Post by Tristan Green on Dec 9, 2009 8:17:46 GMT
Short and simple, but you didn't need much more. J'accepted.
Account E-Mail:
Name: Tristan Green
Nationality:
- British; Cornish
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
UK
Character History:
- Tristan was born in Penzance, a sleepy seaside town on the tip of Cornwall on the 9th of September, 1922. His father, Jenkin, was a simple fisherman and his mother, Meggie, was the daughter of Irish immigrants to the area. He was named after the legendary Celtic hero, Tristan of Cornwall.
He was a fairly average child; able but not exceptional, the first member of his rural family to be completely literate. Although he would have been perfectly happy to help his father with his work, his parents insisted that he be educated properly and so Tristan learned to read and write. And, of course, to fish.
His life was so unremarkable that it was almost incredible. He didn't leave the village until he was in his late teens, he knew nothing of the outside world and he was perfectly content to spend his days helping his father fish on the Cornish coast or simply sitting alone in the dull sunlight, composing poetry for his eyes only.
The village was so isolated from the rest of the country that the initial declaration of war actually passed them by. There were whispers and rumours and shadows but the villagers had no idea that across the English Channel, thousands of men and boys were being butchered.
They first heard of the war when a recruitment officer entered the village in the late 1940's, searching for volunteers. Tristan signed up immediately. He had no ulterior motive, he was running from nothing and was running to find nothing. He joined because he wanted to fight.
But Tristan had lived a sheltered existence all of his life. He didn't truly know what fighting was.
He would soon find out.
Military Rank:
- Private
Writing Sample:
Tristan stumbled forwards through the boggy marshland. He ached. His entire body burned red with exhaustion, his hands and feet were coated in a thick layer of furious blisters and he had no idea where he was going. The heavy pack dug into his shoulders, sending a ripple of pain down his spine with every step he took. Just keep moving, he thought to himself. Just keep moving.
He had still not gotten used to the weight of a rifle in his arms. It felt strange, foreign, to be carrying a gun. His father had kept a shotgun just in case anyone had been foolish enough to break in, but this was different.
He felt a surge of pride to think that he, a fisherman's son, was a soldier. He imagined himself in his mind's eye; bold, noble, clad in an immaculate uniform, a sight to win young girl's hearts and to chill a German infantryman to the bone. In truth, he couldn't have looked any more different; he looked grimy, weather-beaten and covered from head to toe in sludge.
Recognising a familar sight, he slowed down and ground to a halt. It was only now that he realised just how utterly exhausted he was; he bent over double and panted like a golden retriever. The raven-haired Sergeant, waiting at the finishing line, crossed over to him and gave him a grin.
"First in, I see."
Tristan couldn't answer; he merely nodded vaguely, wheezing pathetically as he did so.
"Rather a gruelling course," said the Sergeant. He was still smiling. "An excellent time, though, Private. I'll have to keep an eye on you."
Tristan grinned. And suddenly threw up. The Sergeant let out a yelp, grimaced and took a step back. Tristan moaned and, exhaustion finally taking its toll on the young man, he staggered backwards and swooned.
The Sergeant chuckled. "We'll make a soldier out of you yet, boy. Just you watch."
Account E-Mail:
Name: Tristan Green
Nationality:
- British; Cornish
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
UK
Character History:
- Tristan was born in Penzance, a sleepy seaside town on the tip of Cornwall on the 9th of September, 1922. His father, Jenkin, was a simple fisherman and his mother, Meggie, was the daughter of Irish immigrants to the area. He was named after the legendary Celtic hero, Tristan of Cornwall.
He was a fairly average child; able but not exceptional, the first member of his rural family to be completely literate. Although he would have been perfectly happy to help his father with his work, his parents insisted that he be educated properly and so Tristan learned to read and write. And, of course, to fish.
His life was so unremarkable that it was almost incredible. He didn't leave the village until he was in his late teens, he knew nothing of the outside world and he was perfectly content to spend his days helping his father fish on the Cornish coast or simply sitting alone in the dull sunlight, composing poetry for his eyes only.
The village was so isolated from the rest of the country that the initial declaration of war actually passed them by. There were whispers and rumours and shadows but the villagers had no idea that across the English Channel, thousands of men and boys were being butchered.
They first heard of the war when a recruitment officer entered the village in the late 1940's, searching for volunteers. Tristan signed up immediately. He had no ulterior motive, he was running from nothing and was running to find nothing. He joined because he wanted to fight.
But Tristan had lived a sheltered existence all of his life. He didn't truly know what fighting was.
He would soon find out.
Military Rank:
- Private
Writing Sample:
Tristan stumbled forwards through the boggy marshland. He ached. His entire body burned red with exhaustion, his hands and feet were coated in a thick layer of furious blisters and he had no idea where he was going. The heavy pack dug into his shoulders, sending a ripple of pain down his spine with every step he took. Just keep moving, he thought to himself. Just keep moving.
He had still not gotten used to the weight of a rifle in his arms. It felt strange, foreign, to be carrying a gun. His father had kept a shotgun just in case anyone had been foolish enough to break in, but this was different.
He felt a surge of pride to think that he, a fisherman's son, was a soldier. He imagined himself in his mind's eye; bold, noble, clad in an immaculate uniform, a sight to win young girl's hearts and to chill a German infantryman to the bone. In truth, he couldn't have looked any more different; he looked grimy, weather-beaten and covered from head to toe in sludge.
Recognising a familar sight, he slowed down and ground to a halt. It was only now that he realised just how utterly exhausted he was; he bent over double and panted like a golden retriever. The raven-haired Sergeant, waiting at the finishing line, crossed over to him and gave him a grin.
"First in, I see."
Tristan couldn't answer; he merely nodded vaguely, wheezing pathetically as he did so.
"Rather a gruelling course," said the Sergeant. He was still smiling. "An excellent time, though, Private. I'll have to keep an eye on you."
Tristan grinned. And suddenly threw up. The Sergeant let out a yelp, grimaced and took a step back. Tristan moaned and, exhaustion finally taking its toll on the young man, he staggered backwards and swooned.
The Sergeant chuckled. "We'll make a soldier out of you yet, boy. Just you watch."