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Server time (UTC): 2020-01-19, 17:39 WE ARE RECRUITING
Blake Weiland
Character information
  1. Alias
  2. Mental
    Sound, logical mind and not overly worried about what has been going on around him since the outbreak.
  3. Morale
    As a 'warrior-poet', he has once again found inspiration to get over his writer's block and is extatic about it.
  4. Date of birth
    1986-03-25 (33 years old)
  5. Place of birth
    Istanbul, Turkey
  6. Nationality
  7. Ethnicity
  8. Languages
    English, Turkish
  9. Religion


  1. Height
    178 cm
  2. Weight
    87 kg
  3. Build
    Muscular, relatively slim fit.
  4. Hair
    Originally dark blond, turned almost dark brown in the last few years.
  5. Eyes
    Dark brown, medium sized.
  6. Alignment
    Chaotic Good
  7. Equipment
    A mid-sized, leather-covered hardcover notebook. A Graf von Faber pen that was gifted to him by his mother upon graduation. As for weaponry, lately he carries a well-maintained M4A1 complemented with M68 optics, accompanied by a suppressed 4-Five pistol as sidearm.



My name is Blake Weiland.

I'm a survivor.

I wish I could start my story by saying "I was born to a family of two dedicated parents and lovely siblings", but I was not. I was the only child. My mother was a Turkish government official when he met my American father, who was a military officer while they were both stationed at a NATO base in Turkey. Although my old man was nothing but trouble, he had the looks to have picked up my mother's kind of a woman; kind, caring and fragile. Long story short - theirs was only a fling, a fairly short marriage. A reckless one. I was the result. Almost right after when my mother gave birth to me, my 'dad' left me with her and took off.

22 years had passed. I had arrived in the US 4 years ago, to study English Literature at Dartmouth College, and now I was a graduate - holding my newly earned diploma, walking in between my 'proud' parents. They had never gotten back together - this was a one-time, celebratory occasion. My mother had helped me get to that point, all by herself. She had worked hard to provide me with an honest way of life. She had succeeded. Yet, there was one thing I was not honest to her about. My study at Darthmouth was almost entirely from off-campus. Because, I had been taking private, serious military training off the radar - courtesy of my long-lost father: Vice Admiral Zachary Weiland of United States Navy.

Time moved very fast, I had been feeling like I missed out on life. It was many years later from my graduation. So far I had been holding a Captain's rank in USMC - on paper. Perks of having good relations with the high command, thanks to "Zach". In reality, I was part of an elite covert ops unit, working mainly for CIA. It was called The Grigori, "The Watchers". Since I was the commanding officer in field, the callsign assigned to me was "Semiazas": name of the 'leader' of The Grigori. I always thought it was way too cheesy of my superiors to name a band of very highly trained killers and counter-intelligence officers after 'fallen' angels of Enoch; a disgrace to their own kind. Were they expecting us to fall like those angels? Because, that is exactly what happened in Chernarus.

Eight months ago, I received an e-mail from a fellow Dartmouth graduate - Dr. Saleen Argent, one and only daughter of a US FSO in Chernarus, Hal Argent. Saleen was a lawyer, working for the UN back in the States. She was on vacation, visiting his father in the capital, Chernogorosk. The e-mail seemed like a friendly "what's up" at first look, but towards the end - all of a sudden, it turned into a serious request for help. Attached, there was a file of vague scraps of info about a 'political conspiracy' by the Chernarussian government, and her father was somehow involved in it. She was saying that if what she managed to interprete from those files was even a tiny bit possible, it could mean destabilization of grand scale in the country and maybe even in the region. She knew me as a USMC Captain, and thought I could relay this information to the "authorities". I was not sure what to think, or about passing it through my immediate supervisors, some of them were close friends with the FSO. So I broke the chain of command, carried it directly to the top. The way I did it was not welcomed by command, and it took them two months to properly act. They sent me - only me - undercover, as a part of the security detail for the ambassador. My mission was to investigate the claims, gather proof, protect and extract Dr. Argent out of Chernarus.

It was not long before my cover was blown. Apparently, one of the Hal's 'friends' in CIA had ratted me out to the ambassador. He sent his personal guards and half a dozen CDF soldiers to my quarters to have my apprehended. They put me in a fortified, escape-proofed cell in which I was kept for months, unaware of anything and everything going on in the World.

And one day, it started. I woke up to the sound of explosions, gunfire and screams. My two 'guard dogs' looked terrified, yet they were still holding their positions. At first, I thought it was US Military or UN - finally realizing it was time to take drastic measures. But it was not them. It was something else. I could smell something "rotten" in the air. The guards received a radio transmission, commanding them to tase and restrain me, in order to be moved into another part of the facility for 'the procedure'.


Those two idiots. They should've known that it takes a lot more to drop someone like me. If they they had done their jobs, Saleen Argent could still be alive.


As soon as they thought that I was down, they opened the cell and entered. I made my move, killed them both. Made my way out, avoiding or killing the guards whenever necessary. Found Saleen held at gunpoint in his father's office, where there was no sign of the man himself. After 'removing' her guards, together we took the chopper stationed on the helipad of the building. She was trying to explain things without even catching her breath, repeatedly saying "I am sorry". It only made sense after we got airborne: Chernarus was burning. People were attacking each other using their bare hands and... their teeth. Apparently, the CDF was almost overrun by civilians. But why? Why would people run towards tank cannons and machine guns as they fired upon them, what reason on earth would make human beings do that? Saleen was mumbling about things I was not qualified to understand. As she saw the look on my face, she decided to dumbify it to a single word: "Zombies."

Just when I started laughing hysterically, something hit the tail rotor. I was losing control and coming in hot for a crash landing. The last thing I heard before hitting the trees was Saleen's voice, yelling, "There must be a cure".

It's been a year since I was pulled out of the burning wreck by some locals, who were living in a mountain village nearby - somewhere relatively safe. Saleen had apparently died on impact. All communication with outside world was lost. Now, I'm standing on the coast, with the urge to fight gone. All I want is sustenance, to live, to do the only other thing I was educated to do: writing. I realize it may be a bit selfish, but maybe all of this is good for me. I have inspiration, once more in... well, forever. The people seem to think there is a new order now, a beast with many heads - what's left of the military, headless militias, power-hungry cutthroats, wannabe heroes, and the "dead". Maybe there indeed is a cure like she hoped so. Saleen hoped so. She wanted me to keep on going. Maybe she had seen something in me, that I only realize in this very moment:

I, Blake "Semiazas" Weiland, am a survivor.


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