House Greyjoy
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Name:
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Age:
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Brief History:
Sample writing:
Name: Brother Argyle Luther Node, The Herald
Picture:
Age: 30
Previous occupation: Car mechanic
Brief history: A garbled voice like someone stepping on gravel spoke from the corner of the lobby where a fire barrel had been lit. The old man was trying to keep himself warm on this cold November evening, "You ask about Argyle, The Herald? I can tell you all about him. That was not his real name, of course not. When one joins the Brothers, one is given a new name, but before that he was called Martin. Martin lived a tumultuous life before joining our ranks. Some say he even has tattoos on his arms all the way from his shoulders to wrists. Those shouldn't bother you, of course because we are all the same as they say." He cleared his throat, a terrible sound, and settled into the large cushioned chair. After a time, he began again, "Oh, Martin, yes. He told me that he used to fix motors, anything with wheels he said. He had a family, a mother, and two younger brothers. He lived at home being the sole earner of the family when his dad left the family when he was just sixteen. A drop out he became and went to work straight away. Martin was the first one to come to the church. He was the one to board up the windows, and make it into a safe-house. He's the voice you might have heard on the radio message. That's why we give him the nickname of Herald." The old man seemed to doze in and out until one would think he'd given up his story telling, and then he'd sputter back to life again as if struck by a cold breeze into being startled, "Oh, but, when the Great Judgement came, he was at work, of course. His mother, and both brothers were brutally murdered. He doesn't like to talk about it none." The old man smacked his lips together, "No one really likes to confess their life before, but all must if they want to stay on here. He was the first to sit in that chair, and he won't be the last." He gives you a meaningful look with his glazed, half-blind eye. "You want to stay on, you'll have to confess all too."
Sample writing: Argyle wrapped the dank black cloak around his shoulders and blew out the candle in his solitary room. Only a handful of people were given solitary rooms, and as the Herald, he was lucky, or he should call it blessed he supposed. He wasn't much for all their religious talk, but the Brothers offered safety and some form of normality to his life. It gave him a purpose and a way to express his guilt over having not been at home when the first wave came. It was his purpose now to make sure that St. Michael's was running properly and safe for those who wished to seek the protection of the Brothers. Hell, they'd taken him in, why not others?
He made his way down the winding stairs to the cathedral where cots had been placed along the walls and fire barrels were lit down the middle to offer warmth. A handful of survivors had made the church their home for the time being, and he was grateful to be among people who were not the priests. Sometimes their religious talk could overwhelm him and make him feel worse than he always felt. He stood warming his fingers by the first fire barrel, the one nearest the altar. A hand clapped him on the shoulder and he shrugged it off. "Good morrow, Brother Argyle. Sleep well?" The hand belonged to the one known to Argyle as The Voice. The Voice was another of the ones given their own private room, and he had a special duty. Just as it was The Herald's job to lend his voice to the radio, it was the job of the Voice to give the daily sermons, and readings from scripture. (The Voice is an open role to those who would apply.) "Yes, brother, and eager to hear your morning devotion." Argyle said, trying to make his voice sound as fervent and steady as the other, but he couldn't stop his mind from screaming obscenities at the man.
"Glad to hear it, brother." The Voice made his way to the pulpit, which being an nonreligious person, Argyle had named the Stage in his own mind. Grateful to be rid of him, Argyle made his way to the crack in one of the windows to watch as a group of the dead wandered by like sheep without a shepherd.
Read more about this role play...
Name:
Picture:
Age:
Previous occupation:
Brief History:
Sample writing:
Name: Brother Argyle Luther Node, The Herald
Picture:
Age: 30
Previous occupation: Car mechanic
Brief history: A garbled voice like someone stepping on gravel spoke from the corner of the lobby where a fire barrel had been lit. The old man was trying to keep himself warm on this cold November evening, "You ask about Argyle, The Herald? I can tell you all about him. That was not his real name, of course not. When one joins the Brothers, one is given a new name, but before that he was called Martin. Martin lived a tumultuous life before joining our ranks. Some say he even has tattoos on his arms all the way from his shoulders to wrists. Those shouldn't bother you, of course because we are all the same as they say." He cleared his throat, a terrible sound, and settled into the large cushioned chair. After a time, he began again, "Oh, Martin, yes. He told me that he used to fix motors, anything with wheels he said. He had a family, a mother, and two younger brothers. He lived at home being the sole earner of the family when his dad left the family when he was just sixteen. A drop out he became and went to work straight away. Martin was the first one to come to the church. He was the one to board up the windows, and make it into a safe-house. He's the voice you might have heard on the radio message. That's why we give him the nickname of Herald." The old man seemed to doze in and out until one would think he'd given up his story telling, and then he'd sputter back to life again as if struck by a cold breeze into being startled, "Oh, but, when the Great Judgement came, he was at work, of course. His mother, and both brothers were brutally murdered. He doesn't like to talk about it none." The old man smacked his lips together, "No one really likes to confess their life before, but all must if they want to stay on here. He was the first to sit in that chair, and he won't be the last." He gives you a meaningful look with his glazed, half-blind eye. "You want to stay on, you'll have to confess all too."
Sample writing: Argyle wrapped the dank black cloak around his shoulders and blew out the candle in his solitary room. Only a handful of people were given solitary rooms, and as the Herald, he was lucky, or he should call it blessed he supposed. He wasn't much for all their religious talk, but the Brothers offered safety and some form of normality to his life. It gave him a purpose and a way to express his guilt over having not been at home when the first wave came. It was his purpose now to make sure that St. Michael's was running properly and safe for those who wished to seek the protection of the Brothers. Hell, they'd taken him in, why not others?
He made his way down the winding stairs to the cathedral where cots had been placed along the walls and fire barrels were lit down the middle to offer warmth. A handful of survivors had made the church their home for the time being, and he was grateful to be among people who were not the priests. Sometimes their religious talk could overwhelm him and make him feel worse than he always felt. He stood warming his fingers by the first fire barrel, the one nearest the altar. A hand clapped him on the shoulder and he shrugged it off. "Good morrow, Brother Argyle. Sleep well?" The hand belonged to the one known to Argyle as The Voice. The Voice was another of the ones given their own private room, and he had a special duty. Just as it was The Herald's job to lend his voice to the radio, it was the job of the Voice to give the daily sermons, and readings from scripture. (The Voice is an open role to those who would apply.) "Yes, brother, and eager to hear your morning devotion." Argyle said, trying to make his voice sound as fervent and steady as the other, but he couldn't stop his mind from screaming obscenities at the man.
"Glad to hear it, brother." The Voice made his way to the pulpit, which being an nonreligious person, Argyle had named the Stage in his own mind. Grateful to be rid of him, Argyle made his way to the crack in one of the windows to watch as a group of the dead wandered by like sheep without a shepherd.
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