Member
Timothy Maxon
Age
Seventeen
Appearance
Timothy(Though he prefers just Max) regards himself a little above average in appearance, angular in build and not incredibly tall, only clocking in at 5'11. His complexion treads the line of pale until around summer, where it fills out into a moderate olive. This pairs with soft umber hues and raven black hair, normally cropped and styled however he wants it for the day. Day-to-Day he can be seen wearing a black blazer, pant and shirt matching that color. That gets kinda hot in the summer...
Your Disposition?
What's a mob to a king? What's a king to a god? What's a god to a non-believer? Timothy would tell you that’s a pretty good song, as he’s not one to delve into philosophy. Why do that when there’s better things to do? Timothy is well..lazy..to a certain extent. This is part fatalism(belief that all things are predetermined and therefore inevitable) and well just laziness. He can often be found sprawled about when not attached to his headset, practically screaming boredom. However, when he’s not in one of his bored spells, he’s pretty nice, if young count non stop pranks, jokes, riddles as such. Not to say that he can’t be serious, as he does have serious moments, but why be serious when you can slap someone with whip cream?
A Biography?
This was it. The battle that would determine who took the trophy home. 10,000 players, millions of viewers, and bragging rights for the entire year.
No pressure right?
Yeah right, no pressure. Max thought, adjusting his line. The loud whirring of plane motors was something of a distraction, and the incessant flak sometimes made the craft jerk, which made the task at hand difficult. Once again he attached the clip to the line above, securing it taut to his waist. He hated random selection, for the exact reason that you could get stuck with paratrooper. Not that he didn’t like the looks of them, hell, they’re fuckin badass, but for the sheer fact that you’re in a slow tin can that practically says “Hey, Come shoot me down!”. Then again, it’s better than artillery, which takes amazing skill not to blow your own guys to hell.
And it also selected him for Germany. The initial controversy of dieselpunk servers began as they were erected, the word 'Nazi' still meaning something after decades. Call of Duty got it, so hey, Haven did too. Why? Maybe it was the practical realism and the fear that the game 'turns our youth in Nazis'. Man, Max never heard such bullshit in his life. Ask any player here and they'll tell you that they just came to laugh at guys, shoot at guys, and get killed by the guys they were laughing at. Hell, it was akin to football, with sportsmanship and such. You could even leave behind death messages for your killer to read, most going with the standard 'Great shot!' but some opted for the custom messages, like 'Oh dear, eviscerated again!'
Max chuckled silently to himself after remembering the messages, leaning against the heavy crate of MK01 Bombs. The ranks of 100 men had to be parted slightly to two columns on either side, and as to why they were there was a complete mystery, Maybe the pilot forgot to edit his kit or something. Slight trepidation clung to his trenchcoat like glue, for a stray flak shell could easily pierce and detonate the bombs. Max was hoping the bright red light above the sliding doors would turn green, signaling to jump.
”Hey, does anyone know than one song? Blood on the Risers?”
Spoke a young sounding man into his helmet’s communication system. The helmet was actually pretty neat, with an attached gasmask and neck armor, alongside an myriad of other functions.
”Yeah, why?
Another voice he didn’t recognize, though somewhat older and with a subtle shift in timbre at the end; a grufness.
”Well, aren’t paratroopers supposed to sing it or something before a drop? Like some kinda ritual?”
”Aren’t we Germany though?. Interjected yet another voice. Quite rude actually.
”Your point?”
”Well it wouldn’t make sense for Germany to know an American song, let alone-”
”cmon guysh. You’re gonna ruin his EMERSHUN!” Max practically spat in his mask but delivered the joke perfectly. Adding on a fake lisp and butchering the word ‘immersion’ heavily. The response? Everyone nearly lost their shit, some having to lean against the fuselage for support. Max received several firm pats on the back and a few 'promote this guy' remarks. The noise eventually calmed and once again the rotors filled the space. Max was surprised, 10 minutes in and they weren't-
A flak shell pierced the cockpit, the viscera from the pilots exploding amazingly to coat the unlucky souls whom were close enough the area. The wind ate at them voraciously, tearing men from the line and whipping them out into the great expanse of a vermillion stained sky. Thus began a great tumble of the craft and the subsequent thrashing of the men. Some unfortunate souls caught upon jagged ends of metal and were promptly impaled, the following evisceration strewing intestines like ribbons among their comrades. Max was slammed into the adjacent fuselage, dazed but otherwise unharmed, which allowed him to (with great difficulty) cut his line and be free. He crawled along the side and slashed various soldiers free, those who were alive anyway. A terrible creaking was sounding, to which they answered by slamming into the slide doors, blowing it free.
He peered into the expanse, noting the faint flashes of white and the distant rumble of explosions. It was impossible to tell who was winning, so he'd have to find out himself.
Max jumped through the doors and the immediate rush of wind smacked him harshly. He was tumbling at incredible speeds until he righted himself for a H.A.L.O drop. From his periphery he notice other black figures, the remaining soldiers from the aircraft; which exploded into a quite large fireball 2 seconds later. The war sullied ground was rushing up fast, too fast. Yanking his parachute cord lurched him violently upwards but slowed his descent. They would be landing in what was a forest, the once stoic oaks now mottled with bullet holes and gas stains. It would be quite depressing if anyone was paying attention to them, rather, they were focused on readying a weapon; the sturmgewhr 56. The successor to the original 44, it boasted a higher caliber at the cost of heavier weapon weight to soak up the increased recoil. Nevertheless, it was a reliable weapon and put men down in just 2 shots, maybe more, maybe less depending on how good the enemy's armour is.
Max charged the bolt and leapt into the fray, the fray being stygian smoke, whizzing gunfire, mud wet with blood...
No pressure right?
Yeah right, no pressure. Max thought, adjusting his line. The loud whirring of plane motors was something of a distraction, and the incessant flak sometimes made the craft jerk, which made the task at hand difficult. Once again he attached the clip to the line above, securing it taut to his waist. He hated random selection, for the exact reason that you could get stuck with paratrooper. Not that he didn’t like the looks of them, hell, they’re fuckin badass, but for the sheer fact that you’re in a slow tin can that practically says “Hey, Come shoot me down!”. Then again, it’s better than artillery, which takes amazing skill not to blow your own guys to hell.
And it also selected him for Germany. The initial controversy of dieselpunk servers began as they were erected, the word 'Nazi' still meaning something after decades. Call of Duty got it, so hey, Haven did too. Why? Maybe it was the practical realism and the fear that the game 'turns our youth in Nazis'. Man, Max never heard such bullshit in his life. Ask any player here and they'll tell you that they just came to laugh at guys, shoot at guys, and get killed by the guys they were laughing at. Hell, it was akin to football, with sportsmanship and such. You could even leave behind death messages for your killer to read, most going with the standard 'Great shot!' but some opted for the custom messages, like 'Oh dear, eviscerated again!'
Max chuckled silently to himself after remembering the messages, leaning against the heavy crate of MK01 Bombs. The ranks of 100 men had to be parted slightly to two columns on either side, and as to why they were there was a complete mystery, Maybe the pilot forgot to edit his kit or something. Slight trepidation clung to his trenchcoat like glue, for a stray flak shell could easily pierce and detonate the bombs. Max was hoping the bright red light above the sliding doors would turn green, signaling to jump.
”Hey, does anyone know than one song? Blood on the Risers?”
Spoke a young sounding man into his helmet’s communication system. The helmet was actually pretty neat, with an attached gasmask and neck armor, alongside an myriad of other functions.
”Yeah, why?
Another voice he didn’t recognize, though somewhat older and with a subtle shift in timbre at the end; a grufness.
”Well, aren’t paratroopers supposed to sing it or something before a drop? Like some kinda ritual?”
”Aren’t we Germany though?. Interjected yet another voice. Quite rude actually.
”Your point?”
”Well it wouldn’t make sense for Germany to know an American song, let alone-”
”cmon guysh. You’re gonna ruin his EMERSHUN!” Max practically spat in his mask but delivered the joke perfectly. Adding on a fake lisp and butchering the word ‘immersion’ heavily. The response? Everyone nearly lost their shit, some having to lean against the fuselage for support. Max received several firm pats on the back and a few 'promote this guy' remarks. The noise eventually calmed and once again the rotors filled the space. Max was surprised, 10 minutes in and they weren't-
A flak shell pierced the cockpit, the viscera from the pilots exploding amazingly to coat the unlucky souls whom were close enough the area. The wind ate at them voraciously, tearing men from the line and whipping them out into the great expanse of a vermillion stained sky. Thus began a great tumble of the craft and the subsequent thrashing of the men. Some unfortunate souls caught upon jagged ends of metal and were promptly impaled, the following evisceration strewing intestines like ribbons among their comrades. Max was slammed into the adjacent fuselage, dazed but otherwise unharmed, which allowed him to (with great difficulty) cut his line and be free. He crawled along the side and slashed various soldiers free, those who were alive anyway. A terrible creaking was sounding, to which they answered by slamming into the slide doors, blowing it free.
He peered into the expanse, noting the faint flashes of white and the distant rumble of explosions. It was impossible to tell who was winning, so he'd have to find out himself.
Max jumped through the doors and the immediate rush of wind smacked him harshly. He was tumbling at incredible speeds until he righted himself for a H.A.L.O drop. From his periphery he notice other black figures, the remaining soldiers from the aircraft; which exploded into a quite large fireball 2 seconds later. The war sullied ground was rushing up fast, too fast. Yanking his parachute cord lurched him violently upwards but slowed his descent. They would be landing in what was a forest, the once stoic oaks now mottled with bullet holes and gas stains. It would be quite depressing if anyone was paying attention to them, rather, they were focused on readying a weapon; the sturmgewhr 56. The successor to the original 44, it boasted a higher caliber at the cost of heavier weapon weight to soak up the increased recoil. Nevertheless, it was a reliable weapon and put men down in just 2 shots, maybe more, maybe less depending on how good the enemy's armour is.
Max charged the bolt and leapt into the fray, the fray being stygian smoke, whizzing gunfire, mud wet with blood...
Dying somewhat late into the game(by a grenade), Max decided to head to Haven's Hub and see what was going on there. Currently, everyone was enamored within their own happenings.
"Ah, well that was fun..and 2 new friend request. Cool"
He'd accept those later, now he just wanted to log out and-
IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM 4TH REICH FINALE.
-Germany Wins!
As soon as the message displayed, his username was updated.
MaxAttack-4th Reich Champion
"Ah, well that was fun..and 2 new friend request. Cool"
He'd accept those later, now he just wanted to log out and-
IMPORTANT MESSAGE FROM 4TH REICH FINALE.
-Germany Wins!
As soon as the message displayed, his username was updated.
MaxAttack-4th Reich Champion
Talents/Skills
Is mayonaise a talent?
So you've got two enemy machine gun positions, heavily entrenched, and shredding your men to pieces by the second. What to you do? Call Blitz to the front and he'll blow a hole the size of yor mom's ass in that position. How he does it? Why, a heavily suicidal build allows for lowest possible defence and highest possible movement of course. You see, it takes a level of high octane craziness that puts a veteran reich champion on edge to charge head on into a wall of bullets.
Skills
STR: ✇
STA: ✇✇✇✇✇✇
DEX: ✇✇✇✇
INT: ✇
WIS: ✇
LUC: ✇✇
Abilities
---
Double Time!
Toggle: 10 min duration
Cooldown: 10 min
Increases player's [speed] by 15%, and provides a 5% increase to reloading. If allies are within a 10ft radius of the player, their speed in also increased by 10%. Stacks with most speed increasing buffs
Dug in Heels:
Passive; When entrenched
When entrenched the player's accuracy is increased by 15%, damage by 10%, and defense by 5%. Attacking the player results in debuffs of the equal percentile to the player's buffs, and to the same fields.
--
Inventory
✇ Sturmgewher 56
✇ Ammunition x200
✇ Stielhandgrande MK56 x2
✇ Gas mask filters
✇ Field medicine x1
✇ Combat Knife
1st note: His username is MaxAttack.
2nd Note: 5th Reich qualifying matches are coming up and he plans to enter again.
2nd Note: 5th Reich qualifying matches are coming up and he plans to enter again.
