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Aristocrat

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    United Kingdom

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About Aristocrat

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    Male

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  • Marcunt

  • FinskaFiskar

  • Jonal

  • Sam Fields

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  1. I'm much obliged to @FinskaFiskar & @Marcunt for taking the time to tutor a malnourished, brain chilled Englishman the ways of the new world. Looking forward to continuing our ill-fated road trip soon.
  2. Will Holdsworth

    Will Holdsworth was born the eldest son of a Devonshire landowner. Growing up many miles from the small market town of Buckfastleigh, he spent most of his early childhood in the quiet isolation of his family's country manor house. No sooner than he was old enough to walk, his father would take him exploring in the Dartmoor. From a young age, he'd learn how to navigate his way between the rocky tors and through the dangerous bogs that mired the area. When he wasn't out getting lost in the wilderness, he'd be at home tending to the livestock and helping to maintain the dilapidated outbuildings. Once his chores were completed, he'd spend his evenings reading the few books that adorned the dusty shelves of his father's neglected study. The prose was difficult but the stories provided a welcome distraction for his juvenile mind, taking him to exotic lands beyond the wearisome, green hills of his birthplace. Privately tutored for many years, he struggled to integrate into secondary school, becoming something of a social outcast. Quite often he would bunk off class to go trespassing in the old military ranges that littered the moorlands, where few were likely to tread. Education held little interest to him and his grades suffered as a result; creative writing was perhaps the only subject he excelled in, which was often derisively attributed to his capacity to daydream. The local archery club provided a rare chance to socialize with like-minded individuals, giving him something to focus on outside of his failing studies. Though proficient, his skill with a bow never warranted any significant merit outside local county tournaments. Despite the protests of his more traditionally minded kinsfolk, a month after his 19th Birthday, he departed the West Country to study English literature in London. There his childhood wanderlust was rekindled by his exposure to the diversity of city life. Shortly after graduation, his father suffered a stroke. Much to the dismay of the community, he sold his share in the family estate, using the money to pursue his dream of becoming an amateur travel writer. Switzerland, South Africa, Brazil, India, China to name just a few of the notches on his passport. Driven by his yearning for new horizons, he ventured to Chernarus for a rare opportunity to go climbing in the Black Mountains. Heavy W.I.P
  3. Lopatino's Church Massacre Comic

    Nooooooo! Horses can't gallop in snow! You should know this!
  4. Lopatino's Church Massacre Comic

    Words fail me. It's hauntingly beautiful.
  5. Brayces - COMIC/ART

    This idea has my wholehearted support.
  6. The Best (worst) of "The Cavaliers"

    I thought I would add to the good memories.
  7. TEATIME - [OPEN FREQ]

    *Ashford covers his weary visage with a gloved hand, shaking his head dismissively.* "What on God's good earth are you talking about woman? My sword is right her-" *He pauses, recollection dawning upon his frazzled mind.* "Miss Haze, is that you?" *Edwin sits bolt upright in his chair, his composed countenance startled by the possibility of a spiritual visitation.* "By jove! You're alive." *Smoothing back his unkempt hair, he chastises his earlier brashness.* "We feared the worst when.. Well.. It happened." *Stroking his stubbled chin, he takes a moment to ponder, collecting his troubled thoughts.* "This business about my sword.. what do you mean by-" *Shrill cries punctuate his incomplete sentiment. Directing his gaze towards the source of the disturbance, he watches as Mr Legrand wrestles with his former sparring partner, urgently trying to keep the creature's snapping jaws from disfiguring his face any further.* "Lieutenant." *Alert and ready, Mr Peterson draws the claymore bequeathed to him by Ashford for his valorous actions at the Church. Sunlight dances off the blade as he swings it overhead, bringing it down on the rotting blighter's brittle skull.* "What the deuce?" *Ashford watches dumbstruck as his treasured family heirloom shatters, sending sharp shards of steel in all directions. If he had not been sitting down, its discarded pommel would have surely ended him.* "Egad! My sword! *Edwin laments his fallen weapon, watching in dumbstruck horror as the poor infected blighter stumbles around with his head semi-bifurcated, his clumsy, clownish existence residing in the grey area between undeath and deathdeath.* "I uh.. Do believe I comprehend the issue.." *Leaning down, he picks up a fragment of the broken blade, his thumb brushing over the cheap, stainless steel, commonly used when constructing replicas.* "..Best we keep this to ourselves for now." *The youthful Lord discretely pockets the steel splinter, observing quietly from the sideline as Mr Nice attempts to clean the blood from the squalling Frenchman's eyes with a dainty handkerchief. All whilst Peterson screams profanity and empties an assault rifle clip into the gurgling remnants of the would-be duelist.* "This evening perhaps? A few hours from now.. In the town where I encountered you and the sergeant." *Ashford slowly releases his thumb from the PTT, his knuckles white with tension.*
  8. TEATIME - [OPEN FREQ]

    *Ashford swipes his new cane back and forth with all due vigor, thrashing out at the infected swine that dare disturb his serene sphere of nobility. Unperturbed by the aristocrat's undignified flailing, the deceased gentleman turns the other rotting cheek, watching on with cold indifference as the young Lord wears himself ragged. Arrayed around him in a circle, his loyal Cavaliers spectate the pitiable display with a growing sense of tedium, forbidden to intervene on pain of court martial. Bored beyond measure, Legrand flicks through the various frequencies, listening for anything which might relieve the crushing monotony. Catching the tail end of Lo's transmission, Hervé scuffles with the crude device, his thumb finding the transmit button.* "One moment mademoiselle.." *Nervously shuffling over to the foul tempered Englishman, he stands with his arms folded behind his back.* "Excuse me Capitaine, this may be of interest to you.." *Edwin keeps his focus upon the advancing foe, though this does little to mask his evident displeasure.* "Can you not see that I'm presently engaged in a duel?" *Mastering his emotions, the Frenchman audibly swallows his rising indignation* "I can see that sir.. However.. The matter concerns your sword." *Hesitant to admit defeat yet undeniably fatigued, the patrician relents to the allure of curiosity. Turning, he liberates the clunky radio from the Frank's grasp, his ordinarily pale features reddened with exertion.* "Keep him entertained, I shan't be long." *Thrusting his rudimentary walking stick into the man's idle hands, Edwin allows Monsieur Legrand the privilege of curtailing his restless opponent. "Good Afternoon. This is Lord Captain Ashf-argh-d!" *Clutching his wounded side, he stumbles through the throng of redcoats. Deprived of the adrenaline which sustained his fury, the nobleman quickly succumbs to the weight of his ceaseless pain. Ever diligent to his master's whims, Mr Nice steps forwards with a folding chair.* "Much obliged." *Muttering his reluctant gratitude, he waves off further assistance, stubbornly determined to lower his own stiff frame into the proffered seat.* "My Quartermaster informs me you have news of my blade." *The Captain continues his inquiry, voice carefully poised so as to belie the true extent of his suffering, preserving his rapidly diminishing dignity.* "What can you tell me?" *Ashford releases the PTT with a deep, sorrowful sigh, gaze turned skyward as he awaits a response.*
  9. Lopatino's Church Massacre Comic

    He was a majestic stallion, torn too soon from this world. I would trade all the gold from all the churches in Chernarus to see him frolic in the Spanish fields once again.
  10. *Ashford drums his idle fingers on the desk, waiting for both gentleman to conclude their sentiments before pushing his thumb down on the PTT.* "Mhm.." *Edwin ponders for a moment, glancing at the hands of his wrist watch, still stubbornly synced to BST.* "Would Ten O'clock be acceptable? London time of course." *He releases the PTT, reclining in his chair as he listens for confirmation.*
  11. *Ashford leans over to take the radio from Mr Peterson's failing grasp.* "Thank you Lieutenant, I shall take over from here. Rest easy." *The young lord gently lowers his frame into a moth-eaten, leather bound chair, its dilapidated legs groaning in protest.* "Sorry to hear of your ailment sir. Would that I could offer you the services of our physician, alas their talents shall be sorely needed this day." *He takes up the teapot quietly stewing on the desk, pouring out a generous serving into a chipped china cup.* "Though I suppose your line of work carries with it a certain.. self inflicted risk." *The Captain briefly releases his distinguished thumb from the PTT to chortle a tad.* "Nevertheless, an attack upon a diplomatic envoy from -any- party is something to be treated with scorn by all whom deem themselves civilized." *Edwin tightens his clasp upon the silver handle of his sugar shell as he shovels heaps of the precious white stuff into his debaucherous brew.* "The dissimilitude of our ideologies is evident." *He stirs the sterling spoon in a wide, graceful circle, watching as the grains dissipate.* "Yet we remain committed to offering a sweeter.. more diplomatic solution to any potential quarrels that might arise." *He wraps his slender digits around the handle, pinkie outstretched.* "As a servant of her majesty I await you at her pleasure." *Presses the brim to his parted lips, taking a measured sip.* "Do not let this opportunity become.." *Frowns with displeasure, tipping the cup upside down, emptying its contents onto the floor.* "Cold." *Flicks off the radio unit before ringing the bell to summon his valet.*
  12. Lost and Alone: Tales of Elizabeth Smith

    How could you be so insensitive Mr Peterson! I for one always thought Beth was a lovely name... In all seriousness, it was a riveting read. Even if it was a tad macabre for my tastes. Though I would blame that upon my own sensibilities than your writing style. It carried a good sense of pacing throughout and the transition from dialogue to internal monologue was handled very well. If I had to deliver some constructive criticism, I would say that the plot twist danced a little too close to the writer's precipice which is Deus ex machina. Hide a character's true nature in plain sight, don't conceal it from the audience, otherwise they'll feel cheated. Overall, still an excellent piece of prose, tackling a difficult subject which is often circumnavigated in fiction.
  13. @Zombru 'Twas an absolute pleasure sir. I hope to see you around again in the future.
  14. Where is Everyone From?

    Dear Old Blighty... ...That's limey for the greatest country to ever rule the waves.
  15. @Aberration You're welcome compadre. Keep those chickens safe.
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