FourtyTwoVampires, zombies, witches.
A few minutes into the meeting and it was already shaping out to be one of the strangest things Merrick had ever stood witness to. The body the preacher had showed them looked like a badly emancipated human - almost like the starved survivors of a long siege. In fact, he had actually felt certain that the preacher was a man gone mad who had made the whole story about vampires up just to attract more people to the town. However, that theory quickly went to hell when the man with the red eyes seemingly 'awakened' the corpse with just a few drops of his blood. Merrick was still skeptical; for all he knew, the man and the preacher were in cahoots, but even as he told himself that, he knew that it was unlikely. The man had only just showed up, and the preacher did not seem to know anyone apart from Eliza and the sheriff.
In any case, Merrick's attention had been largely grabbed by the new arrival - Buckle, that was his name. He acted erratically, like a man who was on the very edge of slipping into insanity. It was a nature that Merrick had the misfortune of knowing well. He had lost count of the number of young soldiers who suffered from unending and relentless nightmares after their first few battles. Some recovered, others took their own lives and a handful simply disappeared in the dead of night, much like what Merrick had done. Most, however, lived the rest of their lives as a broken shell of a man.
"The army won't do us any good, mate." Merrick said in response to Buckle and nodded to Eliza. "She's got it right, the army has more things to worry about than whatever trouble Woop Woop found itself in." He neglected to tell them that that was the exact reason why he had came to Paradise, aside from the offer of a job. They did not need to know that he was a deserter. "Besides, anyone they send would probably just be a weekend warrior, and they're about as useful as tits on a bull." He said. From his experience, militiamen were only effective when fighting in a place and against an enemy they were comfortable with. Against the paranormal here in Paradise? They would most likely turn and bolt the first chance they got.
He knew that he had probably used too much Australian slang in his words, but it was at least a lot better than when he had first stepped off the boat. Back then, no one could understand a word he was saying, and even after close to a decade living in America, he still enjoyed using it. It reminded him of home and was like a slice of Australia he could carry on his person and never lose. He looked back to the preacher, then at the sheriff. "I'm ready to head out on your go." He said. They could send him against the witches or the zombies, Merrick was confident that the .577 shot fired by the Snider-Enfield would put a quick end to them, and a quick end to anyone standing behind.
Status
Recent Statuses
10 yrs ago
Current
acquire raifu, defend waifu
10 yrs ago
Nothing quite like schizophrenic weather.
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10 yrs ago
At this point I don't even care where I end up. I just want to do something productive, bloody hell.
10 yrs ago
I still remember four...
10 yrs ago
Standing by to stand by, cap'n!
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"Copy that, Overwatch." Everett replied as calmly as he could. The past few seconds, or even milliseconds, had felt like hours as he tried in vain to shake the bandit off his tail. He had completely forgotten about his planned attack on the bombers - every time he thought he had a window of opportunity to make a quick run on the bombers, the enemy fighter would immediately get a missile lock. Countermeasures counted for little when the enemy was directly behind you and could kill you with guns as easily as with missiles, and that meant that Everett had no choice but to break off his attack and initiate evasive maneuvers. It was infuriating, but Everett had to hand it to the enemy fighter, they were nothing if not determined.
The missile lock alarm sounded in the cockpit again; by now it was beginning to feel like an annoyance more than anything else. "Countermeasures away," Zola said nonchalantly.
"Evading," Everett said and pulled the Fencer up into a climb. As successful as they were in frustrating the enemy's efforts to shoot them down, they could not go on like this forever. They had to shoot down the bombers before they even had a chance to bomb the airfield. Thankfully for Everett and Zola, the Ghost of the Strait still had one trick left up its sleeve. "Zola, fire up the plasma stealth system. I'll inform the squadron and Overwatch." Everett said grimly. Plasma stealth, while not a new concept, was still a rather new technology to be used in the field. It relied on hundreds of electrodes placed around the aircraft to heat up and ionize the air around it, effectively encasing the aircraft within a cloud of plasma. In theory, the cloud would deflect, absorb or even simply disrupt any electromagnetic waves entering it, making the aircraft invisible to almost all forms of detection.
Of course, it was all a theory.
"On it," Zola replied with a nod and starting flicking a number of switches, even reaching over to Everett's side of the cockpit at times. "System primed. Go is on you."
"Overwatch and squadron, be advised that Excalibur Four is activating plasma stealth. We will be off communications and off radar for the duration. Out." Everett said quickly over his mic and waited for a second before hitting the switch that would activate the system. The only sign that it came online was the momentary flickering of the electronic flight instruments and the sudden messages flashing across Zola's HUD informing her that the locking system of their missiles were either defective or being jammed. It made sense, the plasma stealth system, being a first-generation system, blocked all outgoing electromagnetic waves as well as incoming ones. Even their radar was displaying signs of being jammed.
However, it worked well enough to give Everett a rough idea as to where the bombers were. "Right, Zola, switch to guns." He said and turned the aircraft around. Their efforts to shake off the enemy fighter - which was still following them, in fact - had brought them ahead of the enemy bomber formation. "We'll be hitting them head on. How's our friend doing behind us?"
Zola smirked. "Not too well. Good for us, eh?" She said just as a burst of cannon fire flashed across her side of the cockpit. The Fencer even shuddered from taking one or two hits. "Fuck! Can't say he's not doing his fucking best to shoot us out of the sky, though." She grumbled.
Everett shrugged. "At least it will be easier evading cannon fire than missiles." He said. They were closing fast on the enemy bomber, and from what little Everett could see, they were quite literally going to be attacking it head on and from slightly above. It was the best angle Everett and Zola could ask for; they were essentially going to rake the entire length of the bomber with cannon fire, guaranteeing a hit on something vital.
"We're in range, I'm firing!" Zola shouted out.
"Don't stop until we're clear of the tail. I want to be sure that we've blown them out of the sky." Everett said, his tone dripping with determination.
"Just like ground attack, got it." Zola said with an almost manic grin as she pressed down on the trigger, firing the Fencer's cannons in several long bursts as Everett carefully piloted the aircraft to ensure they struck as much of the bomber as possible. The first burst punched clean through the cockpit as well as riddling the wingbox with holes. The second struck the bomber in the midsection, but it was the last two bursts that brought it down. The third and fourth burst ravaged the entire empennage of the Tu-95, reducing the elevators and rudder to just shreds of aluminum hanging onto a metal frame. With the loss of such vital flight control surfaces, the bomber lost control and fell into a deadly, unrecoverable spiral towards the earth.
However, Everett still had the enemy fighter to worry about. "Disengaging stealth. He won't try a missile kill here." Everett said and flicked the switch to turn off the plasma stealth system. At the speed they were going, it did not take long for the plasma cloud to dissipate. "Excalibur Four confirms one more bomber kill. Bogey still on my tail." He reported. "I'm flying among the bomber formation, he won't dare attempt a missile kill there."
The missile lock alarm sounded in the cockpit again; by now it was beginning to feel like an annoyance more than anything else. "Countermeasures away," Zola said nonchalantly.
"Evading," Everett said and pulled the Fencer up into a climb. As successful as they were in frustrating the enemy's efforts to shoot them down, they could not go on like this forever. They had to shoot down the bombers before they even had a chance to bomb the airfield. Thankfully for Everett and Zola, the Ghost of the Strait still had one trick left up its sleeve. "Zola, fire up the plasma stealth system. I'll inform the squadron and Overwatch." Everett said grimly. Plasma stealth, while not a new concept, was still a rather new technology to be used in the field. It relied on hundreds of electrodes placed around the aircraft to heat up and ionize the air around it, effectively encasing the aircraft within a cloud of plasma. In theory, the cloud would deflect, absorb or even simply disrupt any electromagnetic waves entering it, making the aircraft invisible to almost all forms of detection.
Of course, it was all a theory.
"On it," Zola replied with a nod and starting flicking a number of switches, even reaching over to Everett's side of the cockpit at times. "System primed. Go is on you."
"Overwatch and squadron, be advised that Excalibur Four is activating plasma stealth. We will be off communications and off radar for the duration. Out." Everett said quickly over his mic and waited for a second before hitting the switch that would activate the system. The only sign that it came online was the momentary flickering of the electronic flight instruments and the sudden messages flashing across Zola's HUD informing her that the locking system of their missiles were either defective or being jammed. It made sense, the plasma stealth system, being a first-generation system, blocked all outgoing electromagnetic waves as well as incoming ones. Even their radar was displaying signs of being jammed.
However, it worked well enough to give Everett a rough idea as to where the bombers were. "Right, Zola, switch to guns." He said and turned the aircraft around. Their efforts to shake off the enemy fighter - which was still following them, in fact - had brought them ahead of the enemy bomber formation. "We'll be hitting them head on. How's our friend doing behind us?"
Zola smirked. "Not too well. Good for us, eh?" She said just as a burst of cannon fire flashed across her side of the cockpit. The Fencer even shuddered from taking one or two hits. "Fuck! Can't say he's not doing his fucking best to shoot us out of the sky, though." She grumbled.
Everett shrugged. "At least it will be easier evading cannon fire than missiles." He said. They were closing fast on the enemy bomber, and from what little Everett could see, they were quite literally going to be attacking it head on and from slightly above. It was the best angle Everett and Zola could ask for; they were essentially going to rake the entire length of the bomber with cannon fire, guaranteeing a hit on something vital.
"We're in range, I'm firing!" Zola shouted out.
"Don't stop until we're clear of the tail. I want to be sure that we've blown them out of the sky." Everett said, his tone dripping with determination.
"Just like ground attack, got it." Zola said with an almost manic grin as she pressed down on the trigger, firing the Fencer's cannons in several long bursts as Everett carefully piloted the aircraft to ensure they struck as much of the bomber as possible. The first burst punched clean through the cockpit as well as riddling the wingbox with holes. The second struck the bomber in the midsection, but it was the last two bursts that brought it down. The third and fourth burst ravaged the entire empennage of the Tu-95, reducing the elevators and rudder to just shreds of aluminum hanging onto a metal frame. With the loss of such vital flight control surfaces, the bomber lost control and fell into a deadly, unrecoverable spiral towards the earth.
However, Everett still had the enemy fighter to worry about. "Disengaging stealth. He won't try a missile kill here." Everett said and flicked the switch to turn off the plasma stealth system. At the speed they were going, it did not take long for the plasma cloud to dissipate. "Excalibur Four confirms one more bomber kill. Bogey still on my tail." He reported. "I'm flying among the bomber formation, he won't dare attempt a missile kill there."
An empty saloon at night was never a good sign.
If there was one thing Merrick had learned from his journeys through the American west, it was that. An empty saloon during the day could simply mean that everyone was busy having a job, but at night? That was usually when everyone would drop by to have a drink. An empty saloon at night either meant that the town was on the verge of collapsing or there was something dreadfully wrong with the town. For Paradise, Merrick reckoned that it was the latter. The three people he had spoken to since his arrival all spoke of paranormal activity around the town, though their exact words often involved mentioning 'hell' and 'devils'.
As far as religion went, Merrick was a non-believer, but as he walked down the deserted main street, he had to admit that he felt an inexplicable sense of unease. It was nothing like he had ever felt before, even if he factored in the intense guilt he felt every time he closed his eyes to get some rest. It had been six long years since the massacre and still he remembered every detail. He saw the same scene every night, the screams of the unarmed people as they were gunned down, the pleadings of the women and the cries of the children. What hurt the most was the memory of himself just sitting on his horse, motionless and his mouth hanging open in shock as he watched the supposedly disciplined and honourable United States Army carry out the atrocity.
Merrick shook his head. He could not risk going down that path, at least not now. The mayor and preacher of the town had put out a call for help from anyone who could carry and use a gun. They had offered a sizable amount as payment, but Merrick was not concerned with the money. He just hoped against hope that this would be the job that would finally put his conscience at ease. It was a fool's errand - trying to make amends for his actions, or lack thereof, at Wounded Knee - but Merrick had to give it shot. It was not as if there was anything else for him to do besides moping around until he eventually took his own life.
He stopped in front of the church and looked over his own clothes one last time to make sure he looked presentable. He pulled his face mask up to cover more of his nose. It had initially been just a way to prevent himself from inhaling sand, but now he had his face covered simply because it made him feel a lot more comfortable. Satisfied that at least his clothes were in order, he tightened his shoulder and waist belt to prevent them from sagging from the weight of all his equipment. Shrugging his right shoulder to bring his weapon, the almost archaic Snider-Enfield, further onto his shoulders, he walked into the church.
The church was a small building, and so it did not take long for Merrick to find the preacher pacing back and worth in front of the raised platform. Merrick cleared his throat and marched forward at a quick pace. "Good evening, preacher." He said politely with a nod, his accent extremely prominent even with such a short phrase. "Merrick Sheridan. I heard that your town needed help."
If there was one thing Merrick had learned from his journeys through the American west, it was that. An empty saloon during the day could simply mean that everyone was busy having a job, but at night? That was usually when everyone would drop by to have a drink. An empty saloon at night either meant that the town was on the verge of collapsing or there was something dreadfully wrong with the town. For Paradise, Merrick reckoned that it was the latter. The three people he had spoken to since his arrival all spoke of paranormal activity around the town, though their exact words often involved mentioning 'hell' and 'devils'.
As far as religion went, Merrick was a non-believer, but as he walked down the deserted main street, he had to admit that he felt an inexplicable sense of unease. It was nothing like he had ever felt before, even if he factored in the intense guilt he felt every time he closed his eyes to get some rest. It had been six long years since the massacre and still he remembered every detail. He saw the same scene every night, the screams of the unarmed people as they were gunned down, the pleadings of the women and the cries of the children. What hurt the most was the memory of himself just sitting on his horse, motionless and his mouth hanging open in shock as he watched the supposedly disciplined and honourable United States Army carry out the atrocity.
Merrick shook his head. He could not risk going down that path, at least not now. The mayor and preacher of the town had put out a call for help from anyone who could carry and use a gun. They had offered a sizable amount as payment, but Merrick was not concerned with the money. He just hoped against hope that this would be the job that would finally put his conscience at ease. It was a fool's errand - trying to make amends for his actions, or lack thereof, at Wounded Knee - but Merrick had to give it shot. It was not as if there was anything else for him to do besides moping around until he eventually took his own life.
He stopped in front of the church and looked over his own clothes one last time to make sure he looked presentable. He pulled his face mask up to cover more of his nose. It had initially been just a way to prevent himself from inhaling sand, but now he had his face covered simply because it made him feel a lot more comfortable. Satisfied that at least his clothes were in order, he tightened his shoulder and waist belt to prevent them from sagging from the weight of all his equipment. Shrugging his right shoulder to bring his weapon, the almost archaic Snider-Enfield, further onto his shoulders, he walked into the church.
The church was a small building, and so it did not take long for Merrick to find the preacher pacing back and worth in front of the raised platform. Merrick cleared his throat and marched forward at a quick pace. "Good evening, preacher." He said politely with a nod, his accent extremely prominent even with such a short phrase. "Merrick Sheridan. I heard that your town needed help."
I'm just going to point out that the blade does not actually intersect with the bullet's path. It looks fixed to the underneath of the barrel and is secured at the cylinder frame, so it doesn't actually get in the way of anything, firing-wise.
But yeah, given the nature of this RP, I think we can just ignore the physics of a gun-knife. XD
But yeah, given the nature of this RP, I think we can just ignore the physics of a gun-knife. XD
Name: Merrick Sheridan
Age: 28
Race: Human - Australian
Appearance: Slender would be the word that would most easily describe Merrick. Tall and slim, the only indication that he was a man of the outdoors would be his heavily tanned skin and rough hands from spending long hours working or riding under the sun. He has shallow, dark brown eyes, thin lips and subdued facial features. His brown hair licks at his eyebrows and collar of his shirt, and he never lets it grown any longer than that.
He wears a modified US Army frock coat, the most distinct modification being that he had dyed the entire thing a soft shade of brown to blend in with the desert sands. Patches of cloth in other shades of brown are sewed onto parts of the coat to give it some form of rudimentary camouflage. A bandanna covering his nose and mouth prevents him from inhaling sand. He often wears a dark brown slouch hat.
Gender: Male
Personality: Awkward, quiet and introverted. It's when he drinks does he talk a lot, sometimes more than he should.
Biography: It is no exaggeration to say that Merrick was born for the wilderness. Born to a bushman and a barmaid in a small town in the outback, Merrick was trained by his father from a young age to live off the land. Given that they were within one of the Australian deserts, that was as well as teaching Merrick how to live off practically nothing. By the time he was eight, Merrick had learned how to identify and prepare plants that were safe to eat, as well as creating rudimentary traps to hunt small game. He fired his first rifle when he was ten and hunted his first big game not two months later. Considered a true bushman when he turned fifteen, Merrick went on to live the life of a hunter and forager, living in the wilderness for up to weeks at a time for the perfect shot to kill his targeted prey.
However, Merrick could not help but feel as if there was more to life than just barely eking out a life in the Australian bush. Thus, once he turned eighteen, he decided to take whatever money he had earned from selling meats and hides, along with a small amount gifted to him from his parents, to buy passage to America. Like plenty of immigrants, he had heard stories out how the American west was the place to be if you wanted to carve a life out for yourself and make it rich at the same time. It was going to involve plenty of hard work, but that was nothing Merrick was not used to. Additionally, he was going to make landfall in the thick on it - in California.
He went from job to job for a year after that before realizing that he needed a steady source of income. The United States Army, having been bogged down by decades of intermittent warfare with the Native Americans, were more than happy to welcome Merrick into their ranks. He was trained as a cavalryman, fighting with the rifle on horseback and with the sabre at close range. It started out as a wonderful experience, when he was just a scout rider making sure that the road ahead of the army was safe. It was when he actually entered combat when things started falling apart. He had no problems with killing armed men or women - as far as he was concerned, he was simply acting out of self-defense. It was the post-battle killings and occasional mutilations that bothered him. He detested the idea of bringing violence onto anyone who was not involved in the battle. It came to head when Merrick was present at Wounded Knee to witness the massacre. He saw armed Natives being gunned down and bayoneted, but what horrified him was the indiscriminate killing of civilians and the apparent lack of concern shown by the commanding officers. Even though he did not fire a single shot during the massacre, Merrick still felt intense guilt for doing nothing to stop it. Unable to reconcile the idea of a free and equal American with the massacre, Merrick deserted the army.
He traveled from town to town, not bothering to use a false name, rightly assuming that the US army had more important things to take care of than to hunt down one deserter out of hundreds. Still, Merrick made a point to avoid settlements that were firmly within federal control as well as tribal lands. The former because he was still worried that he would be apprehended as a deserter, and the latter for, well, even if he was not shot on sight, he could not bring himself to look in the eyes of another Native American without remembering his inaction at Wounded Knee. He had even discarded his army-issue rifle, not just because he disliked it in general, but because it reminded him too much of his past.
It did not take long for Merrick to stumble across Paradise, a town beyond the reach of federal agents and plagued by mysterious problems. Still riding on the hopes that he would one day perform enough good deeds to clear his conscience, he decided to stay and offer his services.
Equipment:
Weaponry
- Snider-Enfield Short Rifle, metal cartridge conversion
- 2 Colt Single Action Army revolvers
- US Cavalry Sabre
- Socket Bayonet for the Snider-Enfield
- Serrated hunting/skinning knife
Kit
- Cloth backpack
- Breadbag (Essentially a shapeless sling bag)
- Ammunition box + shoulder belt (US Army issue, insignia buffed out)
- Waistbelt + sheaths for knife, sabre and bayonet (US Army issue, insignia buffed out)
Abilities/Disadvantages:
+ Bushman: Trained in the Australian outback, Merrick is an expert when it comes to surviving on next to nothing.
+ Sleight of Hand: You'd think he was using a repeater, given how fast he reloads.
+ Ex-Dragoon: A sniper is deadly enough. A sniper on horseback? That's just unfair.
- Deserter: Safe to assume that the US army is not a fan of Merrick.
- Enemy of Natives: And neither are the Native Americans.
- Heavy drinker: Don't get him started.
- Glass cannon: He can deal the damage, but he can't take it back.
Age: 28
Race: Human - Australian
Appearance: Slender would be the word that would most easily describe Merrick. Tall and slim, the only indication that he was a man of the outdoors would be his heavily tanned skin and rough hands from spending long hours working or riding under the sun. He has shallow, dark brown eyes, thin lips and subdued facial features. His brown hair licks at his eyebrows and collar of his shirt, and he never lets it grown any longer than that.
He wears a modified US Army frock coat, the most distinct modification being that he had dyed the entire thing a soft shade of brown to blend in with the desert sands. Patches of cloth in other shades of brown are sewed onto parts of the coat to give it some form of rudimentary camouflage. A bandanna covering his nose and mouth prevents him from inhaling sand. He often wears a dark brown slouch hat.
Gender: Male
Personality: Awkward, quiet and introverted. It's when he drinks does he talk a lot, sometimes more than he should.
Biography: It is no exaggeration to say that Merrick was born for the wilderness. Born to a bushman and a barmaid in a small town in the outback, Merrick was trained by his father from a young age to live off the land. Given that they were within one of the Australian deserts, that was as well as teaching Merrick how to live off practically nothing. By the time he was eight, Merrick had learned how to identify and prepare plants that were safe to eat, as well as creating rudimentary traps to hunt small game. He fired his first rifle when he was ten and hunted his first big game not two months later. Considered a true bushman when he turned fifteen, Merrick went on to live the life of a hunter and forager, living in the wilderness for up to weeks at a time for the perfect shot to kill his targeted prey.
However, Merrick could not help but feel as if there was more to life than just barely eking out a life in the Australian bush. Thus, once he turned eighteen, he decided to take whatever money he had earned from selling meats and hides, along with a small amount gifted to him from his parents, to buy passage to America. Like plenty of immigrants, he had heard stories out how the American west was the place to be if you wanted to carve a life out for yourself and make it rich at the same time. It was going to involve plenty of hard work, but that was nothing Merrick was not used to. Additionally, he was going to make landfall in the thick on it - in California.
He went from job to job for a year after that before realizing that he needed a steady source of income. The United States Army, having been bogged down by decades of intermittent warfare with the Native Americans, were more than happy to welcome Merrick into their ranks. He was trained as a cavalryman, fighting with the rifle on horseback and with the sabre at close range. It started out as a wonderful experience, when he was just a scout rider making sure that the road ahead of the army was safe. It was when he actually entered combat when things started falling apart. He had no problems with killing armed men or women - as far as he was concerned, he was simply acting out of self-defense. It was the post-battle killings and occasional mutilations that bothered him. He detested the idea of bringing violence onto anyone who was not involved in the battle. It came to head when Merrick was present at Wounded Knee to witness the massacre. He saw armed Natives being gunned down and bayoneted, but what horrified him was the indiscriminate killing of civilians and the apparent lack of concern shown by the commanding officers. Even though he did not fire a single shot during the massacre, Merrick still felt intense guilt for doing nothing to stop it. Unable to reconcile the idea of a free and equal American with the massacre, Merrick deserted the army.
He traveled from town to town, not bothering to use a false name, rightly assuming that the US army had more important things to take care of than to hunt down one deserter out of hundreds. Still, Merrick made a point to avoid settlements that were firmly within federal control as well as tribal lands. The former because he was still worried that he would be apprehended as a deserter, and the latter for, well, even if he was not shot on sight, he could not bring himself to look in the eyes of another Native American without remembering his inaction at Wounded Knee. He had even discarded his army-issue rifle, not just because he disliked it in general, but because it reminded him too much of his past.
It did not take long for Merrick to stumble across Paradise, a town beyond the reach of federal agents and plagued by mysterious problems. Still riding on the hopes that he would one day perform enough good deeds to clear his conscience, he decided to stay and offer his services.
Equipment:
Weaponry
- Snider-Enfield Short Rifle, metal cartridge conversion
- 2 Colt Single Action Army revolvers
- US Cavalry Sabre
- Socket Bayonet for the Snider-Enfield
- Serrated hunting/skinning knife
Kit
- Cloth backpack
- Breadbag (Essentially a shapeless sling bag)
- Ammunition box + shoulder belt (US Army issue, insignia buffed out)
- Waistbelt + sheaths for knife, sabre and bayonet (US Army issue, insignia buffed out)
Abilities/Disadvantages:
+ Bushman: Trained in the Australian outback, Merrick is an expert when it comes to surviving on next to nothing.
+ Sleight of Hand: You'd think he was using a repeater, given how fast he reloads.
+ Ex-Dragoon: A sniper is deadly enough. A sniper on horseback? That's just unfair.
- Deserter: Safe to assume that the US army is not a fan of Merrick.
- Enemy of Natives: And neither are the Native Americans.
- Heavy drinker: Don't get him started.
- Glass cannon: He can deal the damage, but he can't take it back.
Cheers!
A gun-knife would be unwieldy as hell when it comes to actual knife-fighting, but I see it as a viable backup weapon. It's going to be hella front-heavy, though.
A gun-knife would be unwieldy as hell when it comes to actual knife-fighting, but I see it as a viable backup weapon. It's going to be hella front-heavy, though.
We don't really have a set number of enemy fighters, if I recall correctly. There were ten bombers, but I think....Six are down, seven if you count Excalibur Four's unconfirmed. As for fighters, five have been confirmed down.
Name: Vesa Svensson Nylund
Alias(es): The Peasant Knight
Title(s): Markgreve (Margrave) of Västergötland
Allegiance(s): The Kingdom of Sweden
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Family:
- Sven Nylund (Father, deceased)
- Vuokko Nylund-Virtanen (Mother, alive)
- Annika Svensdotter Nylund (Younger sister, alive)
Appearance:
- Stands at roughly 1.78 meters tall
- Slender build; slim appearance belies physical strength
- Angular face; looks as if he has constant, minute grin on his face.
- Pale skin
- Chestnut brown hair; cut just short enough to not be a nuisance. Still licks at the collar of his shirt and his ears. Fringe falls just shy of touching his eyebrows.
- Bright blue eyes
Bio: Unlike most nobles, Vesa and his sister do not boast any noble blood in their veins. They do not even claim noble lineage through even two generations, as it was their father who earned the title of Markgreve through blood and steel during the Russo-Swedish war of 1495, when Sweden was still a subject of the Kalmar Union. However, what Vesa and his sister do know is that their father did not allow his accession to the ranks of nobility to inflate his ego. Even while he ruled as Markgreve, he still plied his old trade of a blacksmith and even taught Vesa how to smelt, smith and repair weapons and armour pieces. Their father's insistence on remaining humble was taken to the extreme when he sent both Vesa and Annika to live with his friends within the peasantry of his March for a few months out of every year.
While this made their father out to be an oddity within the Swedish court - or any court around the world, for that matter - it did help to earn the love and adoration of the peasants. They worked harder than most, were willing to do more and were far more dedicated to their Markgreve than any other peasant living any other noble. This proved to be vital when Sweden decided that it wanted independence in late 1521. Although Vesa wished to fight alongside his father, he was only thirteen, and thus considered unfit for combat duty. However, he did contribute in a small way being his father's squire, helping him maintain and equip his armour, as well as sharpening his blades. His father's army proved themselves to be loyal to an almost suicidal extent on the field of battle, with entire companies fighting to the last man simply because they had not been ordered to fall back. Vesa saw all this firsthand, and a small part of him had wished that he had been standing alongside those men.
Eventually, the war ended in 1523, and Sweden became free of the Union in 1524. While the rest of Sweden celebrated, Vesa's family silently grieved. His father had died during the last battle of the war, while he personally led an attack on Kalmar forces in an effort to open up a corridor to allow his trapped men to escape. It was successful, but ultimately cost him his life. Vesa's mother succeeded him as the Margreve of Västergötland at the behest of Vesa himself. At that time, the last thing he wanted to be was a nobleman. He idolized the men who had stood at the front ranks during the Swedish War of Liberation rather than the nobles who stayed far behind or were surrounded by their own bodyguards in the heat of battle. The Swedish court, deciding that letting a child take control of a province in a new country would be a bad idea, agreed on the condition that Vesa take up the mantle of Markgreve when he turned eighteen.
As such, Vesa spent the next few years studying and training in the soldierly arts while his sister acquainted herself with the intricacies of court. By the time he was sixteen, Vesa was adept with the sword and dagger, but it was when firearms were introduced in the form of matchlock muskets did he shine. He proved himself to be a natural marksman, though it appeared his skills were limited to muskets and crossbows. When it came to the bow and arrow, his aim went from excellent to merely acceptable. He also continued his father's tradition of being one with the common folk, and it was not an unusual sight to see Vesa strolling through the villages of his March on his own. However, his heavy focus on martial affairs meant that when it was time for him to be Markgreve, he was woefully unprepared in the political department. The solution proved to be simple, Vesa and his sister would split affairs equally between themselves. Vesa would deal with internal and military matters while Annika would take care of anything relating to the Swedish court.
It was around this time that Vesa earned his moniker 'The Peasant Knight' for his friendliness towards even the lowest ranking soldiers and his humility. In fact, there were even times when visiting nobles would mistake Vesa for a footsoldier, or merely a military commander at best. While it amused Vesa to no end to see the flustered looks on the nobles' faces when he revealed himself as the Markgreve of Västergötland, he supposed there was some truth to their assumption. Vesa spent the bulk of his time training and drilling his soldiers in fighting as a unit. There was always the slight possibility that Denmark might try to force Sweden into becoming part of the Kalmar Union again, and even if they were not going to, there was no harm in merely being prepared.
The death of Henry VIII in England and the crowning of his widow as the Queen of England gave Sweden its first chance to play a role in international affairs. Everyone had heard of the weakening of the Catholic Church's power over England, and Sweden, being a Protestant nation, was keen to see England coming under the sway of the Protestant church. There was no way they could do it militarily, but as coincidence would have it, the Swedes had only recently sent an army into Scania to fight for the Protestant Christian III of Denmark against the Catholic supporters of his cousin, Christian II.
Vesa had been one of the military commanders serving in the Swedish army, and it was decided that he would be sent. To the Swedish court, there was no better person to send to England. There he would be, a Protestant noble fresh from a campaign against Catholic rebels, showing England that English Protestants not only had the backing of Sweden. Of course, there was the added benefit that Vesa's March would not fall into disarray with his absence. Even though he had been the one to be present at the Swedish court, everyone knew that it was his sister who wrote his speeches and influenced his decisions.
That said, as far as Vesa was concerned, he was being sent to England to simply show the world that Sweden was ready to show itself to the world. Whether or not the world was ready for Sweden was entirely up to them.
Personality: While Vesa is a friendly, affable person who has a predisposition towards witty remarks, his lack of social grace often ensures that he is left out of most conversations between nobles. His preference of using what is considered 'less-than-gentlemanly' language and the occasional slips into Finnish often made him a merely tolerated presence in the Swedish court, though few could disagree with the fact that he commanded one of the most well-trained and loyal armies of Sweden. As such, he is often seen as more of a General than an actual noble, and Vesa is quick to capitalize on this. His sister had once attempted to teach him the intricacies of political intrigue, and though she had failed in making him a proper noble, Vesa had picked up enough to know how to listen out for useful information.
Having spent most of his life among peasants, and even living alongside them at times, one of the easiest ways to earn his ire would be to witness a noble mistreating their servant or any peasant, for that matter. While Vesa knows enough about social grace to keep his swords sheathed and his mouth shut when seeing minor grievances, more serious ones would see him challenging the offending noble to a duel at worst, and letting loose a string of Finnish and Swedish expletives at best.
Vesa is also a rather humble person, always more than willing to speak to anyone as an equal, rank be damned. This can also be somewhat attributed to his own relatively low rank, being only roughly on par with a Count, if not just ever-so-slightly higher.
Skills:
- Skilled swordsman
- Good shot with the matchlock musket
- Plays the violin
Alias(es): The Peasant Knight
Title(s): Markgreve (Margrave) of Västergötland
Allegiance(s): The Kingdom of Sweden
Gender: Male
Age: 26
Family:
- Sven Nylund (Father, deceased)
- Vuokko Nylund-Virtanen (Mother, alive)
- Annika Svensdotter Nylund (Younger sister, alive)
Appearance:
- Stands at roughly 1.78 meters tall
- Slender build; slim appearance belies physical strength
- Angular face; looks as if he has constant, minute grin on his face.
- Pale skin
- Chestnut brown hair; cut just short enough to not be a nuisance. Still licks at the collar of his shirt and his ears. Fringe falls just shy of touching his eyebrows.
- Bright blue eyes
Bio: Unlike most nobles, Vesa and his sister do not boast any noble blood in their veins. They do not even claim noble lineage through even two generations, as it was their father who earned the title of Markgreve through blood and steel during the Russo-Swedish war of 1495, when Sweden was still a subject of the Kalmar Union. However, what Vesa and his sister do know is that their father did not allow his accession to the ranks of nobility to inflate his ego. Even while he ruled as Markgreve, he still plied his old trade of a blacksmith and even taught Vesa how to smelt, smith and repair weapons and armour pieces. Their father's insistence on remaining humble was taken to the extreme when he sent both Vesa and Annika to live with his friends within the peasantry of his March for a few months out of every year.
While this made their father out to be an oddity within the Swedish court - or any court around the world, for that matter - it did help to earn the love and adoration of the peasants. They worked harder than most, were willing to do more and were far more dedicated to their Markgreve than any other peasant living any other noble. This proved to be vital when Sweden decided that it wanted independence in late 1521. Although Vesa wished to fight alongside his father, he was only thirteen, and thus considered unfit for combat duty. However, he did contribute in a small way being his father's squire, helping him maintain and equip his armour, as well as sharpening his blades. His father's army proved themselves to be loyal to an almost suicidal extent on the field of battle, with entire companies fighting to the last man simply because they had not been ordered to fall back. Vesa saw all this firsthand, and a small part of him had wished that he had been standing alongside those men.
Eventually, the war ended in 1523, and Sweden became free of the Union in 1524. While the rest of Sweden celebrated, Vesa's family silently grieved. His father had died during the last battle of the war, while he personally led an attack on Kalmar forces in an effort to open up a corridor to allow his trapped men to escape. It was successful, but ultimately cost him his life. Vesa's mother succeeded him as the Margreve of Västergötland at the behest of Vesa himself. At that time, the last thing he wanted to be was a nobleman. He idolized the men who had stood at the front ranks during the Swedish War of Liberation rather than the nobles who stayed far behind or were surrounded by their own bodyguards in the heat of battle. The Swedish court, deciding that letting a child take control of a province in a new country would be a bad idea, agreed on the condition that Vesa take up the mantle of Markgreve when he turned eighteen.
As such, Vesa spent the next few years studying and training in the soldierly arts while his sister acquainted herself with the intricacies of court. By the time he was sixteen, Vesa was adept with the sword and dagger, but it was when firearms were introduced in the form of matchlock muskets did he shine. He proved himself to be a natural marksman, though it appeared his skills were limited to muskets and crossbows. When it came to the bow and arrow, his aim went from excellent to merely acceptable. He also continued his father's tradition of being one with the common folk, and it was not an unusual sight to see Vesa strolling through the villages of his March on his own. However, his heavy focus on martial affairs meant that when it was time for him to be Markgreve, he was woefully unprepared in the political department. The solution proved to be simple, Vesa and his sister would split affairs equally between themselves. Vesa would deal with internal and military matters while Annika would take care of anything relating to the Swedish court.
It was around this time that Vesa earned his moniker 'The Peasant Knight' for his friendliness towards even the lowest ranking soldiers and his humility. In fact, there were even times when visiting nobles would mistake Vesa for a footsoldier, or merely a military commander at best. While it amused Vesa to no end to see the flustered looks on the nobles' faces when he revealed himself as the Markgreve of Västergötland, he supposed there was some truth to their assumption. Vesa spent the bulk of his time training and drilling his soldiers in fighting as a unit. There was always the slight possibility that Denmark might try to force Sweden into becoming part of the Kalmar Union again, and even if they were not going to, there was no harm in merely being prepared.
The death of Henry VIII in England and the crowning of his widow as the Queen of England gave Sweden its first chance to play a role in international affairs. Everyone had heard of the weakening of the Catholic Church's power over England, and Sweden, being a Protestant nation, was keen to see England coming under the sway of the Protestant church. There was no way they could do it militarily, but as coincidence would have it, the Swedes had only recently sent an army into Scania to fight for the Protestant Christian III of Denmark against the Catholic supporters of his cousin, Christian II.
Vesa had been one of the military commanders serving in the Swedish army, and it was decided that he would be sent. To the Swedish court, there was no better person to send to England. There he would be, a Protestant noble fresh from a campaign against Catholic rebels, showing England that English Protestants not only had the backing of Sweden. Of course, there was the added benefit that Vesa's March would not fall into disarray with his absence. Even though he had been the one to be present at the Swedish court, everyone knew that it was his sister who wrote his speeches and influenced his decisions.
That said, as far as Vesa was concerned, he was being sent to England to simply show the world that Sweden was ready to show itself to the world. Whether or not the world was ready for Sweden was entirely up to them.
Personality: While Vesa is a friendly, affable person who has a predisposition towards witty remarks, his lack of social grace often ensures that he is left out of most conversations between nobles. His preference of using what is considered 'less-than-gentlemanly' language and the occasional slips into Finnish often made him a merely tolerated presence in the Swedish court, though few could disagree with the fact that he commanded one of the most well-trained and loyal armies of Sweden. As such, he is often seen as more of a General than an actual noble, and Vesa is quick to capitalize on this. His sister had once attempted to teach him the intricacies of political intrigue, and though she had failed in making him a proper noble, Vesa had picked up enough to know how to listen out for useful information.
Having spent most of his life among peasants, and even living alongside them at times, one of the easiest ways to earn his ire would be to witness a noble mistreating their servant or any peasant, for that matter. While Vesa knows enough about social grace to keep his swords sheathed and his mouth shut when seeing minor grievances, more serious ones would see him challenging the offending noble to a duel at worst, and letting loose a string of Finnish and Swedish expletives at best.
Vesa is also a rather humble person, always more than willing to speak to anyone as an equal, rank be damned. This can also be somewhat attributed to his own relatively low rank, being only roughly on par with a Count, if not just ever-so-slightly higher.
Skills:
- Skilled swordsman
- Good shot with the matchlock musket
- Plays the violin
Name: Merrick Sheridan
Age: 28
Race: Human - Australian
Appearance: Slender would be the word that would most easily describe Merrick. Tall and slim, the only indication that he was a man of the outdoors would be his heavily tanned skin and rough hands from spending long hours working or riding under the sun. He has shallow, dark brown eyes, thin lips and subdued facial features. His brown hair licks at his eyebrows and collar of his shirt, and he never lets it grown any longer than that.
He wears a modified US Army frock coat, the most distinct modification being that he had dyed the entire thing a soft shade of brown to blend in with the desert sands. Patches of cloth in other shades of brown are sewed onto parts of the coat to give it some form of rudimentary camouflage. A bandanna covering his nose and mouth prevents him from inhaling sand. He often wears a dark brown slouch hat.
Gender: Male
Personality: Awkward, quiet and introverted. It's when he drinks does he talk a lot, sometimes more than he should.
Biography: It is no exaggeration to say that Merrick was born for the wilderness. Born to a bushman and a barmaid in a small town in the outback, Merrick was trained by his father from a young age to live off the land. Given that they were within one of the Australian deserts, that was as well as teaching Merrick how to live off practically nothing. By the time he was eight, Merrick had learned how to identify and prepare plants that were safe to eat, as well as creating rudimentary traps to hunt small game. He fired his first rifle when he was ten and hunted his first big game not two months later. Considered a true bushman when he turned fifteen, Merrick went on to live the life of a hunter and forager, living in the wilderness for up to weeks at a time for the perfect shot to kill his targeted prey.
However, Merrick could not help but feel as if there was more to life than just barely eking out a life in the Australian bush. Thus, once he turned eighteen, he decided to take whatever money he had earned from selling meats and hides, along with a small amount gifted to him from his parents, to buy passage to America. Like plenty of immigrants, he had heard stories out how the American west was the place to be if you wanted to carve a life out for yourself and make it rich at the same time. It was going to involve plenty of hard work, but that was nothing Merrick was not used to. Additionally, he was going to make landfall in the thick on it - in California.
He went from job to job for a year after that before realizing that he needed a steady source of income. The United States Army, having been bogged down by decades of intermittent warfare with the Native Americans, were more than happy to welcome Merrick into their ranks. He was trained as a cavalryman, fighting with the rifle on horseback and with the sabre at close range. It started out as a wonderful experience, when he was just a scout rider making sure that the road ahead of the army was safe. It was when he actually entered combat when things started falling apart. He had no problems with killing armed men or women - as far as he was concerned, he was simply acting out of self-defense. It was the post-battle killings and occasional mutilations that bothered him. He detested the idea of bringing violence onto anyone who was not involved in the battle. It came to head when Merrick was present at Wounded Knee to witness the massacre. He saw armed Natives being gunned down and bayoneted, but what horrified him was the indiscriminate killing of civilians and the apparent lack of concern shown by the commanding officers. Even though he did not fire a single shot during the massacre, Merrick still felt intense guilt for doing nothing to stop it. Unable to reconcile the idea of a free and equal American with the massacre, Merrick deserted the army.
He traveled from town to town, not bothering to use a false name, rightly assuming that the US army had more important things to take care of than to hunt down one deserter out of hundreds. Still, Merrick made a point to avoid settlements that were firmly within federal control as well as tribal lands. The former because he was still worried that he would be apprehended as a deserter, and the latter for, well, even if he was not shot on sight, he could not bring himself to look in the eyes of another Native American without remembering his inaction at Wounded Knee. He had even discarded his army-issue rifle, not just because he disliked it in general, but because it reminded him too much of his past.
It did not take long for Merrick to stumble across Paradise, a town beyond the reach of federal agents and plagued by mysterious problems. Still riding on the hopes that he would one day perform enough good deeds to clear his conscience, he decided to stay and offer his services.
Equipment:
Weaponry
- Snider-Enfield Short Rifle, metal cartridge conversion
- 2 Colt Single Action Army revolvers
- US Cavalry Sabre
- Socket Bayonet for the Snider-Enfield
- Serrated hunting/skinning knife
Kit
- Cloth backpack
- Breadbag (Essentially a shapeless sling bag)
- Ammunition box + shoulder belt (US Army issue, insignia buffed out)
- Waistbelt + sheaths for knife, sabre and bayonet (US Army issue, insignia buffed out)
Abilities/Disadvantages:
+ Bushman: Trained in the Australian outback, Merrick is an expert when it comes to surviving on next to nothing.
+ Sleight of Hand: You'd think he was using a repeater, given how fast he reloads.
+ Ex-Dragoon: A sniper is deadly enough. A sniper on horseback? That's just unfair.
- Deserter: Safe to assume that the US army is not a fan of Merrick.
- Enemy of Natives: And neither are the Native Americans.
- Heavy drinker: Don't get him started.
- Glass cannon: He can deal the damage, but he can't take it back.
Age: 28
Race: Human - Australian
Appearance: Slender would be the word that would most easily describe Merrick. Tall and slim, the only indication that he was a man of the outdoors would be his heavily tanned skin and rough hands from spending long hours working or riding under the sun. He has shallow, dark brown eyes, thin lips and subdued facial features. His brown hair licks at his eyebrows and collar of his shirt, and he never lets it grown any longer than that.
He wears a modified US Army frock coat, the most distinct modification being that he had dyed the entire thing a soft shade of brown to blend in with the desert sands. Patches of cloth in other shades of brown are sewed onto parts of the coat to give it some form of rudimentary camouflage. A bandanna covering his nose and mouth prevents him from inhaling sand. He often wears a dark brown slouch hat.
Gender: Male
Personality: Awkward, quiet and introverted. It's when he drinks does he talk a lot, sometimes more than he should.
Biography: It is no exaggeration to say that Merrick was born for the wilderness. Born to a bushman and a barmaid in a small town in the outback, Merrick was trained by his father from a young age to live off the land. Given that they were within one of the Australian deserts, that was as well as teaching Merrick how to live off practically nothing. By the time he was eight, Merrick had learned how to identify and prepare plants that were safe to eat, as well as creating rudimentary traps to hunt small game. He fired his first rifle when he was ten and hunted his first big game not two months later. Considered a true bushman when he turned fifteen, Merrick went on to live the life of a hunter and forager, living in the wilderness for up to weeks at a time for the perfect shot to kill his targeted prey.
However, Merrick could not help but feel as if there was more to life than just barely eking out a life in the Australian bush. Thus, once he turned eighteen, he decided to take whatever money he had earned from selling meats and hides, along with a small amount gifted to him from his parents, to buy passage to America. Like plenty of immigrants, he had heard stories out how the American west was the place to be if you wanted to carve a life out for yourself and make it rich at the same time. It was going to involve plenty of hard work, but that was nothing Merrick was not used to. Additionally, he was going to make landfall in the thick on it - in California.
He went from job to job for a year after that before realizing that he needed a steady source of income. The United States Army, having been bogged down by decades of intermittent warfare with the Native Americans, were more than happy to welcome Merrick into their ranks. He was trained as a cavalryman, fighting with the rifle on horseback and with the sabre at close range. It started out as a wonderful experience, when he was just a scout rider making sure that the road ahead of the army was safe. It was when he actually entered combat when things started falling apart. He had no problems with killing armed men or women - as far as he was concerned, he was simply acting out of self-defense. It was the post-battle killings and occasional mutilations that bothered him. He detested the idea of bringing violence onto anyone who was not involved in the battle. It came to head when Merrick was present at Wounded Knee to witness the massacre. He saw armed Natives being gunned down and bayoneted, but what horrified him was the indiscriminate killing of civilians and the apparent lack of concern shown by the commanding officers. Even though he did not fire a single shot during the massacre, Merrick still felt intense guilt for doing nothing to stop it. Unable to reconcile the idea of a free and equal American with the massacre, Merrick deserted the army.
He traveled from town to town, not bothering to use a false name, rightly assuming that the US army had more important things to take care of than to hunt down one deserter out of hundreds. Still, Merrick made a point to avoid settlements that were firmly within federal control as well as tribal lands. The former because he was still worried that he would be apprehended as a deserter, and the latter for, well, even if he was not shot on sight, he could not bring himself to look in the eyes of another Native American without remembering his inaction at Wounded Knee. He had even discarded his army-issue rifle, not just because he disliked it in general, but because it reminded him too much of his past.
It did not take long for Merrick to stumble across Paradise, a town beyond the reach of federal agents and plagued by mysterious problems. Still riding on the hopes that he would one day perform enough good deeds to clear his conscience, he decided to stay and offer his services.
Equipment:
Weaponry
- Snider-Enfield Short Rifle, metal cartridge conversion
- 2 Colt Single Action Army revolvers
- US Cavalry Sabre
- Socket Bayonet for the Snider-Enfield
- Serrated hunting/skinning knife
Kit
- Cloth backpack
- Breadbag (Essentially a shapeless sling bag)
- Ammunition box + shoulder belt (US Army issue, insignia buffed out)
- Waistbelt + sheaths for knife, sabre and bayonet (US Army issue, insignia buffed out)
Abilities/Disadvantages:
+ Bushman: Trained in the Australian outback, Merrick is an expert when it comes to surviving on next to nothing.
+ Sleight of Hand: You'd think he was using a repeater, given how fast he reloads.
+ Ex-Dragoon: A sniper is deadly enough. A sniper on horseback? That's just unfair.
- Deserter: Safe to assume that the US army is not a fan of Merrick.
- Enemy of Natives: And neither are the Native Americans.
- Heavy drinker: Don't get him started.
- Glass cannon: He can deal the damage, but he can't take it back.
Sure! I'll have to make some edits to fit the date, but I'll post it when it's ready.
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