At this point, if you're familiar with the backstage aspects of the Quarry, Sam Drake's an institution of sorts. Past victor, sure, whatever, but that was decades ago, two measly wins from before some of the brats in the Quarry these days were even born. No, these days he's aterrorinabrightlycolouredsuit, the hard bargain being sold while one of the handsomest snipes to come out of the Quarry smiles for the camera. Samuel F. Drake, agent, publicist, and right-hand man to Nathan Drake. They're cousins. Completely normal.
The F stands for fuck you, got ours.
Generally speaking, if your name isn't Nathan, he doesn't give a shit about your chances. But occasionally, when Nate's not going into the Quarry himself, he picks up a little talent advisement on the side. Call it a hobby.
Which means, if you've come into his office--a small room with a messy desk, plastered with digital Nathan this-and-that on the walls, old ad campaigns, awards, whatever else--you might be in need of some advice for not getting murdered. Or maybe you're a friend dropping by, or a rival, or--hell, maybe you're selling chocolate to raise money for orphans, who knows? Everyone always ignores the NO SOLICITORS sign next to the door.
"Got a little time between calls," he says, feet up on the desk like a goddamn asshole. "What is it?"
--
around town.
He shows up at swanky parties in shinysuitsthat'retailoredwithinaninchoftheirlives. And unlike his brothercousin, he has a hell of a time going--Sam loves a party, loves talking to people, especially loves the possibilities for making his brother's way a little easier when it comes to dealing with Parliament assholes. He bugs rich assholes, he bugs Quarry designers, he bugs victors, he especially bugs pretty women who look like a good lay. Sam's a mosquito in everyone's ear.
He was born Congregation, though, and he's pretty sure he'll die Congregation, too--and since they have the better bars, he's not too fussed about it. (Besides, the goal here is for his cousin to do okay. He'll gladly watch him turn into a Rook (hell, into a goddamn protein bar) if it means Nathan's happy.) He's easy to spot in a bar: conservatively dressed, but in brilliant colours, as anywhere else. And whether you've got a bone to pick with him or you want to try to get in good with the Drake family, he'll probably hear you out. Might even take the bait if you try to start a fight.
--
pick a card, any card.
[ Want to do something else? Hit me. If you want to discuss first, I've got a plotting comment over here, and you can also always reach out to me at prettydoes.
BTW, I'm fine with brackets or prose, whatever you prefer. ]
sam drake.
At this point, if you're familiar with the backstage aspects of the Quarry, Sam Drake's an institution of sorts. Past victor, sure, whatever, but that was decades ago, two measly wins from before some of the brats in the Quarry these days were even born. No, these days he's a terror in a brightly coloured suit, the hard bargain being sold while one of the handsomest snipes to come out of the Quarry smiles for the camera. Samuel F. Drake, agent, publicist, and right-hand man to Nathan Drake. They're cousins. Completely normal.
The F stands for fuck you, got ours.
Generally speaking, if your name isn't Nathan, he doesn't give a shit about your chances. But occasionally, when Nate's not going into the Quarry himself, he picks up a little talent advisement on the side. Call it a hobby.
Which means, if you've come into his office--a small room with a messy desk, plastered with digital Nathan this-and-that on the walls, old ad campaigns, awards, whatever else--you might be in need of some advice for not getting murdered. Or maybe you're a friend dropping by, or a rival, or--hell, maybe you're selling chocolate to raise money for orphans, who knows? Everyone always ignores the NO SOLICITORS sign next to the door.
"Got a little time between calls," he says, feet up on the desk like a goddamn asshole. "What is it?"
--
around town.
He shows up at swanky parties in shiny suits that're tailored within an inch of their lives. And unlike his
brothercousin, he has a hell of a time going--Sam loves a party, loves talking to people, especially loves the possibilities for making his brother's way a little easier when it comes to dealing with Parliament assholes. He bugs rich assholes, he bugs Quarry designers, he bugs victors, he especially bugs pretty women who look like a good lay. Sam's a mosquito in everyone's ear.He was born Congregation, though, and he's pretty sure he'll die Congregation, too--and since they have the better bars, he's not too fussed about it. (Besides, the goal here is for his cousin to do okay. He'll gladly watch him turn into a Rook (hell, into a goddamn protein bar) if it means Nathan's happy.) He's easy to spot in a bar: conservatively dressed, but in brilliant colours, as anywhere else. And whether you've got a bone to pick with him or you want to try to get in good with the Drake family, he'll probably hear you out. Might even take the bait if you try to start a fight.
--
pick a card, any card.
[ Want to do something else? Hit me. If you want to discuss first, I've got a plotting comment over here, and you can also always reach out to me at
BTW, I'm fine with brackets or prose, whatever you prefer. ]