Post by Liechtenstein on Jan 31, 2010 22:50:42 GMT -5
Name: James
Country of Origin: Australia
Gender Male
Age: 18
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 150
Appearance:
Crew member of: The Grim
Status: Weapons Expert
Personality: James is a rather energetic, and at times, reckless youth. He seems to just take things as they go, with a rather big grin. The best way to describe his personality really is simply, someone who ‘goes with the flow’. He’s also a bit down to earth, and hardly ever complains. Friendly to everyone he meets, and incredibly loyal to those he views as his friends (particularly his crew mates). Of course, he also has an incredibly mischievous side, and still has the tendency to pick-pockets and steal.
James also is quick to panic if he does not have is old koala stuffed animal. Thus, he is often seen with it (or it is tucked away in the bag he carries on his back).
History: James woke up one day, not knowing who he was, where he had come from, or what was going on around him. He was ten years old, and the only belonging he had being the clothes on his back, an old koala stuffed animal (one he cherishes still, and can often be found in his bag, it’s become like a security blanket to him) and a dog tag with the name ‘James’ on it. Whether that was his name or not he never did learn. Now while the notion of not exactly knowing who he was would damper most children’s spirits, James took it as an adventure. He spent the next five years of his life on the streets for the most part, surviving by stealing from others, and at times spending a night or two in jail as a result.
But something continuously nagged at the back of James’s mind. And one day he decided. Stowing away on an outgoing merchant ship he left his native country. Promising to himself one day he would come back. Since then, the Australian spent the next three years of his life traveling from place to place, continuing his life as a pick-pocket to make ends meet, and hunting for answers to his unknown past.
Allegiance: SEA PIRATES!
How They Died:
This had been suicide. It had been reckless, and stupid, and when he got out of this, oh was the Pom going to get a piece of his mind. When he got out of this. He was going to get out of this, right? Of course he was! He was going to be fine. That’s what he kept repeating in his mind. Chanting it like a mantra as he kept running as fast as he could. Well, as fast as one could while half-carrying, half-supporting another. But there was no way in Hell he was leaving one of his boys behind. Especially if he could do something about it.
They were almost there. Just a few more feet and they would reach the safety of their defenses. He could see the other members of his squad, those that had made it, shouting for them. Cheering them forward. They were almost there. He repeated it to the wounded soldier. Almost there. Almost-
A sharp pain cut through him. Like he had been stabbed by fire itself. The Australian stumbled, nearly falling over. Gasping for air as he tried to continue forward. Another shot, a small cry of pain escaping him. But he made it, another yard and he was stumbling into the trench where the others were. He’d barely had the strength to hand off the wounded soldier before his legs gave way. Couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Someone was trying to talk to him, but he couldn’t. All he could hear was the ringing of gunfire. A ragged cough finally escaped him, and with that came the numbing taste of blood.
Blood. He could feel it, seeping through his uniform from the back and the front. He coughed again; blood splattered the front of whoever was trying to steady him. To keep him standing. But he couldn’t. He collapsed, a numbness spreading throughout his body.
Wide green eyes locked on the blood coating his shaking hand. No, no, no he couldn’t be. His breathing became quicker. Dying. He was dying. Nations really could die. They could…
Didn’t want to… He didn’t want to die! He couldn’t. He didn’t want too. He didn’t.
Someone was shouting his name. Australia blinked. Letting his hand drop (and was frightened to realize how heavy it felt now). The Pom. The goddamn Pom was there. Or was he? Australia half wondered if he was hallucinating. He’d heard some of the other guys say that you did that when you were dying…
“Do-Don’t-” He could barely say the word before coughing, the taste of his own blood nearly choking him. England was saying something, but he couldn’t make out the words. Everything was getting blurry. He only half registered that was because he was crying. And the Australian wasn’t afraid to admit for once that he was downright terrified.
Didn’t want to die. Didn’t want to die. Didn’t want to die.
What would happen to his people? Who’d watch after the Kiwi? Little Wy? His pets?
Didn’t want to die. Didn’t want too…
What about Ukraine?
Didn’t want to die…
England was trying to say something. Maybe tell him to hold on? Australia couldn’t tell. His bloodied hand was gripping the front of England (or the figment of his dying mind’s) uniform. So tightly, despite how weak he felt, his knuckles were white. He could feel everything draining away. Could feel the coldness seeping into his bones. The darkness encroaching his vision.
“Don’t… Do-Don’t want…”
Australia’s hand dropped, his world going dark.
Did you read the rules? Who is a Beastie?: Jack Sparrow!
(I hope the picture isn't too big orz; )
Country of Origin: Australia
Gender Male
Age: 18
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 150
Appearance:
Crew member of: The Grim
Status: Weapons Expert
Personality: James is a rather energetic, and at times, reckless youth. He seems to just take things as they go, with a rather big grin. The best way to describe his personality really is simply, someone who ‘goes with the flow’. He’s also a bit down to earth, and hardly ever complains. Friendly to everyone he meets, and incredibly loyal to those he views as his friends (particularly his crew mates). Of course, he also has an incredibly mischievous side, and still has the tendency to pick-pockets and steal.
James also is quick to panic if he does not have is old koala stuffed animal. Thus, he is often seen with it (or it is tucked away in the bag he carries on his back).
History: James woke up one day, not knowing who he was, where he had come from, or what was going on around him. He was ten years old, and the only belonging he had being the clothes on his back, an old koala stuffed animal (one he cherishes still, and can often be found in his bag, it’s become like a security blanket to him) and a dog tag with the name ‘James’ on it. Whether that was his name or not he never did learn. Now while the notion of not exactly knowing who he was would damper most children’s spirits, James took it as an adventure. He spent the next five years of his life on the streets for the most part, surviving by stealing from others, and at times spending a night or two in jail as a result.
But something continuously nagged at the back of James’s mind. And one day he decided. Stowing away on an outgoing merchant ship he left his native country. Promising to himself one day he would come back. Since then, the Australian spent the next three years of his life traveling from place to place, continuing his life as a pick-pocket to make ends meet, and hunting for answers to his unknown past.
Allegiance: SEA PIRATES!
How They Died:
This had been suicide. It had been reckless, and stupid, and when he got out of this, oh was the Pom going to get a piece of his mind. When he got out of this. He was going to get out of this, right? Of course he was! He was going to be fine. That’s what he kept repeating in his mind. Chanting it like a mantra as he kept running as fast as he could. Well, as fast as one could while half-carrying, half-supporting another. But there was no way in Hell he was leaving one of his boys behind. Especially if he could do something about it.
They were almost there. Just a few more feet and they would reach the safety of their defenses. He could see the other members of his squad, those that had made it, shouting for them. Cheering them forward. They were almost there. He repeated it to the wounded soldier. Almost there. Almost-
A sharp pain cut through him. Like he had been stabbed by fire itself. The Australian stumbled, nearly falling over. Gasping for air as he tried to continue forward. Another shot, a small cry of pain escaping him. But he made it, another yard and he was stumbling into the trench where the others were. He’d barely had the strength to hand off the wounded soldier before his legs gave way. Couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. Someone was trying to talk to him, but he couldn’t. All he could hear was the ringing of gunfire. A ragged cough finally escaped him, and with that came the numbing taste of blood.
Blood. He could feel it, seeping through his uniform from the back and the front. He coughed again; blood splattered the front of whoever was trying to steady him. To keep him standing. But he couldn’t. He collapsed, a numbness spreading throughout his body.
Wide green eyes locked on the blood coating his shaking hand. No, no, no he couldn’t be. His breathing became quicker. Dying. He was dying. Nations really could die. They could…
Didn’t want to… He didn’t want to die! He couldn’t. He didn’t want too. He didn’t.
Someone was shouting his name. Australia blinked. Letting his hand drop (and was frightened to realize how heavy it felt now). The Pom. The goddamn Pom was there. Or was he? Australia half wondered if he was hallucinating. He’d heard some of the other guys say that you did that when you were dying…
“Do-Don’t-” He could barely say the word before coughing, the taste of his own blood nearly choking him. England was saying something, but he couldn’t make out the words. Everything was getting blurry. He only half registered that was because he was crying. And the Australian wasn’t afraid to admit for once that he was downright terrified.
Didn’t want to die. Didn’t want to die. Didn’t want to die.
What would happen to his people? Who’d watch after the Kiwi? Little Wy? His pets?
Didn’t want to die. Didn’t want too…
What about Ukraine?
Didn’t want to die…
England was trying to say something. Maybe tell him to hold on? Australia couldn’t tell. His bloodied hand was gripping the front of England (or the figment of his dying mind’s) uniform. So tightly, despite how weak he felt, his knuckles were white. He could feel everything draining away. Could feel the coldness seeping into his bones. The darkness encroaching his vision.
“Don’t… Do-Don’t want…”
Australia’s hand dropped, his world going dark.
Did you read the rules? Who is a Beastie?: Jack Sparrow!
(I hope the picture isn't too big orz; )
