Shadowfall
Freshly cut.
Personal Area
Name: John Wilson
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: None
Appearance: John has been seen wearing filthy WW1 U.S. military fatigues. His patch and tags indicates that he is part of 77th Infantry Division, 308th Regiment, C Company, and his name is indeed John P Wilson. His face contains a rounded, red nose, a thin set of blonde eyebrows, green eyes, and a somewhat defined jawline.
Outfit: The government issued uniform of WW1 doughboys contain a large tan jacket, matching rugged canvas pants to completely protect him on the field. Strapped to his chest is a pouch that would contain ammunition for his Enfield, over his breastplate to protect him from incoming ballistics. Strapped to his left leg is a air filtration system he can put to his face. It is strong enough to filter out harmful substances in the air, like chlorine gas, the most prevalent chemical weapon used against soldiers in the Great War. He also has a pair of hardy working boots, and a tough steel brodie helmet issued to him as well.
Personality: Plenty may call J.P. a city boy, his origin coming from New York and all, having the sort of accent for it and all, when in reality, he's a quiet man. One whose demeanor would be idealized by many men for years to come. But in all reality, he doesn't find himself to be all that interesting, as nothing interesting happened in his life. He went to work at the local factory, making cars, becoming one with the machine, and then went home to an empty bed. He, when talking, can sound somewhat quiet, at least back home he was. He doesn't talk very much at all with the denizens of the odd world he came to be in, and makes it a point to stop many questions that come to him from the strange fantasy creatures he comes across. He mostly asks a question with slight worry whenever he comes across one such creature who looks to be less dangerous than the ones he normally encounters, that is some variation of "Where is the Argonne?" or "Where's the nearest town?" Most of the looks he get are those of confusion.
Backstory:
John was conscripted into the Liberty regiment from New York. It was then and there that he learned what hardship really was. Learning during his brief 6 month training period, where he was able to train alongside his friends and family under the Pal Program. He enlisted with his friends he knew from his high school. It was with them, he was willing to give his life to. They trained together, lived together, and ultimately, died together. The three of them, John, Adam, and Nick, swore that if one of them were to ever die, the others would go down fighting to the very end. There they went, training to be the most physically fit they would ever be, with a strict but fair C.O. to guide their company. Their training was rigorous, but as was all training in the army. It was until they had reviewed their mission. It was called the Meuse-Argonne attack, by the boys documenting the whole thing.
But before any of this, he was a farmer's boy in Kentucky, laden with common sense, and discipline. At the age of 5, his mother and father were unable to support a child, and so he was adopted off to his grandparents and their ranch. At the age of 12, he was fully versed in the art of plowing the land, able to milk the cows, slaughter the pigs, the whole 9 yards. It was at age 18 that he decided he would move to the city, New York, and find work somewhere, and maybe find his biological parents, as they had disappeared completely off the grid for the entirety of his life. It was at age 22, that he was finally conscripted into the war effort, a mass draft catching him just barely, only a few weeks after his 22nd birthday.
There he was, standing over the flaming forest, gunning down Germans as he had taken cover. The immense destruction of the repeating rifle was astounding compared to the muskets his grandparents kept at their ranch down south. This was highlighted when his battalion was flanked and held in position. His commanding officer had believed that the battalion would be supported on the left by the French and on the right by fellow American forces, where they would be misinformed, and enveloped by 2 dual German battalions. He and his brothers would have to hold for as long as possible, holding on to their messenger pigeons for artillery support and food, and trying to merely use the latrine without being shot to death. Their brothers in arms would die at their feet, and there would be nothing the (improvised) steadfast defenders would be able to do to stop the constant onslaught of bullets and artillery, even from their own. They had to dig in. And so they did. Bunkers that the Germans had previously used fell into their control, and by god did they use them extensively. Death was in the air. Chemical gases were sprayed into the wind, crippling any soldier not diligent enough to equip their gas mask in time.
It was then, when Adam had fallen by John's feet, giving his life as a bullet shield to protect John from a passing swath of machine gun fire. His last words were something along the lines of "I gave my life for you, don't waste it." With that, John flew into a fury, grasping for Adam's M1911 pistol and firing over and over and over again into the warring turf until it was empty. Seeing this maddened spectacle, Nick pulled him inside, and slapped him on the face twice. Nick informed John that this was real, this was war, and that this was time to get it together. He ordered John to the annals of the bunker, where he knew the big guns were being held at. John went back into the previously dug out reserves, to find not only a large weapon, but also a larger wooden crate, surrounded by many others like it dug into the dirt walls, but this particular crate however, was ajar. Slightly ajar, so it must've had something in it, or taken out of it. Anyways, it was a crate of interest. His friend was just killed only moments before, so he wanted to go out with a flaming bang. He opened the crate, and hands, purple, clammy, scaled hands complete with arms picked him from his crouching stance into the box. This was everything out of the unusual. Nobody would be able to save him anyways, as everyone was outside tending to the wounded, or fighting back the Germans on all four fronts. With that, he was sucked into a void of darkness, where strange voices and pitches, all warped at different scenes in time and space, where everywhere and nowhere at once. He closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears as he let out a scream that might've been uncharacteristic of him, but there's nothing more one can do when travelling through literal hell.
Likes: Easy routines, Birds, Animals
Dislikes: Sudden movement/noises, Being forced to stay in one area for any particularly long amount of time, Uncooperative people
Fears: Sleeping, Open Fields
Major Flaw: Extra-human, no flaw
Magic and Body Area
Racial Magic: N/A
Chant Spells: N/A
Skill Magic: N/A
Items: Enfield rifle with bayonet affixed (Empty), M1911 Pistol (Empty), Gas Mask, Doughboy's Fatigues, Canteen.
Extra Area
Theme:
Quote: "The Big Apple? Yeah, it gets too much at times, but sometimes, you have to appreciate everything that's in that apple, even the damn worm in it." -John, describing New York to his grandparents through mail.
Relationships: None (As of the moment)
Other: "ko-no-su-ba!"
Name: John Wilson
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Class: None
Appearance: John has been seen wearing filthy WW1 U.S. military fatigues. His patch and tags indicates that he is part of 77th Infantry Division, 308th Regiment, C Company, and his name is indeed John P Wilson. His face contains a rounded, red nose, a thin set of blonde eyebrows, green eyes, and a somewhat defined jawline.
Outfit: The government issued uniform of WW1 doughboys contain a large tan jacket, matching rugged canvas pants to completely protect him on the field. Strapped to his chest is a pouch that would contain ammunition for his Enfield, over his breastplate to protect him from incoming ballistics. Strapped to his left leg is a air filtration system he can put to his face. It is strong enough to filter out harmful substances in the air, like chlorine gas, the most prevalent chemical weapon used against soldiers in the Great War. He also has a pair of hardy working boots, and a tough steel brodie helmet issued to him as well.
Personality: Plenty may call J.P. a city boy, his origin coming from New York and all, having the sort of accent for it and all, when in reality, he's a quiet man. One whose demeanor would be idealized by many men for years to come. But in all reality, he doesn't find himself to be all that interesting, as nothing interesting happened in his life. He went to work at the local factory, making cars, becoming one with the machine, and then went home to an empty bed. He, when talking, can sound somewhat quiet, at least back home he was. He doesn't talk very much at all with the denizens of the odd world he came to be in, and makes it a point to stop many questions that come to him from the strange fantasy creatures he comes across. He mostly asks a question with slight worry whenever he comes across one such creature who looks to be less dangerous than the ones he normally encounters, that is some variation of "Where is the Argonne?" or "Where's the nearest town?" Most of the looks he get are those of confusion.
Backstory:
John was conscripted into the Liberty regiment from New York. It was then and there that he learned what hardship really was. Learning during his brief 6 month training period, where he was able to train alongside his friends and family under the Pal Program. He enlisted with his friends he knew from his high school. It was with them, he was willing to give his life to. They trained together, lived together, and ultimately, died together. The three of them, John, Adam, and Nick, swore that if one of them were to ever die, the others would go down fighting to the very end. There they went, training to be the most physically fit they would ever be, with a strict but fair C.O. to guide their company. Their training was rigorous, but as was all training in the army. It was until they had reviewed their mission. It was called the Meuse-Argonne attack, by the boys documenting the whole thing.
But before any of this, he was a farmer's boy in Kentucky, laden with common sense, and discipline. At the age of 5, his mother and father were unable to support a child, and so he was adopted off to his grandparents and their ranch. At the age of 12, he was fully versed in the art of plowing the land, able to milk the cows, slaughter the pigs, the whole 9 yards. It was at age 18 that he decided he would move to the city, New York, and find work somewhere, and maybe find his biological parents, as they had disappeared completely off the grid for the entirety of his life. It was at age 22, that he was finally conscripted into the war effort, a mass draft catching him just barely, only a few weeks after his 22nd birthday.
There he was, standing over the flaming forest, gunning down Germans as he had taken cover. The immense destruction of the repeating rifle was astounding compared to the muskets his grandparents kept at their ranch down south. This was highlighted when his battalion was flanked and held in position. His commanding officer had believed that the battalion would be supported on the left by the French and on the right by fellow American forces, where they would be misinformed, and enveloped by 2 dual German battalions. He and his brothers would have to hold for as long as possible, holding on to their messenger pigeons for artillery support and food, and trying to merely use the latrine without being shot to death. Their brothers in arms would die at their feet, and there would be nothing the (improvised) steadfast defenders would be able to do to stop the constant onslaught of bullets and artillery, even from their own. They had to dig in. And so they did. Bunkers that the Germans had previously used fell into their control, and by god did they use them extensively. Death was in the air. Chemical gases were sprayed into the wind, crippling any soldier not diligent enough to equip their gas mask in time.
It was then, when Adam had fallen by John's feet, giving his life as a bullet shield to protect John from a passing swath of machine gun fire. His last words were something along the lines of "I gave my life for you, don't waste it." With that, John flew into a fury, grasping for Adam's M1911 pistol and firing over and over and over again into the warring turf until it was empty. Seeing this maddened spectacle, Nick pulled him inside, and slapped him on the face twice. Nick informed John that this was real, this was war, and that this was time to get it together. He ordered John to the annals of the bunker, where he knew the big guns were being held at. John went back into the previously dug out reserves, to find not only a large weapon, but also a larger wooden crate, surrounded by many others like it dug into the dirt walls, but this particular crate however, was ajar. Slightly ajar, so it must've had something in it, or taken out of it. Anyways, it was a crate of interest. His friend was just killed only moments before, so he wanted to go out with a flaming bang. He opened the crate, and hands, purple, clammy, scaled hands complete with arms picked him from his crouching stance into the box. This was everything out of the unusual. Nobody would be able to save him anyways, as everyone was outside tending to the wounded, or fighting back the Germans on all four fronts. With that, he was sucked into a void of darkness, where strange voices and pitches, all warped at different scenes in time and space, where everywhere and nowhere at once. He closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears as he let out a scream that might've been uncharacteristic of him, but there's nothing more one can do when travelling through literal hell.
Likes: Easy routines, Birds, Animals
Dislikes: Sudden movement/noises, Being forced to stay in one area for any particularly long amount of time, Uncooperative people
Fears: Sleeping, Open Fields
Major Flaw: Extra-human, no flaw
Magic and Body Area
Racial Magic: N/A
Chant Spells: N/A
Skill Magic: N/A
Items: Enfield rifle with bayonet affixed (Empty), M1911 Pistol (Empty), Gas Mask, Doughboy's Fatigues, Canteen.
Extra Area
Theme:
Quote: "The Big Apple? Yeah, it gets too much at times, but sometimes, you have to appreciate everything that's in that apple, even the damn worm in it." -John, describing New York to his grandparents through mail.
Relationships: None (As of the moment)
Other: "ko-no-su-ba!"
Last edited by a moderator:
