Post by Jim Doyle on Aug 22, 2009 21:45:59 GMT -5
"It was a virus. An infection. You didn't need a doctor to tell you that. It was the blood. It was something in the blood. By the time they tried to evacuate the cities it was already too late. Army blockades were overrun. And that's when the exodus started. Before the TV and radio stopped broadcasting there were reports of infection in Paris and New York. We didn't hear anything more after that.’"
'28 Days Later'
'28 Days Later'
Your Name: Sam
How many years roleplaying?: 11- 12
"Because I could not stop for Death --
He kindly stopped for me --"
He kindly stopped for me --"
Emily Dickinson[/center][/size]
Character Name: James "Jim" O'Doyle ~ Jim Doyle
PB: Cillian Murphy
Age: 26
Date of Birth: Oct 15th, '83
Residence: St. Mark's Place, NYC
Profession: Bicycle Courier
Appearance: Tall and slender, Jim is possession of the quintessential sparkling Irish eyes, and dark hair. Likewise, his complexion is fair and befreckled. He wears whatever is available at the time, and is often seen carrying a baseball bat when not in the safety of his home.
Personality: Jim is somewhat of an optimist despite the situation they all find themselves in, and can be a bit of a teddy bear at times. Despite this soft-spoken mildness however, when cornered or threatened, he can be exceptionally cunning and ruthless in the defence of himself or those close to him.
History: Jim was a bicycle courier for an unknown company, when he was involved in a car accident that left him comatose. 28 Days Later, Jim awakens from his coma in an abandoned hospital. After securing some clothes, he ventures out of the hospital and is met with a seemingly desolate city. Confused, he travels through the barren street calling out ["Hello?!"] for any signs of life. Gathering discarded bottles of soda and money from the ground, Jim observes a wall of missing persons posters before moving on.
Later he enters a church, where he is confronted by a priest stumbling and choking as he comes toward him. The priest ignores all questions from the young man and attacks. Jim knocks him over with his shopping bag, yet the priest continues to advance. Jim flees the church --- with several infected following behind. He is rescued by two strangers, Mark and Selena, who cause an explosion inside of a building that kill the infected. Leading Jim down into the Metro, Selena explains to him how the outbreak spread through New York, claiming the lives of everyone in the city. Worried for his family's well being, Jim has Mark and Selena take him across the city to his neighborhood. When they arrive, Jim discovers his parents have committed suicide --- leaving a departing message on a photo clutched in his mother's hand.
During the night, a bereaved Jim ventures downstairs and watches a home video of his parents. Unwittingly he attracts the presence of more infected, who attack him. Mark and Selena kill the infected, Mark sustains an injury caused by one of the infected and Selena kills him. It here that Selena makes sure Jim knows that she will kill him should he become infected. They continue to travel through the city until they reach an abandoned apartment, where they meet Frank and his daughter Hannah who give them shelter after escaping another encounter with the infected.
Currently, Jim lives alone after the deaths of his friends, and maintains a small, top floor apartment in St. Mark's Place. At night, he thinks of plans of escaping the city for some remote location, and during the day, he collects what food and necessities he can with quiet haste. he has no known friends at this point.
Likes: Hot-Cross Buns, Shaving WITH water, Jack Daniels, kind people.
Dislikes: The infected. The power hungry. Deception. The dark.
Strengths: Keen tactical skills, experience, keen grasp of New York's streets from his job, a good baseball swing.
Weaknesses: Being alone. Hesitance and timidity at times. Regret and remorse.
Parents: names not given, deceased.
Siblings:None
Spouse:None
Children:None
Anything Else?
Roleplay Sample:
The tunic was not a brilliant blue as the fabric of later centuries might have been, but it was as blue as any silk shift that reached the shores of the Roman empire from distant lands. It was of a fine-weave flax linen, and was the ruddy, earthy blue colour of the woad-painted picts of the far, far northern reaches. At it's neck it bore a simple trim of black, peacock blue and a tiny smattering of spun silver strands, and it was folded upon the corner of the bed with a new, shined and tooled black leather belt with a silver loop of for a buckle atop it.
And beyond the corner of the bed, and beyond the sleeping boy with the features of a deity and eyes as uncharted and dark as the rolling oceans of night, stood Octavius. He leaned in and squinted at himself in the bronze mirror and pinched his cheeks critically while no-one could see him. Each year took from him another measure of mortal colour, and he was afraid that one day he might wind up as white and lifeless as the palace statues. But a touch of colour did rise up against his cheeks when encouraged, and it blossomed naturally against his lips too. Already he was dressed in a clean, knee-length tunic of white linen, run down it's length by two vermilion stripes to match the vermilion border of the intricate toga already wrapped with attention about his form. The sandals at his feet encircled his ankles too, and the lower slopes of his calves, and they were of a deep brown, soft leather, clasped in places by tooled pins of bronze, faintly tarnished and worn. The laurel wreath of bronze he had worn the previous evening was not atop his head on this night, saved only for special occasions, but he looked no less regal, intimidating or impressive for want of it.
The fat candles that bordered the room had already been lit, and the bedroom door was open to allow night's breeze to play around the corners and make the light jump around erratically. The candles closest to the window had blown out some minutes before, but Octavius could see perfectly well, and indeed the candles were enough for even Marianus to see quite well as he had helped arrange the toga. He had since been sent to help Decima in the kitchen, had briefly returned with a bowl of Roman stew for Silas, and then had been dismissed again and could be heard squealing with laughter in the courtyard where another boy chased him around the old olive tree. Octavius smiled to himself at the sound as he poked and fussed impatiently with his short hair.
And beyond the corner of the bed, and beyond the sleeping boy with the features of a deity and eyes as uncharted and dark as the rolling oceans of night, stood Octavius. He leaned in and squinted at himself in the bronze mirror and pinched his cheeks critically while no-one could see him. Each year took from him another measure of mortal colour, and he was afraid that one day he might wind up as white and lifeless as the palace statues. But a touch of colour did rise up against his cheeks when encouraged, and it blossomed naturally against his lips too. Already he was dressed in a clean, knee-length tunic of white linen, run down it's length by two vermilion stripes to match the vermilion border of the intricate toga already wrapped with attention about his form. The sandals at his feet encircled his ankles too, and the lower slopes of his calves, and they were of a deep brown, soft leather, clasped in places by tooled pins of bronze, faintly tarnished and worn. The laurel wreath of bronze he had worn the previous evening was not atop his head on this night, saved only for special occasions, but he looked no less regal, intimidating or impressive for want of it.
The fat candles that bordered the room had already been lit, and the bedroom door was open to allow night's breeze to play around the corners and make the light jump around erratically. The candles closest to the window had blown out some minutes before, but Octavius could see perfectly well, and indeed the candles were enough for even Marianus to see quite well as he had helped arrange the toga. He had since been sent to help Decima in the kitchen, had briefly returned with a bowl of Roman stew for Silas, and then had been dismissed again and could be heard squealing with laughter in the courtyard where another boy chased him around the old olive tree. Octavius smiled to himself at the sound as he poked and fussed impatiently with his short hair.
