Post by Val Dindine on Oct 30, 2009 20:32:00 GMT -8
``VAL ARMANDUS DINDINE
A pair of shillings on the drum for those who volunteer to come, to fight the foe and come what may, over the hills and far away
The christened me CRAIG and I’ve fought through NINETEEN summers. They say I’m KIND, EMPATHETIC AND BIG and I’m not planning to change any time soon. I read carefully and I have found that the magic words are admin edit. Many masks hang upon my castle wall, but I hide behind VAL and I’ve been playing this game of Risk for 8 YEARS and people say I’m d*** good at it.
♠ ♠ deep in the h e a r t l a n d ♠ ♠
[/color]>> Britain
Nickname(s) >> Val
Age>> Twenty-nine
Gender>> Male
Date of Birth>> 28th December
Kingdom
Social Class>> Peasant
Occupation[/color]>> Warrior
Religion>> Protestant
Race>> Human
Martial Status>> Single
Sexuality[/color]>> Straight
Face Claim>> Courtney Gains
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♠ ♠ we stand like b r o t h e r s ♠ ♠
[/color]>> None
FAMILY>>
Very much an individual, Val is more at home when not at home, so to speak. Spending long trips away with his father gave him the outdoor attitude that is useful in everyday life during times of war, and when he travelled to Ireland to live there it was beneficial to him. He loves his mother most of all, and his mother likewise loves him, though they see each other far less than they used to, or like. His father, old now, used to be a role model in his life, and now he serves as a role model for his far younger sister who dreams of travelling as much as he has, though is currently far too young to even be considering anything to that degree.
Father >> Arthur Dindine
Mother>> Maria Dindine
Siblings>> Sara Dindine
Extended Family
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♠ ♠ raggle taggle g y p s y - o ♠ ♠
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STRONG DETERMINED VARIED CALM LOVING
FULL PERSONALITY>>
Engaged in many conflicts across the country in his time, Val is a wanderer most of the time who has a tendency to fly under the flag of both Britain and Ireland when the need arises, though his combat is often not by choice but by need. He is very much for helping those in need of assistance, and considered searching for the men of Sherwood Forest at one point before changing his mind. A traveller at heart, he has wandered from England to Ireland and back again more than once, engaging in both conversation and conflict in the lands against the south in the wars that last forever to the lives of man. With a stern personality that would be reminiscent of an unwilling leader, he tries not to back down from an argument wherever possible, however will quite happily tell someone what to do as long as he's not placed 'in charge'.
Very much a boy following after his father, his assessment of a situation is put first before the charging in to meet aggression. Not a fully instructed tactical mind, he is akin to making some mistakes but not others, and for him it is experience and not lecturing that has gotten him this far in life without the loss of anything more major than a few chunks of flesh and time. Time spent unconscious or time spent in recovery. He is a keen one to love as long as it does not mean leaving as well, though is often the one left because of his travelling desires which are not shared by those he wishes after. With soft hands and a soft heart for the attractive qualities of others, he contrasts well between his warrior and lover sides, though it would be an error to say that he does not love to fight.
Strengths >>
- Experienced in life
- Well equipped in travelling
- Handy at survival, and can use a sword and bow well
- On good relations with both Britain and Ireland
- Quick to learn
Flaws>>- Lacks a deal of scientific intelligence
- Can be ruled by his fears and emotions
- Lives in a persistent lack of hygeine
- Doubts himself often, and lacks confidence to lead fully
- Quick to love, and easily hurt
Likes
[/li][li] Moving around countries and living rough
[/li][li] Living in a soft bed from time to time
[/li][li] Spending time in the divine company of women
[/li][li] Stories and tales concerning dragons and other terrific beasts
[/li][li] His Horse, Cilia
Dislikes[/color]>>
[/li][li] Being shot at, because it's one of those things you never get used to
[/li][li] Cooking going wrong after spending a long time brewing
[/li][li] Late mornings with a journey ahead
[/li][li] Harsh weather with little cover
[/li][li] The current state of his equipment[/li][/ul]
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♠ ♠ shoulder to s h o u l d e r ♠ ♠
[/color]>> 175lb
APPEARANCE>>
On a hulking body that is both tanned and scarred, with thick but soft skin, there rests the dented and battered armour of a man who long ago indebted himself to serving the needs and whims of those around him needing protection they could not offer themselves. Coming from his normal upbringing as a peasant, with dirty hygiene and malnutrition, he grew into a man and he grew tall. Training brought his muscles into bulging form which filled the cavities of his father's old armour, and his fists brought themselves strongly around a rusty sword and crooked bow. With his grey horse Cilia by his side, he stands a good 6 feet in the black metal, though his actual size is masked by the defensive shell.
Hair >> Short, red and trimmed with a beard
Eyes>> Green and sullen
Height>> 6'
Weight
Skin Tone[/color]>> Tanned white
Body Type[/color]>> Muscular and broad shouldered
Distinguishing Marks[/color]>> Scars lining his body which include, but are not limited to, a gash across his right shoulder, a scar across most of his back from top left to bottom right, a stab wound in his leg and a horizontal line along his chest.
Clothing[/color]>> Peasant garbs of brown and muck, hidden beneath an old suit of damaged armour. The armour itself comes with a sword and bow which are in no better shape, and would be more equipped for being thrown away than protecting against anything more powerful than a few glancing blows in combat. There is no helmet for the armour, and even the chestguard is a bare minimum not extending past the shoulders.
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♠ ♠ forever ireland's c a l l ♠ ♠
FULL HISTORY>>
Born in central Britain, under the rolling valleys of the green, lush land, a simple pair of people - a husband and wife by the name Dindine - were present at the birth of their first, eldest and most masculine children. Also present were the midwife - an old woman of the village, and several of her friends who took care of the mother during and after delivery, as did the father. After a quick was down and a bundling into soft blankets, the new baby was handed happily to the new parents who adored the little child with a tuft of red hair, and called him Val after his father's father. He was also named Armandus after the family horse which served them well though their tough deprived lives.
Growing up in their small village, several armies would often pass and some men be recruited to go fight in the south against the French. His father often expressed his wishes to join at times when the armies were not actually passing through, though would not want to leave his livelihood, wife and child. With talks of dangerous creatures on the move, some of which were not even human, nights grew dimmer and darker with each passing day, drawing in the peasants to their homes before the fading daylight in an attempt to protect themselves against the potential dangers that the night and lack of light could offer. Sometimes there'd be a roar off in the distance, across hills or beyond the valleys, but other than that the nights were silent. The infrequent roars were enough to strike a fear into the villagers.
Growing up and working with his father during the day as a merchant, and although he didn't join the grown man initially for the several day long excursions into nearby towns, eventually he was old enough to walk the distance by his father's side to help with the buying and selling of their goods. The long walks allowed him to experience a lot of open country and see an array of beasts from afar, sleeping rough and having quality time with his father, or with his mother if he didn't want to go on the long trips abroad. At home he would assist his mother with the housekeeping in general, dealing with cleaning, laundry and would play with the other children in the streets when there was little for him to do. Fun games that included a vigorous amount of exercise that would leave them all exhausted by the end of the day.
When Armandus, the horse, died a few years later when Val was entering his early teens, it was certainly a sad time. The family were overall fond of the beast, who had aided them time and again with carrying heavy loads of items to and fro from village to village for selling or general relocation purposes. Val himself gladly offered to help carry many of the items with his father from place to place, and through gradual development of heavier and heavier items that were carried, he grew stronger on the several mile treks. Not all of these treks were in one day, of course, and by night they'd often make camp under trees or, if they were dragging the cart with them, use it as their roof. His father, during these times, would express the values that made the English great, as he put them. Chivalry, determination, strength of character, and above all not being afraid of failing so long as you got your own back.
Rampaging quickly into teenage years, his body only grew stronger and larger over the time he spent running errands. By now his father had been able to afford another horse and Val had taken up an apprenticeship under a blacksmith who used the boy to assist him in developing horse armour, blades, shields, armour and horseshoes. Becoming quickly efficient with a hammer on the metal, he became a valued member of the duo when it came to the mass production to meet demand. It was not until his father finally went away with a recruiting group to fight the French that the money Val made was directly useful in the common household running of things. On just enough to sustain them each week until his father's amount arrived, he ensured that he worked hard at what he did when there, however he would often wonder about the times that he used to spend with his father wandering the countryside between places with his father.
Upon the unforeseen return of his father from wounds in battle, there were more mouths to feed and it was now his own turn to take himself into the wars to bring a better income to the family. Departing after informing his mother and father, he was insisted upon to take his father's armour which had already served purpose in the fighting and save his father's life. Some sword marks and an arrow piercing still marked the metal, but otherwise it was in good condition considering its cheap quality. He also inherited the sword and shield his father had taken up with in his service. Marching beside the next recruiting party that went though their village, he had the income he made be directed straight to his family home and joined the group as they marched east to the nearest training camp for recruits that had never faced combat before, or even held a sword in their hands.
At the camp he was directed in basic fitness exercises, sword and shield practice, drill maneuvers and how to obey orders before being sent down south. Stationed at a point along the south coast, they were brought to attention each morning and spent the day ensuring they were alert to repel invaders who came attempting to cross the channel at their point. Being there for what was several months, there was little to actually do besides practice and practice. His 19th birthday came and went, with just a few letters coming from his family concerning their life. His dad was better, mostly, and they had a new baby on the way, which was great news to him. He himself had picked up rather quickly on swordsmanship and dueling, and archery and shooting. Though not amazing at either, he was particularly well picking up on them both, and could hit a target most of the time from an average distance away, and was easily in the upper half of the dueling rankings.
Though the French did attempt a few excursions across the sea, none of them succeeded with the guard still present, and none of them were backed significantly enough for them to be particularly likely to achieve victory anyway. Most of them were more like scouting parties which overconfidently attempted their chances on the deceptive number of defenders, maybe hoping for a glorious win but not actually achieving it. Split partly between being an archer and being a footman, Val utilised all the skills he knew in staying alive in the fray at the beachhead, taking some cuts and scrapes over time, including a nasty gash on his shoulder, but it was the heavy blow across his back that put him out on a more permanent basis and had him out of the army before long based on his inability to move at full speed for several days afterwards. Returning home he got to see his younger sister and recover, his father back at work, and began making plans to travel.
With the armour he had essentially inherited from his father - the older man not having any use for it anymore - Val set off with his goodbyes and promises to return after he'd made his travels around and seen some more of the world. His first few stops took him to familiar villages, and then he was off past the borders of his knowledge travelling west to the coast. Living rough for the most part, he joined company with few and far-between characters who gave great stories and sparked his knowledge and interest of the great beasts of the world that roared in the darkest nights. Hoarders of the greatest treasures and monsters of the highest caliber, he was told of these tales and spread them himself as he joined many other travellers before arriving at the coast overlooking the sea and Ireland off to the horizon. Now turning south he made his way down the coast until he reached a port town where he could rest and then get across the ocean to see the other country.
Getting across with the help of a small crew in need of a helpful hand in watching over their cargo while they maintained the ship, he found himself below decks and seasick from the get go, none of the boxes of 'stuff' moving even an inch the entire time as the ship rocked and steps above deck could be heard. Glad to be off upon reaching Ireland he stepped back onto thankfully sturdy ground and didn't look forward to having himself a trip back to the English mainland. In the new country he quickly travelled to the port town which was a mile inland from the coast and immersed himself in their lifestyle, finding cheap board until he could find a way of making money, which was as easy as back in Britain when a militant group's poster arrived at his attention looking for warriors. He, being a warrior, was glad to attend the group's hall of meetings to help them with the problems they'd apparently been having.
From bandits to smugglers and pirates to monsters they were struggling in many senses of the word, and when Val offered his assistance to help them deal with these issues they gladly accepted the assistance of the red-haired soldier, despite his nationality. He joined small Irish hunting squads that focused more on ranged combat rather than the melee style, which helped him improve his shooting prowess, and throughout the course of the time he worked with the Brothers of Eire he earned enough money not just for food and lodging, but also to get a horse as soon as work dried up so that he could travel quickly around the country on the grey steed he named Cilia. Working small jobs now as a duo, mostly messenger, he maintained a slight income which roughly equated to his expenditure before taking a trip back home finally to visit the family.
From that point there was only small jobs that included very limited fighting for the man, and otherwise it was travelling. He travelled south after going home, and then back north. He travelled to and from Ireland twice more, then made one more trip across the waters with Cilia after turning 29, remaining there for longer than usual. His intention this time was to travel more around the entire country to see more of it. The lack of immediate warring conflict appealed to him, as did the culture and people who seemed to be warmer to him the more his accent developed towards a thin layer of Irish crust on his full English base.
National Heritage >> English
Accent>> English with a hint of Irish
Languages Spoken>> English, some Gaelic
Other>>
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♠ ♠ caledonia, you're calling m e ♠ ♠
Role Playing Sample>>
Bringing the galaxy to peace can only be done through peaceful intentions. The voice of Master Utaar reverberated around his skull, the speech he had not heard in so many years. A man he had trusted and learnt so much from about the Jedi ways and how to bear a saber, the man betrayed by the Order, the man who was dead. His words rang clear as day now though, almost as if the man was in front of him once more, bent crouched over the edge of a ventilation shaft about to drop down into a factory with his padawan. That mission had been fun. Jaa had nearly fallen under so much heavy machinery it was something that should be laughed at. The fates quite clearly had him labelled out as being some sort of useful tool for the future and had spared him, and Jaa had ensured he wasted none of the precious gift.
The galaxy cannot turn to peace as long as their is injustice. His thoughts were in response to his own. If he were speaking they would be the arguments of a mad man, but he was not mad, and he was not speaking. He was alone, and almost finished planting the explosives on the drenched, empty rooftop, his head exposed and absorbing the waters like a child in snow.
The Jedi fight for peace and justice across the galaxy, Jaa.
The Jedi betrayed us, got you killed, took Lita from me and failed me when I needed them. They are too passive to be considered any kind of force other than that which needs removing. Just like all the others. The Jedi. The Republic. The Hutts, if necessary. He would kill them all twice over, and more, should that be the case. His mind seethed with rage as his thoughts batted about, but his hands remained smooth and perfected in their motions, the rain preventing his anger from breaching the membranes between his mind and his body. It alternated between slightly heavier and slightly lighter, but he didn't care. He just dreaded the moment he'd be forced back inside. The moment he knew was imminent the second he placed the final charge on the final part of the dome and rolled up the bag, throwing it hard off the side of the building once it was empty. No need for dead weight.
A figure in the crowd now that he noticed, and that was because he was alerted to it. A nudge in the back of his mind from an external source. Being patted on the back of the head, having someone blow against his ear, a contrasting colour in his peripheral vision, a nagging consciousness in the back of his mind, whatever it was, he knew where it was from. Eurachis had alerted him to his presence as he was about to go about making his initiation of their plan. The Nautolan looked down through the dome, his figure obscured in black against black as he looked down, seeing the Sith Lord moving through the crowd. He glanced at the multitude of attendants at the ball moving around. His eyes drifted up to the clouds, raindrops landing on and around his entire face, but he remained unblinking, seeing the lightning ripple around the heavens before crashing down. A white flash illuminating the rooftops, and the Dark Jedi was gone by then. Eurachis would be moving into position, by now, approaching the centre of what would be a slaughterfest, and Jaa intended to be ready for that.
The Nautolan paused, thinking. The soldiers were already arriving, there was already a blown cover and Eurachis had already essentially broken cover by now. Grinning, he pulled out the detonator switch and prepared himself, not drawing his lightsaber just yet. He would give the Sith Lord a few more seconds, or minutes, to finish his affairs before blasting a hole in the roof and joining him, and so Jaa waited as the guards set up position around the crowd of frightened civilians. A smiled crossed the gray mouth and he deemed it time, or at least, as much time as it would be, bringing his hood across his head. It would protect against the glass falling, certainly, but there was just the added air of effect when a hooded figure lands that doesn't quite explain itself until it's done. It was a small luxury he allowed himself, giving the illusion of such an epic figure, and then following through on the promise. He leapt against the torrential rain, finger pressing the detonator the second his feet departed the ground, and all below him he could see and feel and hear the ripple of strong explosives as the glass dome shattered, hovering for a fraction of a second before falling, and he began to fall with it.
In each of the shards of glass that now fell, he could see a reflection, changing as he fell. The hooded figure of himself, a thousand versions of himself tumbling to the ground to annihilate. His eyes flicked from one shard to another, each a little different, each a separate part of himself. His thoughts wandered very slightly before he dragged himself back, slowing his descent slightly to allow the glass to crash beneath him before landing with a crunching thud on the brittle material, the rainwater joining them in a circular downpour, soaking into the carpet and bouncing from the glass in melodic chimes. He stood up straight, becoming the 7 foot tall dominating figure in a hood, and taking heavy, slow steps towards the Sith Lord, the circle around him that he had observed from above bigger now, though whether that was his entrance or taking a different perspective he wasn't sure. Eurachis looked one way, and Jaa turned to face the other, his shoulder aligned with the Sith Lord's.
"No problems, no guards, all smooth." He offered his quiet evaluation of the rooftop, though it would be a mistake to say that was the situation at hand, with a hole blown in the rooftops, civilians surrounding them, guards pouring into the room, and a glassy carpet making things anything but smooth. Jaa smiled though, a terrific, exhilarated smile as he realised he was in a situation that would let him test the years of training. He had punished himself in the wilderness to perfect combat and physical body, and pressed his mental capacity in isolation. Was it enough? If not, then he deserved to die for sure. Fear was pungent in the air, and it made his tentacles quiver a little, though they remained under the hood and not immediately visible. He half tugged at his lightsaber with the Force, ready to go slaughtering at the slightest word, almost at the point of just urging the Sith Lord to let them start already.
A Jedi must learn patience.
A Jedi must learn not to die.
Credits
This application was made by The Infamous Peregrine (me) on Swords of Speirling. The lyrics were taken from Celtic Thunder's Heartland, Raggle Taggle Gypsy-o, Ireland's Call and Caledonia. Do not steal.
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