawer fur when he shifted. This Garou looked similar... but much lighter in color.

When John blinked his eyes open the world swam around him. He felt the clinging arms of his siblings, asking if he was alright. Exclaiming about a fight he only vaguely remembered. His mind was fogged with fading remnants of a rage he had never felt before.

Laying on the ground in a thick pool of dark blood was the assailant. A shredded, mutilated corpse.

As he rose off the ground his bulging muscles receded, his torn and shredded clothes hanging on his newly changed body. Fur rapidly retreated into his arms and legs. The maw of razor sharp teeth shrunk back into his usual face. But the battle scar of the shotgun permanently branded his face; a testament to his very nature.

When you knock him down, he gets the fuck back up again.
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