Palamon
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History won't remember the critic, but rather those whom inspired the criticism.
8 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 2 yrs ago
- Joined: 11 yrs ago
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- Palamon 11 yrs ago
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8 yrs ago
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History won't remember the critic, but rather those whom inspired the criticism.
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Bio
Male. New Jersey. Alive. Healthy. Something Something I like roleplay.
Most Recent Posts
Double post - ignore
I was thinking of posting again soon, but it might be godmodding to continue a campaign uncontested through Brugge
I look forward to all the coming posts.
I'd watch that.
I'd honestly prefer anything else.
We're all ponies cause I guess mahz is a brony?
THANKS! I'm having a lot of fun writing Brenn. It's a lot of juxtaposition and it's so great.
Name: James Thaddeus O’Hara
Age: 32
Human
Gender: Male
Affiliation: A.R.E.S Special Agent
Appearance:
A clean and chiseled face, the boyish look that wooed many a young lady. His dark brown hair and cleanly shaven face, his mother always dreamed he’d one day become an actor. As is a requirement of all A.R.E.S Special Agents, James keeps his body in tip top shape, continually working out and as it is his preferred activity, boxing.
He stands 5’11 (feet and inches), not really the tallest man, and isn’t really imposing, but he’s always been good on his feet. When he enters the room he has the type of appearance that draws eyes, his slender figure and slim suits, he dresses to impress. His shoes are always shined and with a dress watch always is found strapped to his wrist.
However, on a typical day he wears a slim fitted stone grey suit, his tie in a half windsor knot. Of course, the Chicago weather usually requires that he wear his beige trench coat. And, when the situation absolutely calls for it, he does have a A.R.E.S combat suit locked away, its hardened high impact armor fitted tightly to its synthetically manufactured material.
Back Story: Born to some of the last true shepherds in Ireland, James Thaddeus O’Hara lived a simple life as a child. His first words were papa, and his favorite toy was a little wooden sword with a sheepskin grip.
His parents had a litter of children, surprising for a family that was without so much. He had five brothers, four older and one younger and 3 sisters all younger. Listing their names here would be quite pointless as half of them are dead or missing. Yet, their childhood together was nothing short of bliss, kept away from the troubles of the world, the pastures were their own personal Eden. Running, hiding playing the whole day long, and then finally coming to rest at their parents table, usually the dinner was potatoes and lamb.
Yet all good things to eventually come to an end, and one by one it seemed, his older siblings were taken into the slowly corrupting world around them. The Irish Republic Army had experienced a re-emergence and had begun a renewed and decisive campaign of terrorism, all in the name of a whole and fully free Ireland, their “recruitment drives” had taken in his older brothers. Out in the world, it seemed there were only two ways to live, to either pick up a gun and a mask, or to pick up a gun and a badge.
James too, eventually found himself out in the cold and lonely landscape. An urban Dublin was not a place to be taken lightly, and one day, he found himself in the gutter, as if he were some prelude to a prodigal son. A hand reached out to pull him up, and as he was raised from the ground his eye met a pair of mirrored sunglasses. “Rough night eh there boy?” The police officer chuckled as he took in the sight before him.
So there he was, the age of 19, and he had finally decided what it was he would pick up. So from then on he reached for a badge every morning, and went to work protecting the innocent, and fighting the malicious. His law career showed him to be a natural, and with years of experience and a little bit of intensive of study, he found his way into a position on the Dublin Anti-terror Squad. He so, fought the good fight and helped put a stop to the IRA’s bombings and kidnappings. It was experience he couldn’t have got anywhere else. And the truth was he enjoyed it.
The job was exhilarating and exciting, he felt as if he was making a difference. However, eventually, as he’d learned before, all good things come to an end. The IRA became more aggressive, more violent, shootings and bombings became more frequent, and a small and simple Anti-terror Squad could do nothing to stop it. Eventually the day came when a mistake was made, and it cost James his job.
So, that was it and James did as men have been doing since the dawn of the corporate age. He sent out his resume`. After months of waiting and of course drinking himself to sleep, a certain private security firm picked him up. A.R.E.S said they were impressed by his years of work and his achievements in the field, and they were ready to overlook a certain mistake if he would take a certain position. They needed a new point man, in a new city. As he had nothing left in Ireland, he did as his countrymen had done before him. He went to America.
Age: 32
Human
Gender: Male
Affiliation: A.R.E.S Special Agent
Appearance:
A clean and chiseled face, the boyish look that wooed many a young lady. His dark brown hair and cleanly shaven face, his mother always dreamed he’d one day become an actor. As is a requirement of all A.R.E.S Special Agents, James keeps his body in tip top shape, continually working out and as it is his preferred activity, boxing.
He stands 5’11 (feet and inches), not really the tallest man, and isn’t really imposing, but he’s always been good on his feet. When he enters the room he has the type of appearance that draws eyes, his slender figure and slim suits, he dresses to impress. His shoes are always shined and with a dress watch always is found strapped to his wrist.
However, on a typical day he wears a slim fitted stone grey suit, his tie in a half windsor knot. Of course, the Chicago weather usually requires that he wear his beige trench coat. And, when the situation absolutely calls for it, he does have a A.R.E.S combat suit locked away, its hardened high impact armor fitted tightly to its synthetically manufactured material.
Back Story: Born to some of the last true shepherds in Ireland, James Thaddeus O’Hara lived a simple life as a child. His first words were papa, and his favorite toy was a little wooden sword with a sheepskin grip.
His parents had a litter of children, surprising for a family that was without so much. He had five brothers, four older and one younger and 3 sisters all younger. Listing their names here would be quite pointless as half of them are dead or missing. Yet, their childhood together was nothing short of bliss, kept away from the troubles of the world, the pastures were their own personal Eden. Running, hiding playing the whole day long, and then finally coming to rest at their parents table, usually the dinner was potatoes and lamb.
Yet all good things to eventually come to an end, and one by one it seemed, his older siblings were taken into the slowly corrupting world around them. The Irish Republic Army had experienced a re-emergence and had begun a renewed and decisive campaign of terrorism, all in the name of a whole and fully free Ireland, their “recruitment drives” had taken in his older brothers. Out in the world, it seemed there were only two ways to live, to either pick up a gun and a mask, or to pick up a gun and a badge.
James too, eventually found himself out in the cold and lonely landscape. An urban Dublin was not a place to be taken lightly, and one day, he found himself in the gutter, as if he were some prelude to a prodigal son. A hand reached out to pull him up, and as he was raised from the ground his eye met a pair of mirrored sunglasses. “Rough night eh there boy?” The police officer chuckled as he took in the sight before him.
So there he was, the age of 19, and he had finally decided what it was he would pick up. So from then on he reached for a badge every morning, and went to work protecting the innocent, and fighting the malicious. His law career showed him to be a natural, and with years of experience and a little bit of intensive of study, he found his way into a position on the Dublin Anti-terror Squad. He so, fought the good fight and helped put a stop to the IRA’s bombings and kidnappings. It was experience he couldn’t have got anywhere else. And the truth was he enjoyed it.
The job was exhilarating and exciting, he felt as if he was making a difference. However, eventually, as he’d learned before, all good things come to an end. The IRA became more aggressive, more violent, shootings and bombings became more frequent, and a small and simple Anti-terror Squad could do nothing to stop it. Eventually the day came when a mistake was made, and it cost James his job.
So, that was it and James did as men have been doing since the dawn of the corporate age. He sent out his resume`. After months of waiting and of course drinking himself to sleep, a certain private security firm picked him up. A.R.E.S said they were impressed by his years of work and his achievements in the field, and they were ready to overlook a certain mistake if he would take a certain position. They needed a new point man, in a new city. As he had nothing left in Ireland, he did as his countrymen had done before him. He went to America.
In
Fantasy Nations 2: A New Age (Kadaeux's Trait System)
→
11 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
Super interested
Seventh Company staging area
Border Town Crispa, 16 km east of Dillingen, Brugge
Brenn closed his eyes for a moment as he took in the evening air. His hands shook slightly, and his heart rate was elevated. Fear? No it wasn’t fear, a wolfpack isn’t afraid while circling the kill. It was the excitement, the thrill, the anticipation of what was to come.
The town of Crispa lay before him. Though, admittedly the name was unknown to him, and it didn’t really matter what it was called, its fate would be the same no matter the name. He’d sent a scout ahead, the small garrison numbered only twenty, and their “piddly ass guardsmen”, as Brenn called them, were no match for a company of Nilfgaardian heavy infantry. Surely a militia would be called up. Brenn sighed at the thought, more bodies getting in the way.
He held his helmet tight against his waist, its black metal glinted slightly as the last rays of sun caught it at just the right angle. Looking over his shoulder he saw his men, finishing their preparation, eating what could be their final meal. It was quiet, most of these men had never fought against “real” soldiers, if one could call these northerners soldiers at all. His company had dealt with riots mostly, once there had been a band of miscreants who tried to “rise up”, but that was easily dealt with.
So no, they weren’t veterans and they weren’t the best fighters in the Empire, but they were his, and they were disciplined. They would do finely. Brenn ran a hand through his hair before lifting his helm. It fit tightly around his head and the visor stifled his vision slightly. The sun was falling behind the treeline, and darkness soon fell. “Torches!”, Brenn called, and so there were torches.
His vision narrowed on the town. Its pitiful wooden walls, its cracked and ancient gate, its feigned sense of defiance. Brenn grinned beneath his helmet. He pulled his sword from his sheath, this one was brand new, not like the older one, the one with neck notches. He lifted the sword, it was heavy, it would do well. He looked to his men once more, they stood upright, they stood together, all their eyes were upon him, they were ready.
“Men! You know why we came!” Brenn’s voice boomed like thunder. “This land is in chaos. The northmen and their lessers have made a mess of it. Well, it is theirs no longer! It is ours, it is the Empire’s, it is the Emperor’s. So, gentlemen, lets take what’s ours! FOR THE EMPIRE!”
As if as one, the ebony mass surged forward. It moved slow, and as it neared the small town of Crispa, it began to swallow it whole.
The gate came down within minutes. It took four men with axes to chop a man sized hole, and from then on it was child’s play. The stone tip arrows of the villagers bounced right off the plate armor of Brenn and his soldiers. As he entered the fray Brenn shined with confidence, with every swipe of his blade he felled another foe. He smirked as a man charged wild eyed at him with a pitchfork. With two deft movements he swept aside the farmer’s tool and sliced cleanly across the man’s throat. Brenn did not rush about with these movements in the field, but rather he was calm, confident, he strode from kill to kill, the movements planned in advance and executed with a practiced hand.
The Seventh Company was making short work of the villagers, and the guardsmen were falling easily enough. Brenn flared his nostrils at the sight of a dead Nilfgaardian soldier, and took his anger out on the manhood of a flanking guardsman, a grimace flashing across his own face. The skirmish had reached the town’s square, the last of the defenders were falling quickly. As the fighting wound down, it became clear that this was extermination not an occupation. Brenn lifted his helmet from his head, laying it on a stone bench on the edge of the square. As he walked slowly to the center of the square he called out to his men, “Finish the job, then take what’s ours!”
Soldiers perked up at the call of their Captain, many breaking off and entering houses, no doubt to steal or commit some other act of dominance. One hour, that was how long it had taken. One hour, and Brenn had his first victory. He cleaned his blade on the tabard of a fallen guardsmen, and he couldn’t help but think of his family. Oh, how he missed them. How he wished he could hold his wife close and watch his children play by the fire. Brenn looked up to the night sky, picking out the brightest star he could, and he took solace in the fact that he knew his wife was sharing the same view.
Border Town Crispa, 16 km east of Dillingen, Brugge
Brenn closed his eyes for a moment as he took in the evening air. His hands shook slightly, and his heart rate was elevated. Fear? No it wasn’t fear, a wolfpack isn’t afraid while circling the kill. It was the excitement, the thrill, the anticipation of what was to come.
The town of Crispa lay before him. Though, admittedly the name was unknown to him, and it didn’t really matter what it was called, its fate would be the same no matter the name. He’d sent a scout ahead, the small garrison numbered only twenty, and their “piddly ass guardsmen”, as Brenn called them, were no match for a company of Nilfgaardian heavy infantry. Surely a militia would be called up. Brenn sighed at the thought, more bodies getting in the way.
He held his helmet tight against his waist, its black metal glinted slightly as the last rays of sun caught it at just the right angle. Looking over his shoulder he saw his men, finishing their preparation, eating what could be their final meal. It was quiet, most of these men had never fought against “real” soldiers, if one could call these northerners soldiers at all. His company had dealt with riots mostly, once there had been a band of miscreants who tried to “rise up”, but that was easily dealt with.
So no, they weren’t veterans and they weren’t the best fighters in the Empire, but they were his, and they were disciplined. They would do finely. Brenn ran a hand through his hair before lifting his helm. It fit tightly around his head and the visor stifled his vision slightly. The sun was falling behind the treeline, and darkness soon fell. “Torches!”, Brenn called, and so there were torches.
His vision narrowed on the town. Its pitiful wooden walls, its cracked and ancient gate, its feigned sense of defiance. Brenn grinned beneath his helmet. He pulled his sword from his sheath, this one was brand new, not like the older one, the one with neck notches. He lifted the sword, it was heavy, it would do well. He looked to his men once more, they stood upright, they stood together, all their eyes were upon him, they were ready.
“Men! You know why we came!” Brenn’s voice boomed like thunder. “This land is in chaos. The northmen and their lessers have made a mess of it. Well, it is theirs no longer! It is ours, it is the Empire’s, it is the Emperor’s. So, gentlemen, lets take what’s ours! FOR THE EMPIRE!”
As if as one, the ebony mass surged forward. It moved slow, and as it neared the small town of Crispa, it began to swallow it whole.
The gate came down within minutes. It took four men with axes to chop a man sized hole, and from then on it was child’s play. The stone tip arrows of the villagers bounced right off the plate armor of Brenn and his soldiers. As he entered the fray Brenn shined with confidence, with every swipe of his blade he felled another foe. He smirked as a man charged wild eyed at him with a pitchfork. With two deft movements he swept aside the farmer’s tool and sliced cleanly across the man’s throat. Brenn did not rush about with these movements in the field, but rather he was calm, confident, he strode from kill to kill, the movements planned in advance and executed with a practiced hand.
The Seventh Company was making short work of the villagers, and the guardsmen were falling easily enough. Brenn flared his nostrils at the sight of a dead Nilfgaardian soldier, and took his anger out on the manhood of a flanking guardsman, a grimace flashing across his own face. The skirmish had reached the town’s square, the last of the defenders were falling quickly. As the fighting wound down, it became clear that this was extermination not an occupation. Brenn lifted his helmet from his head, laying it on a stone bench on the edge of the square. As he walked slowly to the center of the square he called out to his men, “Finish the job, then take what’s ours!”
Soldiers perked up at the call of their Captain, many breaking off and entering houses, no doubt to steal or commit some other act of dominance. One hour, that was how long it had taken. One hour, and Brenn had his first victory. He cleaned his blade on the tabard of a fallen guardsmen, and he couldn’t help but think of his family. Oh, how he missed them. How he wished he could hold his wife close and watch his children play by the fire. Brenn looked up to the night sky, picking out the brightest star he could, and he took solace in the fact that he knew his wife was sharing the same view.
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