Among God's and Men: The Ambrosia Case
Isaac for Gregory "Greg"
Gregory “Greg” Ironhoof
Species: Centaur
Occupation: NBPD Officer – First Responder Unit
Age: 42 (in centaur years; roughly mid-50s human equivalent)
Division: Olympus District Patrol
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Physical Description:
Towering at over eight feet tall from hoof to crown, Greg is an intimidating presence on any scene. His lower half resembles a powerful draft horse—sleek gray coat, battle-scarred from years on the beat. His upper body is built like a linebacker crossed with a riot shield: broad shoulders, thick arms, and a chest like a brick wall. His face is weathered but kind—square jaw, dark eyes, and a tightly kept salt-and-pepper beard. Always dressed in reinforced NBPD armor customized for his centaur frame, complete with badge emblazoned on a leather strap across his chest.
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Personality:
A gentle soul in a warhorse’s body. Greg is calm, thoughtful, and deeply loyal—especially to those he served with. Despite his size and gruff exterior, he’s a peacekeeper first, enforcer second. He walks softly but carries a stun baton that could down a demigod. He’s known in the department for de-escalating volatile scenes with patience and empathy, though when forced into action, he moves like thunder.
Greg was Vincent’s partner during his days on the force, and though the two went separate ways after Vincent left, Greg never stopped looking out for him. He doesn’t judge—he just asks the hard questions, and he waits until you’re ready to answer them.
- creature
- Gentle
- generic scottish
- deep
- male adult
- adult
GREGORY IRONHOOF (slight Scottish accent, nostalgic, steady): "Aye, I was there that night—well, not in the alley itself, but close enough to hear the shot echo three blocks down like a divine thunderclap. Two big bastards, a centaur and a minotaur—mean ones, too. Not like me. These were the type that sharpen their teeth and dull their sense. Word is, they’d been lookin’ for Ramirez. Grudges don’t die easy in New Babylon. Anyway… Vince don’t run. Never has. He waits. Lets ‘em come. And then—just one shot. Not into them, no. Into the bloody air. Whatever that gun is—blessed, cursed, forged in the furnace of some forgotten forge—it speaks loud. Real loud. And it listens to him. The centaur hit a wall so hard it cracked. The minotaur folded like a prayer in a house fire. Neither of ‘em dead. Just done. And Vince? He holstered that iron like he just flicked a cigarette. He’s got this look sometimes, y’know? Like he’s seen somethin’ bigger than gods, and he’s waitin’ for it to catch up to him. Folk say he’s just a man. But I’ve worked with him. And lemme tell ye—there’s nothin’ ‘just’ about Vincent Ramirez."
