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Voting / New Prospect / Church Matters / Hanground

Our faction's main objective is to depict an authentic one-percenter motorcycle club, with a strong focus on individual character growth and fostering rich, immersive lore. We expect our members to maintain a high standard of roleplay and to familiarize themselves with the one-percenter culture before joining. If reliable resources are difficult to find, we’re more than happy to assist with character creation and provide materials to help players accurately portray a motorcycle club member. We recognize that real-life responsibilities such as work and family always take precedence over roleplay. While some may not fully grasp this, rest assured that joining our faction does not require you to be active every night of the week. Once you enter the prospecting phase, we reserve the right to issue a character kill if there is valid justification. However, this is always considered a last resort rather than a first option. For any questions or concerns, feel free to reach out to @Phoenix999 via the forums or in Discord.

keep dropping fire

Warlocks on faya!

🙌

Inner Secrets / Change of Guard / Chapel 5/11/25

Out & Bout

this the samp

LFA 27 / P4P

Warlocks, keepin' it professional as always🔥

5/13/25 / Midas Touch

Linking Up with Pirate / Brother In Trouble / Hit Em Up

FUCK WHO?

Goya-kun, wb

/Trial by brotherhoos, No turnbacks anymore /

Built from struggle. Bound by blood. Moved by music. was founded in early 2025, deep in the heart of East Los Santos, by two cousins - Lorenzo Graves, fresh out of Liberty City, and Martrel Greer, a local name who’d been grinding quietly in LS for years. __________________________________________________________________________________________ The whole concept behind is to uplift the Black Community, providing an outlet for raw talent, real stories, and a way off the streets - turning pain into purpose, and hustle into legacy.

“You don’t survive where I come from. You become the storm.” Los Santos thinks it knows Taha Bolton. It doesn’t. Born into the state system, parents gone before he could remember their names, Taha was saved from orphanage anonymity by John Bolton, a man as brutal as his reputation. John wasn’t a father. He was a warlord in leather: president of the Death Angels MC, cartel courier, bar-fight architect. In their cramped bungalow, the twin anthems were the clang of wrenches and the crack of knuckles. Taha learned fast: in this world, family meant loyalty. And loyalty cost blood. By sixteen he was more than a kid with grease under his nails. He was the club’s shadow, watching deals, standing guard, carrying messages. At eighteen, during a birthday thrown in his honor at the MC’s crimson-lit bar, the FBI stormed in. They cuffed John for double homicide. They tore the club to shreds. And they left Taha with two choices: fold or lead. He chose to lead. In the chaos that followed, Taha claimed the gavel. He patched the wounds of distrust, rallied the brothers, and resumed business the only way he knew: fast, cold, unflinching. But power breeds envy. When Grizzly John’s oldest friend, stole the safe and fled, Taha tracked him to a desert ghost town, met betrayal with vengeance, and left nothing but a corpse and a warning for anyone who dared cross him. Cartels noticed. The whispers of his ruthlessness drew Ernesto, MS13’s West Coast envoy, into his orbit. Money-laundering, muscle work, shadow jobs under neon skies, Taha played the game, walking the knife’s edge between empire and extinction. The heat grew unbearable. Feds on one side, cartels circling tighter on the other. So with Mia the only soul who ever pierced his armor he vanished. No patches, no trace, just rumors of a ghost in the wind. Now… He’s back. No MC. No alliances. No mercy. Los Santos owes him blood, and he’s ready to collect. “I didn’t ask for this life. But I earned it.”

night vibes / let's buy a zippy stinky's left pocket

Heat at the Door Work had been steady. Nothing big just a security gig for a local venue. Routine stuff, in and out, no heat. Taha was posted near the entrance, keeping an eye on the crowd, when his phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number at first. But the voice on the other end? Unmistakable. Doom. Jamaican. Solid. One of the few that held it down when Taha first came back to the city. And now he had merchandise on deck They split up clean. No heat on them but the exchange wasn’t finished. A few hours later, they linked again. This time, somewhere off the grid. No interruptions. No surprises. Just business. Like it was always meant to be...