Justric Member
STATUS: No longer here. youtube.com/watch?v=RLBo1HJK.. 9 yrs ago- Last Seen: 4 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Justric
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
- Posts: 676 (0.17 / day)
- VMs: 1
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Username history
- Justric 11 yrs ago
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Charybdis,
WhiteAngel25,
idlehands
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9 yrs ago
Current
No longer here. youtube.com/watch?v=RLBo1HJK..
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
Kaylan, were you planning on joining the rest of the hunters or going on your own? If you want to join us, let me know so we can make arrangements and plan together?
We could always use another hunter... or ten.
Fallen Muse - Thank you for the compliment. It will be interesting to see what becomes of my character and how he relates to the rest of the cast as the story progresses.
RoadRash - Sent you the set up for Chandler and Connally getting together. As discussed, I'll leave the first hunter post to you; when my reply comes, it will have a better description of the house.
Ezekial Wolffe - Once your hunter is up and approved, PM me and RoadRash? That way we can better co-ordinate. Because if we don't, we're screwed!
RoadRash - Sent you the set up for Chandler and Connally getting together. As discussed, I'll leave the first hunter post to you; when my reply comes, it will have a better description of the house.
Ezekial Wolffe - Once your hunter is up and approved, PM me and RoadRash? That way we can better co-ordinate. Because if we don't, we're screwed!
FallenMuse: noted. It's more or less how I figured on playing Robert anyway. Speakng of which, does he meet approval or are there any changes you'd like me to make?
Already being taken care of, actually.
I know for my hunter, I left it up in the air. Whatever happened, it happened so fast that there was no telling what was going on. Maybe Garou and BSD fighting, maybe Garou vs Kindred, maybe something else altogether! This way? I should be covered whatever FallenMuse decides for this ruling. As for how he survived... again, I'm leaving that to our Storyteller.
Name:
Robert Chandler
Age:
33
Sex:
Male
Skills:
Research, Occult, Folklore, Musical Instrument (Violin), Academics (Anthropology), Linguistics (Indo-European and Semitic), Basic First Aid, Gaming (Chess and related)
Personality:
A quiet if eccentric scholar, Robert can be somewhat shy in social settings. Because of events in his life, he doesn’t trust easily and is often maudlin. When it comes to intellect, however, he shines! Robert can easily lose himself for days in his books if he’s not careful, and sometimes treats eating and drinking as annoying necessities. He does not escape his woes from drink or drugs but in research. A night owl, he is firm in his belief that no one should arise any earlier than the crack of noon at best; the quiet hours of the night are preferred. Despite not being able to hit the broadside of a barn, he will stand his ground as long as he can and then opt for a fighting retreat. He is not known to complain. When suffering a mental block, the violin (an instrument taught to him by his uncle from an early age) remains his preferred way of clearing his mind.
Bio:
The Chandlers that Robert is descended from have always been an eccentric family. There has always been something just a tad fae about them. Genealogical research pins them to Newfoundland in the mid-1600s but there remains no documentation as to how they ended up there. A wealthy family at the outset, their fortunes diminished over time. The First World War almost finished the line altogether, leaving only one brother alive to continue the lineage and records show that he took his sweet time about it! That trend continued throughout the future generations, with family members often marrying late in life. From the twentieth Century onwards, the family remained small and clannish. After the second World War, they moved from Newfoundland to a small town in Massachusetts called Haverton, not far from Boston.
Robert was little different from his family. In fact, he seemed to almost be the epitome of what it meant to be a Chandler: intelligent, quick witted, odd and somewhat socially awkward. His high school and college years were remarkably… unremarkable! He was always in the background somewhere, working away at little projects of his own or enjoying himself in the library. By the time he graduated college, he had amassed enough grants, scholarships and awards to enroll in Cambridge so he might continue his academic interests. He grabbed whatever part time work as he might to help pay his way, often under the table. Employers were glad to have him at first as he was a hard worker regardless of the task set before him, only after time they began to feel un-nerved by his quiet presence.
Soon funds dried up. The death of his father and the lack of money forced him to return to the family home to help his elderly mother and bachelor uncle. Once more, Robert took whatever jobs he could find to feed habit of purchasing rare books and obscure texts. It was while working as a bar back that he met the first and to date only love of his life: Maria Ortiz. A few years younger than him, she was a lively firecracker in his life. She and a group of close friends frequented the bar on a weekly basis, taking over a private back room where they talked in hushed tones and raised voices alternatively. It seemed a mercurial group. Most didn’t pay attention to Robert, but the dark haired Maria always had a smile for him. The two began to form a friendship. It was obvious Maria had some sort of secret, but Robert never pressed her for it. Over the next year, the friendship began to become something more much to the consternation of her ‘drinking’ companions. When Robert’s mother passed away, he was devastated; Maria comforted him and kept an eye on the strange young man until she was sure he would be alright. His uncle Renfrew, however, seemed unaffected by the death of his sister. Robert always assumed it was because Renfrew was well into his seventies and bordered on senility.
Not long after, Robert was cleaning the bar when he came across a scrap of paper that Maria’s friends had left behind: it was a wax rubbing. Curious, he took it home and translated it; the words made little sense out of context but he relished the work as it was a rather obscure dialect of Phoenician from Canaan. The next meeting of Maria’s friends, he passed the translation to her.
That was when Robert was formerly introduced to the rest of Maria’s comrades, a group that called themselves The Forlorn Hope. It was then that he learned that much of the cultural tales he had studied both in his family’s home and abroad had some basis in truth, and that these mortal hunters were dedicated to being the first line of defense against supernatural incursions. Perhaps it says something of his nature that Robert accepted their word upfront, or maybe it simply speaks of his love for Maria that he asked for no proof. He became their official scholar. Best of all, it was a paid position from the Hope’s sponsor, a larger organization that covered a broad range of operations of which the Hope was only a part: ‘The Society’. Robert had no contact with them himself but reveled in his usefulness. The group taught him (or rather tried to teach him) how to defend himself, but after several hopeless lessons he adopted a shotgun for ease of use.
His uncle passed away a year later, leaving what little remained of the Chandler fortune to Robert, including the house and the rest of the family library. Among the family treasures was a variety of occult gear and two rather strange knives, one of iron and one of silver. Feeling the time was right, he proposed to Maria. She accepted.
Two days later, Robert’s world was torn apart. Receiving information that something was amiss in Amherst, he accompanied the rest of the team to investigate.
It was a slaughter.
On the outskirts of town, they unwittingly stumbled into the middle of a war. To this day, Robert is unable to say exactly what happened, merely that there were beasts with bloody mouths and savage cries and howls as the woods exploded. There was no rhyme or reason to the attack, and it seemed as though all fought one another without regard for friends and allies. The Hope was slaughtered, assailed on all sides and torn to bloody shreds almost incidentily. Robert only survived by sheerest chance, his last impression a flash of light and the smell of wildflowers. He awoke uninjured some ways away to discover that he was the last of the Forlorn Hope. The rest were dead, dismembered by savage animals, and if there seemed to be less blood splattered about than there should have been, he took no notice. Maria and all the others were dead.
Robert still does not recall exactly how he returned home. He can only assume he drove there in shock. Several days passed and he grieved by his lonesome in the Chandler house. He rose only from his depressed stupor when in the middle of the night there came a knock at his door. No one was there. What there was, however, was a folded piece of nondescript stationary. In a hand as neat as his own someone had written the words, “We are sorry to have heard of the fate of the Forlorn Hope. You will not be forgotten. Attend to future instructions. - The Society.” Beneath, almost as if in afterthought, was scrawled a post script: “Satis est quod timeas.” Know enough to be afraid.
Since then, Robert has very much become a hermit in his own house. The monthly stipend still appears automatically in his bank account each month, and every now and then he received an email or package containing a research assignment to be returned to a PO Box in Washington DC. He has taken to long walks at night, smoking his uncle’s pipe, and sometimes will wander into an all night diner to sit and rest.
It has been almost two years since the attack, and Robert remains very much a shellshocked man who has yet to fully come to terms with the loss of his beloved Maria.
Appearance:
Not overly tall nor short, Robert stands a fair five foot ten. Due to his recent diet, his weight has dropped down to 120 lb. His dark hair is usual tousled, and on a good day he remembers to shave. The most striking thing about him would be his deep blue eyes; large and doe like, they tend to have a haunted look about them that fires into intensity when pushed to anger.
Equipment
Personal library (occult, folklore, and language), laptop, smartphone, violin, pocketknife, black cargo van, camera, antique pocket watch, reloading gear, chess set
Weapons
double barreled sawed off .12 gauge shotgun, silver dirk, cold iron scramasax (knife)
Robert Chandler
Age:
33
Sex:
Male
Skills:
Research, Occult, Folklore, Musical Instrument (Violin), Academics (Anthropology), Linguistics (Indo-European and Semitic), Basic First Aid, Gaming (Chess and related)
Personality:
A quiet if eccentric scholar, Robert can be somewhat shy in social settings. Because of events in his life, he doesn’t trust easily and is often maudlin. When it comes to intellect, however, he shines! Robert can easily lose himself for days in his books if he’s not careful, and sometimes treats eating and drinking as annoying necessities. He does not escape his woes from drink or drugs but in research. A night owl, he is firm in his belief that no one should arise any earlier than the crack of noon at best; the quiet hours of the night are preferred. Despite not being able to hit the broadside of a barn, he will stand his ground as long as he can and then opt for a fighting retreat. He is not known to complain. When suffering a mental block, the violin (an instrument taught to him by his uncle from an early age) remains his preferred way of clearing his mind.
Bio:
The Chandlers that Robert is descended from have always been an eccentric family. There has always been something just a tad fae about them. Genealogical research pins them to Newfoundland in the mid-1600s but there remains no documentation as to how they ended up there. A wealthy family at the outset, their fortunes diminished over time. The First World War almost finished the line altogether, leaving only one brother alive to continue the lineage and records show that he took his sweet time about it! That trend continued throughout the future generations, with family members often marrying late in life. From the twentieth Century onwards, the family remained small and clannish. After the second World War, they moved from Newfoundland to a small town in Massachusetts called Haverton, not far from Boston.
Robert was little different from his family. In fact, he seemed to almost be the epitome of what it meant to be a Chandler: intelligent, quick witted, odd and somewhat socially awkward. His high school and college years were remarkably… unremarkable! He was always in the background somewhere, working away at little projects of his own or enjoying himself in the library. By the time he graduated college, he had amassed enough grants, scholarships and awards to enroll in Cambridge so he might continue his academic interests. He grabbed whatever part time work as he might to help pay his way, often under the table. Employers were glad to have him at first as he was a hard worker regardless of the task set before him, only after time they began to feel un-nerved by his quiet presence.
Soon funds dried up. The death of his father and the lack of money forced him to return to the family home to help his elderly mother and bachelor uncle. Once more, Robert took whatever jobs he could find to feed habit of purchasing rare books and obscure texts. It was while working as a bar back that he met the first and to date only love of his life: Maria Ortiz. A few years younger than him, she was a lively firecracker in his life. She and a group of close friends frequented the bar on a weekly basis, taking over a private back room where they talked in hushed tones and raised voices alternatively. It seemed a mercurial group. Most didn’t pay attention to Robert, but the dark haired Maria always had a smile for him. The two began to form a friendship. It was obvious Maria had some sort of secret, but Robert never pressed her for it. Over the next year, the friendship began to become something more much to the consternation of her ‘drinking’ companions. When Robert’s mother passed away, he was devastated; Maria comforted him and kept an eye on the strange young man until she was sure he would be alright. His uncle Renfrew, however, seemed unaffected by the death of his sister. Robert always assumed it was because Renfrew was well into his seventies and bordered on senility.
Not long after, Robert was cleaning the bar when he came across a scrap of paper that Maria’s friends had left behind: it was a wax rubbing. Curious, he took it home and translated it; the words made little sense out of context but he relished the work as it was a rather obscure dialect of Phoenician from Canaan. The next meeting of Maria’s friends, he passed the translation to her.
That was when Robert was formerly introduced to the rest of Maria’s comrades, a group that called themselves The Forlorn Hope. It was then that he learned that much of the cultural tales he had studied both in his family’s home and abroad had some basis in truth, and that these mortal hunters were dedicated to being the first line of defense against supernatural incursions. Perhaps it says something of his nature that Robert accepted their word upfront, or maybe it simply speaks of his love for Maria that he asked for no proof. He became their official scholar. Best of all, it was a paid position from the Hope’s sponsor, a larger organization that covered a broad range of operations of which the Hope was only a part: ‘The Society’. Robert had no contact with them himself but reveled in his usefulness. The group taught him (or rather tried to teach him) how to defend himself, but after several hopeless lessons he adopted a shotgun for ease of use.
His uncle passed away a year later, leaving what little remained of the Chandler fortune to Robert, including the house and the rest of the family library. Among the family treasures was a variety of occult gear and two rather strange knives, one of iron and one of silver. Feeling the time was right, he proposed to Maria. She accepted.
Two days later, Robert’s world was torn apart. Receiving information that something was amiss in Amherst, he accompanied the rest of the team to investigate.
It was a slaughter.
On the outskirts of town, they unwittingly stumbled into the middle of a war. To this day, Robert is unable to say exactly what happened, merely that there were beasts with bloody mouths and savage cries and howls as the woods exploded. There was no rhyme or reason to the attack, and it seemed as though all fought one another without regard for friends and allies. The Hope was slaughtered, assailed on all sides and torn to bloody shreds almost incidentily. Robert only survived by sheerest chance, his last impression a flash of light and the smell of wildflowers. He awoke uninjured some ways away to discover that he was the last of the Forlorn Hope. The rest were dead, dismembered by savage animals, and if there seemed to be less blood splattered about than there should have been, he took no notice. Maria and all the others were dead.
Robert still does not recall exactly how he returned home. He can only assume he drove there in shock. Several days passed and he grieved by his lonesome in the Chandler house. He rose only from his depressed stupor when in the middle of the night there came a knock at his door. No one was there. What there was, however, was a folded piece of nondescript stationary. In a hand as neat as his own someone had written the words, “We are sorry to have heard of the fate of the Forlorn Hope. You will not be forgotten. Attend to future instructions. - The Society.” Beneath, almost as if in afterthought, was scrawled a post script: “Satis est quod timeas.” Know enough to be afraid.
Since then, Robert has very much become a hermit in his own house. The monthly stipend still appears automatically in his bank account each month, and every now and then he received an email or package containing a research assignment to be returned to a PO Box in Washington DC. He has taken to long walks at night, smoking his uncle’s pipe, and sometimes will wander into an all night diner to sit and rest.
It has been almost two years since the attack, and Robert remains very much a shellshocked man who has yet to fully come to terms with the loss of his beloved Maria.
Appearance:
Not overly tall nor short, Robert stands a fair five foot ten. Due to his recent diet, his weight has dropped down to 120 lb. His dark hair is usual tousled, and on a good day he remembers to shave. The most striking thing about him would be his deep blue eyes; large and doe like, they tend to have a haunted look about them that fires into intensity when pushed to anger.
Equipment
Personal library (occult, folklore, and language), laptop, smartphone, violin, pocketknife, black cargo van, camera, antique pocket watch, reloading gear, chess set
Weapons
double barreled sawed off .12 gauge shotgun, silver dirk, cold iron scramasax (knife)
Working on my hunter now, should be up later tonight for approval.
“No,” Jötz growled darkly. The firmness of his tone left nothing to the imagination, nor did the strength which suddenly grasped above the elbow of her good arm. He pulled her about to face him. The Jaeger was solemn eyed, his features both purposeful and incredibly sad as he looked down at her to speak.
“Hy don’t know if’n chou ist in da Mad Place right now or not, but der is something chou gots to promise me,” he insisted sadly. “Chou don’t work on me. A leetle patching up or stitching schtuff up ist fine, or giving me da Battle Draught I gots in disk flash.” He thumped a small canteen on his belt with his thumb, but did not break away his gaze from her. “Only a Heterodyne can verk on a Jaeger, Ivy. Der’s a place in Mechanicsburg vere hy can go to get patched up vhen ve ist too banged up to fight no more, Mama Gkika’s. But only der. Und hy gots to sneak in. Oddervise, hy must vait for a Heterodyne to return. Only von of da Heterodynes oder another Jaeger can verk on us.”
Jötz dropped his hand and his eyes away. “If’n someting happens und chou gots to chop someting off, den chou do it. Hy trusts chou to do vhat chou gots to do. But no replacements. No modifications oder adding tings. Ist… ist very important, Ivy. More important den a hat, even… ”
He suddenly felt vulnerable telling her this, exposed. But he had already seen how quickly and easily this young Spark could slip in that mind state that was half insanity and half inspiration, and he feared that if she got too many ideas into her head he might wake up as something other than a true Jaeger. Death, dismemberment, disembowelment, dissection… there was a whole list of such ‘d’ words that he was prepared to accept; disloyalty to the Heterodynes was not on it.
Rubbing up to rub the cheek she had accidentally stepped on, Jötz closed his eyes and leaned against the ladder. This young woman was making him afraid on so many levels. Fear was not good for one of the Jaegerkin.
“Hy don’t know if’n chou ist in da Mad Place right now or not, but der is something chou gots to promise me,” he insisted sadly. “Chou don’t work on me. A leetle patching up or stitching schtuff up ist fine, or giving me da Battle Draught I gots in disk flash.” He thumped a small canteen on his belt with his thumb, but did not break away his gaze from her. “Only a Heterodyne can verk on a Jaeger, Ivy. Der’s a place in Mechanicsburg vere hy can go to get patched up vhen ve ist too banged up to fight no more, Mama Gkika’s. But only der. Und hy gots to sneak in. Oddervise, hy must vait for a Heterodyne to return. Only von of da Heterodynes oder another Jaeger can verk on us.”
Jötz dropped his hand and his eyes away. “If’n someting happens und chou gots to chop someting off, den chou do it. Hy trusts chou to do vhat chou gots to do. But no replacements. No modifications oder adding tings. Ist… ist very important, Ivy. More important den a hat, even… ”
He suddenly felt vulnerable telling her this, exposed. But he had already seen how quickly and easily this young Spark could slip in that mind state that was half insanity and half inspiration, and he feared that if she got too many ideas into her head he might wake up as something other than a true Jaeger. Death, dismemberment, disembowelment, dissection… there was a whole list of such ‘d’ words that he was prepared to accept; disloyalty to the Heterodynes was not on it.
Rubbing up to rub the cheek she had accidentally stepped on, Jötz closed his eyes and leaned against the ladder. This young woman was making him afraid on so many levels. Fear was not good for one of the Jaegerkin.
By your description, it sounds like Mssr. Reynard is well named!
I'll be somewhat busy for part of the night as well. Personal fireworks are illegal in my state, so I'll no doubt be taking the family out to find a suitable show. Sadly, the best one in the area also has the worst traffic to be dealt with afterwards. On the upside, it gives me an additional reason to drink when I get home! (No more than a single bottle of hard cider or dark ale, however, as I don't drink very often.)
I'll be somewhat busy for part of the night as well. Personal fireworks are illegal in my state, so I'll no doubt be taking the family out to find a suitable show. Sadly, the best one in the area also has the worst traffic to be dealt with afterwards. On the upside, it gives me an additional reason to drink when I get home! (No more than a single bottle of hard cider or dark ale, however, as I don't drink very often.)
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