Post by reverend on Nov 8, 2010 14:27:25 GMT
Account E-Mail: EDITED
Name: Vittori Marino
Nationality: Italian
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?: Axis
Character History:
Vittori Marino was born March 3rd 1908 into a wealthy, anti-fascist family. Vittori’s father, Dominic Marino and his mother Lita Loriletti, strongly opposed the government’s ideals and fought against them in any way he could. As members of Arditi del popolo, Vittori’s parents spent much of their time protesting the Fascist Italy. Being a non violant group the Arditi del popolo was mostly ignored by the main govronement and was never officialy recognised as a political group. Vittori grew up with his fathers teachings and followed his belifes until his teen years when he started questioning the Arditi del popolos actions. Confused at how a group of people who so strongly believed in something wouldn’t do anything more then shout at those they opposed, he started seeing the Fascist Govronement as a stonger group.
Believing that actions speak louder then words, he started pressing his father to actualy do something against the govronment, blow up an officials car or at least set fire to a sidewalk. Slowly his father began to be influenced by his words, one night his father snuck out and threw a brick though the windshield of a car belonging to a fascist official. A passing patrol saw him and chased him though the night, he eventualy lost the patrol and made his way back home where he told Lita all about his ‘radical actions’. Vittori overheard his fathers words and became enraged with his fathers weakness. He had been talking to others who where on the side of the Facsists and saw in them a unified strenth, even the church was backing the govronment. His anger at his parents weakness became a torrent of hate and the next day he left the house without saying a word and enlisted in the Facsist army.
After his months of basic training he was positioned as a patrolman in his hometown, and marched with pride. A group of partisians where active in the area and the patrols had doubled in size in order to combat the larger number, on one night Vittori’s patrol fell under attack from a group of partisians, the patrol suffered only minor injuries while the rebels where scattered, Vittori’s patrol managed to round up most of the group, beating them with the butts of their rifles and executing them one by one. Vittori was about to pull the trigger of his M91 when he recognised the face staring up at him from behind the barrel. He stared into his father’s eyes for a long moment before a slight sob caught his attention, further down the line was his mother. He motioned for his fellow soldiers to let her go and Lita crawled over to Dominic, hugging him tightly.
The moment seemed to hang in time for hours, and in that time he could see every detail of his fathers face, the wrinkles, the sweat on his forehead, the fear in his eyes, but after the few seconds of hesitation Vittori hardened his eyes, clenched his teeth and pulled the trigger, he ejected the empty shell and loaded a fresh round in with practiced speed and a second shot cut his mothers screams short. He ejected the shell and picked both of them up, pocketing them as he looked down at the bodies of his parents. The rest of the patrol finished executing the remainder of the partisians and a truck was called in to remove the bodies. Vittori had dedicated his life to the Fascist Italy.
Shortly after the execution of his parents he was recommended to his superiors to undergo sniper training. Vittori had shown time and time again that he was deadly accurate with his rifle, both on the firing range and on patrols. The sniper training was tough; the extra physical training he endured toned and strengthened his body while the camouflage and stealth training sharpened his mind. His final test was to get within range of a dummy base and take out a target then escape while avoiding patrols. He succeeded in his final test, the patrols where only able to report a shot being heard, they found no trace of the shooter, there wasn’t even an ejected shell to indicate the snipers firing position, and the target had a neat hole right though its centre. Vittori quickly gained a reputation as an elite sniper, easily recognisable by the two engraved empty shells hanging around his neck. The few people who knew him well knew that the names engraved on those shells where the names of his first kills. He never told anyone they where the names of his parents.
Military Rank:
Sergente Maggiore
Writing Sample:
The wind swept up great gusts of sand that stung any exposed skin and limited visibility to roughly eight meters. Sand storms where commonplace in the great dunes of Africa’s deserts, they could when the storm hit suddenly, and they happened quiet often. Patrols and convoys often got lost in the blanket of sand. Roads where useless to travel along cause they would quickly be buried under the sand, most travel was slow and dependent on compasses to keep convoys heading in the right track. But even then it was hard going.
A mound of sand moved against the wind, the tiny grains fell away and blew into the air to join the building storm. As the mound moved again a rifle seemed to materialize out of it, followed by a hand gripping it tightly, the mound rose up and the sand fell away in waves to reveal the figure of a man, his weapon and whole body was wrapped tightly in a dull golden cloth that blended in with the sand so well that looking at him in the storm he would seem more like an apparition then a solid figure.
The figure crouched low and sprinted forward down a dune, reaching the bottom and climbing up the side of the next one, just before reaching the top he seemed to dive into the sand, crawling forward until he could just see over the top of the crest. His face protected from the harsh sands by a cloth mask. He peered across the dune tops, sharp eyes searching for movement, the wind carried sands quickly buried him again and his figure merged into the dune. He moved again, crouching low and running down the dune and up the next one. He continued advancing this way until he came upon something that wasn’t of the desert, sanding on a crest five dunes away was a dark figure. The figure was being battered by the strong winds and had his hand covering his face against the sharp sand.
Vittori watched as the soldier moved across the crest, looking around as he walked. A second figure appeared, coming up behind the other, their voices carried on the wind.
“How the bloody hell are we meant to see anything in this?”
The accent was British, but Vittori couldn’t quite understand them as his English wasn’t that good. He hated the English language; it was boring and lacked the musical flow of the Italian words. He watched amused as one of them tried to light a cigarette, they where idiots trying to lite a smoke in a sand storm. Vittori wondered if they where part of a larger patrol or forward scouts for a convoy, but something didn’t add up. They weren’t acting as if they where on a patrol, and if they where forward scouts they where the worst scouts ever.
They turned their backs and looked down the dune at something and Vittori surged forward into the next depression. Using it as cover he made his way to the left of them and began circling around. At last he came up to the dune that the two British soldiers where on and peered over the crest, below him was a convoy that had gotten bogged in the sand. The two soldiers where meant to be lookouts, thankfully they where well out of sight. He looked back down to the convoy, the lead truck was the one that was bogged, and he could see movement all around it, digging the sand out from around its tires. Vittori crawled down the slope and under the nearest truck, looking around it seemed that all the soldiers where busy helping with the dig. Perhaps this convoy was meant to supply the enemy base that Vittori had been sent out here to scout for.
He crawled out from under the truck and checked to see what it was carrying. He smiled at the sight of a massive tank of water on the back of the truck. Water was worth more then gold in the desert, and the tank above him probably carried about 1000 litres of the liquid. There where two taps on the tank, one on the rear that could be hooked up to a pipe, and one the side that could be opened to fill a canteen. He examined the smaller tap, it was simple enough, pull the weighted stopper up and the water would flow out, it looked easy enough to break. He was reaching for it when approaching voices caught his ear and instinctively dove back under the truck. The wind was less harsh down in the depressions of the dunes and he hoped he hadn’t been seen.
A couple pairs of boots walked past the truck, the men where talking about something, complaining most likely. They stopped at the tap and refilled their canteens. Vittori could hear the water sloshing around in the empty containers. They must have been filling everyone’s canteens, as they stayed there for a good few minutes, blissfully ignorant to the intruder under the truck. After what seemed like an hour the men walked slowly back towards the lead truck. Vittori realised this was a blessing, with the men having full canteens they wouldn’t be coming back to the water tank any time soon. He waited another few minutes before poking his head out, looking both ways before pulling himself up. He checked the tap again and ripped the stopper out, snapping the small bit of metal that was meant to prevent it from coming all the way. The water seemed to gush out, but Vittori didn’t wait around, within a heart beat he was back under the truck and crawling back to the other side, peeking out he saw that the two guards where closer then before, too close for him to go back the way he’d came, he crawled back under and out the side with the tap, looking around before dashing up the side of the next dune.
He slid over the crest and stopped for a second, catching his breath and looking up either side of him. No one was near so he darted off to the next dune, and the next one. He didn’t slow until he had put at least fifty meters between him and the convoy, he was well and truly out of sight now. He stopped only long enough to take a drink from his own small canteen before pushing on. The convoy was a lucky find and it had practically confirmed the existence of an enemy outpost. Not only that, but the convoy told him their nationality as well. The British had very few units who where able to handle themselves in the desert, and if the security at their outpost is as slack as the convoy the Italians would have no trouble at all with them.
Name: Vittori Marino
Nationality: Italian
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?: Axis
Character History:
Vittori Marino was born March 3rd 1908 into a wealthy, anti-fascist family. Vittori’s father, Dominic Marino and his mother Lita Loriletti, strongly opposed the government’s ideals and fought against them in any way he could. As members of Arditi del popolo, Vittori’s parents spent much of their time protesting the Fascist Italy. Being a non violant group the Arditi del popolo was mostly ignored by the main govronement and was never officialy recognised as a political group. Vittori grew up with his fathers teachings and followed his belifes until his teen years when he started questioning the Arditi del popolos actions. Confused at how a group of people who so strongly believed in something wouldn’t do anything more then shout at those they opposed, he started seeing the Fascist Govronement as a stonger group.
Believing that actions speak louder then words, he started pressing his father to actualy do something against the govronment, blow up an officials car or at least set fire to a sidewalk. Slowly his father began to be influenced by his words, one night his father snuck out and threw a brick though the windshield of a car belonging to a fascist official. A passing patrol saw him and chased him though the night, he eventualy lost the patrol and made his way back home where he told Lita all about his ‘radical actions’. Vittori overheard his fathers words and became enraged with his fathers weakness. He had been talking to others who where on the side of the Facsists and saw in them a unified strenth, even the church was backing the govronment. His anger at his parents weakness became a torrent of hate and the next day he left the house without saying a word and enlisted in the Facsist army.
After his months of basic training he was positioned as a patrolman in his hometown, and marched with pride. A group of partisians where active in the area and the patrols had doubled in size in order to combat the larger number, on one night Vittori’s patrol fell under attack from a group of partisians, the patrol suffered only minor injuries while the rebels where scattered, Vittori’s patrol managed to round up most of the group, beating them with the butts of their rifles and executing them one by one. Vittori was about to pull the trigger of his M91 when he recognised the face staring up at him from behind the barrel. He stared into his father’s eyes for a long moment before a slight sob caught his attention, further down the line was his mother. He motioned for his fellow soldiers to let her go and Lita crawled over to Dominic, hugging him tightly.
The moment seemed to hang in time for hours, and in that time he could see every detail of his fathers face, the wrinkles, the sweat on his forehead, the fear in his eyes, but after the few seconds of hesitation Vittori hardened his eyes, clenched his teeth and pulled the trigger, he ejected the empty shell and loaded a fresh round in with practiced speed and a second shot cut his mothers screams short. He ejected the shell and picked both of them up, pocketing them as he looked down at the bodies of his parents. The rest of the patrol finished executing the remainder of the partisians and a truck was called in to remove the bodies. Vittori had dedicated his life to the Fascist Italy.
Shortly after the execution of his parents he was recommended to his superiors to undergo sniper training. Vittori had shown time and time again that he was deadly accurate with his rifle, both on the firing range and on patrols. The sniper training was tough; the extra physical training he endured toned and strengthened his body while the camouflage and stealth training sharpened his mind. His final test was to get within range of a dummy base and take out a target then escape while avoiding patrols. He succeeded in his final test, the patrols where only able to report a shot being heard, they found no trace of the shooter, there wasn’t even an ejected shell to indicate the snipers firing position, and the target had a neat hole right though its centre. Vittori quickly gained a reputation as an elite sniper, easily recognisable by the two engraved empty shells hanging around his neck. The few people who knew him well knew that the names engraved on those shells where the names of his first kills. He never told anyone they where the names of his parents.
Military Rank:
Sergente Maggiore
Writing Sample:
The wind swept up great gusts of sand that stung any exposed skin and limited visibility to roughly eight meters. Sand storms where commonplace in the great dunes of Africa’s deserts, they could when the storm hit suddenly, and they happened quiet often. Patrols and convoys often got lost in the blanket of sand. Roads where useless to travel along cause they would quickly be buried under the sand, most travel was slow and dependent on compasses to keep convoys heading in the right track. But even then it was hard going.
A mound of sand moved against the wind, the tiny grains fell away and blew into the air to join the building storm. As the mound moved again a rifle seemed to materialize out of it, followed by a hand gripping it tightly, the mound rose up and the sand fell away in waves to reveal the figure of a man, his weapon and whole body was wrapped tightly in a dull golden cloth that blended in with the sand so well that looking at him in the storm he would seem more like an apparition then a solid figure.
The figure crouched low and sprinted forward down a dune, reaching the bottom and climbing up the side of the next one, just before reaching the top he seemed to dive into the sand, crawling forward until he could just see over the top of the crest. His face protected from the harsh sands by a cloth mask. He peered across the dune tops, sharp eyes searching for movement, the wind carried sands quickly buried him again and his figure merged into the dune. He moved again, crouching low and running down the dune and up the next one. He continued advancing this way until he came upon something that wasn’t of the desert, sanding on a crest five dunes away was a dark figure. The figure was being battered by the strong winds and had his hand covering his face against the sharp sand.
Vittori watched as the soldier moved across the crest, looking around as he walked. A second figure appeared, coming up behind the other, their voices carried on the wind.
“How the bloody hell are we meant to see anything in this?”
The accent was British, but Vittori couldn’t quite understand them as his English wasn’t that good. He hated the English language; it was boring and lacked the musical flow of the Italian words. He watched amused as one of them tried to light a cigarette, they where idiots trying to lite a smoke in a sand storm. Vittori wondered if they where part of a larger patrol or forward scouts for a convoy, but something didn’t add up. They weren’t acting as if they where on a patrol, and if they where forward scouts they where the worst scouts ever.
They turned their backs and looked down the dune at something and Vittori surged forward into the next depression. Using it as cover he made his way to the left of them and began circling around. At last he came up to the dune that the two British soldiers where on and peered over the crest, below him was a convoy that had gotten bogged in the sand. The two soldiers where meant to be lookouts, thankfully they where well out of sight. He looked back down to the convoy, the lead truck was the one that was bogged, and he could see movement all around it, digging the sand out from around its tires. Vittori crawled down the slope and under the nearest truck, looking around it seemed that all the soldiers where busy helping with the dig. Perhaps this convoy was meant to supply the enemy base that Vittori had been sent out here to scout for.
He crawled out from under the truck and checked to see what it was carrying. He smiled at the sight of a massive tank of water on the back of the truck. Water was worth more then gold in the desert, and the tank above him probably carried about 1000 litres of the liquid. There where two taps on the tank, one on the rear that could be hooked up to a pipe, and one the side that could be opened to fill a canteen. He examined the smaller tap, it was simple enough, pull the weighted stopper up and the water would flow out, it looked easy enough to break. He was reaching for it when approaching voices caught his ear and instinctively dove back under the truck. The wind was less harsh down in the depressions of the dunes and he hoped he hadn’t been seen.
A couple pairs of boots walked past the truck, the men where talking about something, complaining most likely. They stopped at the tap and refilled their canteens. Vittori could hear the water sloshing around in the empty containers. They must have been filling everyone’s canteens, as they stayed there for a good few minutes, blissfully ignorant to the intruder under the truck. After what seemed like an hour the men walked slowly back towards the lead truck. Vittori realised this was a blessing, with the men having full canteens they wouldn’t be coming back to the water tank any time soon. He waited another few minutes before poking his head out, looking both ways before pulling himself up. He checked the tap again and ripped the stopper out, snapping the small bit of metal that was meant to prevent it from coming all the way. The water seemed to gush out, but Vittori didn’t wait around, within a heart beat he was back under the truck and crawling back to the other side, peeking out he saw that the two guards where closer then before, too close for him to go back the way he’d came, he crawled back under and out the side with the tap, looking around before dashing up the side of the next dune.
He slid over the crest and stopped for a second, catching his breath and looking up either side of him. No one was near so he darted off to the next dune, and the next one. He didn’t slow until he had put at least fifty meters between him and the convoy, he was well and truly out of sight now. He stopped only long enough to take a drink from his own small canteen before pushing on. The convoy was a lucky find and it had practically confirmed the existence of an enemy outpost. Not only that, but the convoy told him their nationality as well. The British had very few units who where able to handle themselves in the desert, and if the security at their outpost is as slack as the convoy the Italians would have no trouble at all with them.
