Post by Guest aka Doyle on Jun 3, 2007 22:13:46 GMT -5
(This is the edited and spell checked version. Sorry about the first one!!!)
Name: Doyle Leahy Alan Smithe
Age: 34 years
Gender: Male
Height: 5'5
Allegiance: Pirate
Occupation: Doyle is a "Doyle of all trades." Rope maker, sail maker, master gunner, able seaman, whale hunter, fisherman, negotiator, singer, fiddler, creditable caper dancer, farmer, storyteller and last but not least, a Newfoundland boxer.
Weapon of choice: Doyle's about as handy with a knife as he is with his fists. Throwing knives, fighting knives, skinning knives...just about every knife you can think of has made its way into his large calloused hands. In the midst of a sea battle, he does fire the occasional pistol but Doyle's a fighting man and he is at his prime in the midst of a whirlwind knock-out fight in which close proximity is to his advantage. If his knives do not gut or stab then his fists with find their mark on some poor sod's jaw.
Home Town/Island: Port-aux-Basques, Newfoundland.
Ship: Doyle's been a roving seaman ever since he first left home at the tender age of 14, which was little over 20 years ago. The last ship he sailed on was a fast and fierce little lady called The Black Charger, which preyed upon merchant vessels sailing to Britain from the West Indies. Now he's a free roamer looking a ship to swing his hammock in.
Appearance: Aside from the wayward mane of sun-bleached hair and the small gold hoop earring in his left ear, nothing about Doyle says pirate. His slops are simple sailors garb, a coarse linen shirt, loose trousers, a broad leather belt and soft shoes. His build and stance have been shaped and honed from years of toiling aloft the main yards and manning the cannons below deck.
Standing only at 5'5 the Newfoundland native is broad in shoulder and built like a lumberjack, barrel chest and hefty forearms and bandy legs. Short and solid, Doyle looks more like a life-long farmer at first glance, his large calloused hands and tanned skin turned leather-like by the sun being the notable marks of the land trade. But his nimble, almost dance-like gait and two gold teeth are the sure fare marks of the sea life. The permanent scars that criss-cross his broad back caused by the cat-o-nine-tails claws are also a mark of the life he leads.
Personality: Doyle is a Newfie, by blood and at heart. Despite the glut and discrepancy of piracy, Doyle's ready grin and deep, booming voice reveal his roots as a singing seafarer. Indeed, Doyle is known to break into a lusty seashantie whenever the mood strikes him, be it while tying down the mainsail of a sloop or in the midst of a cannon-to-cannon battle royal with a British Man-of-War. Each man is known for some specific trait and with Doyle, it is his singing.
However Doyle has a hair-trigger anger issue when it comes to insults about his native land or his height. Ever the sensitive one, Doyle will fly off the handle if in hearing range of said insults and the end result is usually not pretty. They say that the measure of a man is in the way he fights and Doyle is a fighter born and bred. Some men go into the pirate life for the riches, others for the lust for freedom but for Doyle the pirate life gives him the chance to revel in the excitement of battle.
History: Doyle is the seventh brother of seven brothers and to his knowledge is the only one left alive of the Smithe Seven. His father had been a fisher man, as had his father's father and his father's father's father. The sea had always been in his blood so it was to no surprise that he had taken to it at the first chance he got. He had first set sail on an old two-master with three of his brothers and has never touched Newfoundland soil since.
Doyle was first introduced to the pirate life when he was 20. He had been an able seaman aboard an American merchant vessel when the ship was attacked by pirates. The chase lasted two whole days before the unthinkable happened. The ship's rudder was taken out by the pirate's cannons and the merchant was left to flounder helplessly while the pirates went in for the kill. Helpless as the ship was, the men still fought back and it was one of the bloodiest battles that Doyle had ever taken part in. The one brother that had signed on with him was killed by a cannon ball and grapeshot got him in the back of his left leg. The scars are still there, almost as a right of passage from one life to another.
With his fighting spirit aroused Doyle kept fighting, even when his captain was slain and the rest of the crew that were still alive surrendered. A hefty belaying pin to the head knocked him out cold but instead of being run-through and tossed overboard, Doyle was spared and when he came to the pirate captain offered him a choice, either join his crew or die. Needless to say Doyle swapped his seaman's clothes for pirate silks and did not think anything of it.
And so life went on for Doyle. In his 28th year, the ship he was manning was tossed upon the reef during a hurricane and the vessel sank, taking most of the crew with her. A few of his fellow pirate brethren survived and were washed upon the beaches of some god forsaken island. Doyle refuses to speak of what happened on that island to this day but whatever happened, he was the only one left alive when a British mail ship dropped anchor just off shore to restock its provisions. He was 31 years old at the time.
At it was that ship which instilled in him a loathing for the Royal British Navy. He was rescued from that damned island only to be clapped in irons by decree of the Royal British Navy for piracy and spent a good two weeks locked in the ship's rat-infested hold. He had gone from living in a secluded hell to another and that did not sit well with him. When the ship docked in Jamaica, Doyle was sentenced to hang, as was the fate of all those who were convicted of piracy and deciding that he did not want to dance the hangman's jig and become food for the gulls and ravens, Doyle escaped. He nearly died in his attempt but when all was said and done, he had managed to pull one over the pompous British adversaries and was a free man.
Since then he has been roaming here and there in search for a pirate ship to join with.
Other: Ever since he escaped the hangman's noose and has been on the look-out for a ship to join with, Doyle has taken on a companion in his travels, or rather he has been followed by one. Remmy, the terrier terror of ship rats is a little scrapper of a mongrel with short legs, a deep chest and a rather sharp set of teeth. Much like Doyle himself the little dog is fearless to a fault and has come up against rats bigger than himself, the English bayonet and much more and made it out in one piece, more or less.
After having rescued from being hacked to pieces by a rather unstable butcher in Port Royal, Remmy has faithfully tagged Doyle's heels and no matter how hard the pirate has tried to rid himself of the pooch, Remmy always managed to find a way back to him. So now Doyle has finally given up and now calls the dog his own.
Roleplay Sample:
Doyle's deep rich voice sang out over the chorus of chaotic noise that constantly penetrated Tortuga, morning and evening. Doyle laughed as he ducked a flying mug of grog that was thrown in his direction before he shook his head like a dog and stood back up on the chair that he was standing on.
"Sing somethin' else!" A half-drunk pirate grumbled as the motley patrons of the Faithful Bride shouted out curses and agreements.
"Yar! Enough about the Newfies!"
"Can't stand that bloody song!"
"Sing about Blackbeard!"
The tavern rang out with various suggestions for random songs, some of which didn't exist. Doyle stood there and waited for the noise to die down slightly before he spoke up.
"What do ya want me to sing? Hearts of Oak?" Doyle roared before he dove off the chair and under the nearest table as an interesting selection of broken rum bottles, knives and cutlasses embedded themselves in the pillar that he had been standing in front of. To mention that national British navy song within hearing rang of respectable blood-thirsty pirates was an instant death wish.
Doyle chuckled to himself as he picked up a discarded black ribbon that was lying on the floor near him. Eyeing it for a moment he ran his left hand through his blonde and grey mane and grab it at the base of his neck. He weaved the somewhat clean ribbon around his hair in order to keep it out of his face before he stood up once more and brushed himself off. The tavern had fallen silent as every eye was on him, waiting to see what he would say next.
If Doyle tried, he could have cut the tension in the room with a dull butter knife. He knew if he said the wrong thing now, he wouldn't have to worry about singing anything ever again. But Doyle was just as much of a pirate as the rest of the sea scum around him, even if he did have the better singing voice.
"How's about Captain Kidd?" He asked.
"AYE!"
Doyle grinned as he yanked a wooden stool from under an old sleeping pirate and placed it in the center of the tavern before he stood on it. He held his arms up and waited until the chatter had died down again before he cleared his voice and swallowed. A filthy looking laggard by the bar started to drum out the main beat of the popular song and Doyle waited a moment before he sang out as loud and as lively as he could.
Like a conductor with a baton, Doyle directed the chorus of off-key, lusty voices that roared out the refrain. The sound was close to a pack of howling dogs but the lively spirit behind the words was infectious to all who listened.
Name: Doyle Leahy Alan Smithe
Age: 34 years
Gender: Male
Height: 5'5
Allegiance: Pirate
Occupation: Doyle is a "Doyle of all trades." Rope maker, sail maker, master gunner, able seaman, whale hunter, fisherman, negotiator, singer, fiddler, creditable caper dancer, farmer, storyteller and last but not least, a Newfoundland boxer.
Weapon of choice: Doyle's about as handy with a knife as he is with his fists. Throwing knives, fighting knives, skinning knives...just about every knife you can think of has made its way into his large calloused hands. In the midst of a sea battle, he does fire the occasional pistol but Doyle's a fighting man and he is at his prime in the midst of a whirlwind knock-out fight in which close proximity is to his advantage. If his knives do not gut or stab then his fists with find their mark on some poor sod's jaw.
Home Town/Island: Port-aux-Basques, Newfoundland.
Ship: Doyle's been a roving seaman ever since he first left home at the tender age of 14, which was little over 20 years ago. The last ship he sailed on was a fast and fierce little lady called The Black Charger, which preyed upon merchant vessels sailing to Britain from the West Indies. Now he's a free roamer looking a ship to swing his hammock in.
Appearance: Aside from the wayward mane of sun-bleached hair and the small gold hoop earring in his left ear, nothing about Doyle says pirate. His slops are simple sailors garb, a coarse linen shirt, loose trousers, a broad leather belt and soft shoes. His build and stance have been shaped and honed from years of toiling aloft the main yards and manning the cannons below deck.
Standing only at 5'5 the Newfoundland native is broad in shoulder and built like a lumberjack, barrel chest and hefty forearms and bandy legs. Short and solid, Doyle looks more like a life-long farmer at first glance, his large calloused hands and tanned skin turned leather-like by the sun being the notable marks of the land trade. But his nimble, almost dance-like gait and two gold teeth are the sure fare marks of the sea life. The permanent scars that criss-cross his broad back caused by the cat-o-nine-tails claws are also a mark of the life he leads.
Personality: Doyle is a Newfie, by blood and at heart. Despite the glut and discrepancy of piracy, Doyle's ready grin and deep, booming voice reveal his roots as a singing seafarer. Indeed, Doyle is known to break into a lusty seashantie whenever the mood strikes him, be it while tying down the mainsail of a sloop or in the midst of a cannon-to-cannon battle royal with a British Man-of-War. Each man is known for some specific trait and with Doyle, it is his singing.
However Doyle has a hair-trigger anger issue when it comes to insults about his native land or his height. Ever the sensitive one, Doyle will fly off the handle if in hearing range of said insults and the end result is usually not pretty. They say that the measure of a man is in the way he fights and Doyle is a fighter born and bred. Some men go into the pirate life for the riches, others for the lust for freedom but for Doyle the pirate life gives him the chance to revel in the excitement of battle.
History: Doyle is the seventh brother of seven brothers and to his knowledge is the only one left alive of the Smithe Seven. His father had been a fisher man, as had his father's father and his father's father's father. The sea had always been in his blood so it was to no surprise that he had taken to it at the first chance he got. He had first set sail on an old two-master with three of his brothers and has never touched Newfoundland soil since.
Doyle was first introduced to the pirate life when he was 20. He had been an able seaman aboard an American merchant vessel when the ship was attacked by pirates. The chase lasted two whole days before the unthinkable happened. The ship's rudder was taken out by the pirate's cannons and the merchant was left to flounder helplessly while the pirates went in for the kill. Helpless as the ship was, the men still fought back and it was one of the bloodiest battles that Doyle had ever taken part in. The one brother that had signed on with him was killed by a cannon ball and grapeshot got him in the back of his left leg. The scars are still there, almost as a right of passage from one life to another.
With his fighting spirit aroused Doyle kept fighting, even when his captain was slain and the rest of the crew that were still alive surrendered. A hefty belaying pin to the head knocked him out cold but instead of being run-through and tossed overboard, Doyle was spared and when he came to the pirate captain offered him a choice, either join his crew or die. Needless to say Doyle swapped his seaman's clothes for pirate silks and did not think anything of it.
And so life went on for Doyle. In his 28th year, the ship he was manning was tossed upon the reef during a hurricane and the vessel sank, taking most of the crew with her. A few of his fellow pirate brethren survived and were washed upon the beaches of some god forsaken island. Doyle refuses to speak of what happened on that island to this day but whatever happened, he was the only one left alive when a British mail ship dropped anchor just off shore to restock its provisions. He was 31 years old at the time.
At it was that ship which instilled in him a loathing for the Royal British Navy. He was rescued from that damned island only to be clapped in irons by decree of the Royal British Navy for piracy and spent a good two weeks locked in the ship's rat-infested hold. He had gone from living in a secluded hell to another and that did not sit well with him. When the ship docked in Jamaica, Doyle was sentenced to hang, as was the fate of all those who were convicted of piracy and deciding that he did not want to dance the hangman's jig and become food for the gulls and ravens, Doyle escaped. He nearly died in his attempt but when all was said and done, he had managed to pull one over the pompous British adversaries and was a free man.
Since then he has been roaming here and there in search for a pirate ship to join with.
Other: Ever since he escaped the hangman's noose and has been on the look-out for a ship to join with, Doyle has taken on a companion in his travels, or rather he has been followed by one. Remmy, the terrier terror of ship rats is a little scrapper of a mongrel with short legs, a deep chest and a rather sharp set of teeth. Much like Doyle himself the little dog is fearless to a fault and has come up against rats bigger than himself, the English bayonet and much more and made it out in one piece, more or less.
After having rescued from being hacked to pieces by a rather unstable butcher in Port Royal, Remmy has faithfully tagged Doyle's heels and no matter how hard the pirate has tried to rid himself of the pooch, Remmy always managed to find a way back to him. So now Doyle has finally given up and now calls the dog his own.
Roleplay Sample:
I'm a son of a sea cook, I'm a cook in a trader
I can dance, I can sing, I can reef the main boom
I can handle a jigger, I cuts a fine figure
Whenever I gets in a boats standing room
We'll rant and we'll roar like true Newfoundlanders
We'll rant and we'll roar on deck and below
Until we strikes bottom inside the two sunkers
When straight through the channel to Toslow we'll go
I can dance, I can sing, I can reef the main boom
I can handle a jigger, I cuts a fine figure
Whenever I gets in a boats standing room
We'll rant and we'll roar like true Newfoundlanders
We'll rant and we'll roar on deck and below
Until we strikes bottom inside the two sunkers
When straight through the channel to Toslow we'll go
Doyle's deep rich voice sang out over the chorus of chaotic noise that constantly penetrated Tortuga, morning and evening. Doyle laughed as he ducked a flying mug of grog that was thrown in his direction before he shook his head like a dog and stood back up on the chair that he was standing on.
"Sing somethin' else!" A half-drunk pirate grumbled as the motley patrons of the Faithful Bride shouted out curses and agreements.
"Yar! Enough about the Newfies!"
"Can't stand that bloody song!"
"Sing about Blackbeard!"
The tavern rang out with various suggestions for random songs, some of which didn't exist. Doyle stood there and waited for the noise to die down slightly before he spoke up.
"What do ya want me to sing? Hearts of Oak?" Doyle roared before he dove off the chair and under the nearest table as an interesting selection of broken rum bottles, knives and cutlasses embedded themselves in the pillar that he had been standing in front of. To mention that national British navy song within hearing rang of respectable blood-thirsty pirates was an instant death wish.
Doyle chuckled to himself as he picked up a discarded black ribbon that was lying on the floor near him. Eyeing it for a moment he ran his left hand through his blonde and grey mane and grab it at the base of his neck. He weaved the somewhat clean ribbon around his hair in order to keep it out of his face before he stood up once more and brushed himself off. The tavern had fallen silent as every eye was on him, waiting to see what he would say next.
If Doyle tried, he could have cut the tension in the room with a dull butter knife. He knew if he said the wrong thing now, he wouldn't have to worry about singing anything ever again. But Doyle was just as much of a pirate as the rest of the sea scum around him, even if he did have the better singing voice.
"How's about Captain Kidd?" He asked.
"AYE!"
Doyle grinned as he yanked a wooden stool from under an old sleeping pirate and placed it in the center of the tavern before he stood on it. He held his arms up and waited until the chatter had died down again before he cleared his voice and swallowed. A filthy looking laggard by the bar started to drum out the main beat of the popular song and Doyle waited a moment before he sang out as loud and as lively as he could.
My name is Captain Kidd
As I sailed, as I sailed,
Oh my name is Captain Kidd as I sailed,
My name is Captain Kidd
And God's laws I did forbid,
And most wickedly I did as I sailed.
My father taught me well
To shun the gates of hell,
But against him I rebelled as I sailed,
He shoved a bible in my hand
But I left it in the sand
And I pulled away from land,
As I sailed
As I sailed, as I sailed,
Oh my name is Captain Kidd as I sailed,
My name is Captain Kidd
And God's laws I did forbid,
And most wickedly I did as I sailed.
My father taught me well
To shun the gates of hell,
But against him I rebelled as I sailed,
He shoved a bible in my hand
But I left it in the sand
And I pulled away from land,
As I sailed
Like a conductor with a baton, Doyle directed the chorus of off-key, lusty voices that roared out the refrain. The sound was close to a pack of howling dogs but the lively spirit behind the words was infectious to all who listened.
My name is Captain Kidd
As I sailed, as I sailed,
Oh my name is Captain Kidd as I sailed,
My name is Captain Kidd
And God's laws I did forbid,
And most wickedly I did as I sailed.
As I sailed, as I sailed,
Oh my name is Captain Kidd as I sailed,
My name is Captain Kidd
And God's laws I did forbid,
And most wickedly I did as I sailed.