History:
Artan was a bad seed. Well, maybe not always, but his original parents certainly thought so. He was raised by them until he was five years old, when the state took him away. Apparently, mommy and daddy were cooking up Meth in the shed in the back yard.
So into the system he went. From home to home, each one worse than the last. He was generally ignored, on the best days, and on the worst, he was beaten within an inch of his life. By the time he was eleven, he was rebelling against everything, and started into his life of crime. He shoplifted, picked pockets, and swindled people out of their cash as often as he possibly could. He was in and out of 'Juvie' for a lot of reasons, and that just made things worse for him.
Artan dropped out of high school in his junior year, because of two reasons. There was no school that would take him in the area, due to his being expelled from each one of them, and he felt like he could make it on his own. So with the van he fixed up with the money he'd "Borrowed" from his foster siblings and friends, he head out on the road to make it as a professional thief.
He's been doing that ever since.
Sample:
He knew he shouldn't have been in the bar. He didn't care, though. Artan Stillman, his street name "Little Bear", was relaxing at a table, sipping at a glass of water, taking long, slow drags from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose as he glanced around the room.
It was a celebration party for him, nobody knew it but him, though. He got a cocksure smile at that, as he looked at his most current prize. He was wearing it on his finger. "I honestly don't know why they show royal jewelry at mueseums." He said, half to himself, half to the ruby-studded ring on his finger, "But they really should know better than to leave them in a barely secure glass case." The ring on his finger, and several others from the same collection were currently set in a bag in the back of his VW Bus, his home on wheels.
He was approached by the waitress, and he gave a cold smile. "Hey legs," He started, "Get me a whiskey. Straight up. Tonight's a celebration." And despite her disgust at her new nickname, she went to do so. Who cared if the chick would spit in his drink? If he played his cards right (Which he most assuradly wouldn't,) That wouldn't be the only spit they'd swap.
