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Server time: 2018-07-21, 15:28 WE ARE RECRUITING


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About xxAristotlexxx

  • Birthday 06/20/1997
  1. A crackle and hiss mark the PTT being held down by the professor, "I'm heading to meet with you. I'll be in the building that most chiefly resembles old British culture. I will be late." The button is released hastily afterwards, the radio set down as Hastings gets to work replacing the bandages covering his right hand that's smudged green with antiseptics and whatever foul things had found their way into the wound caused by the infected mere minutes ago.
  2. Until now the last transmission, the professor had been jogging through the forest; a compass clutched in one hand with a pistol clutched in the other. Pausing next to a large birch tree, he sets the compass down and reaches up to press the PTT, "The last transmission.. I would be happy to meet up. You decide a place, I'll hang around there for the next few days; if I make it."
  3. It wasn't a peaceful night for Hastings. Hearing the sounds of people responding to his radio call was quite euphoric at first but when he had heard what the responders were statin, it merely made him want to shrink up inside of his coat even further. Now, bleary eyed and barely functional, the man grasps the side of the radio and holds the PTT, "I'll take it all under advisement. Thank-you for the useful tips, Miss and Mr. And miss... Thank-you." Releasing the PTT with a small, weak sigh the professor sets his radio against the ground, moving about his small campsite to prepare his belongings for travel. Pressing the PTT once more, the professor quietly inquires, "Is there anywhere that's safe? Or should I treat everyone I meet as if they are a cannibal?"
  4. It had been a good eight hours since he had been stuck in the attic of a building, praying with his head between his knees for the infected outside to lose the scent of fresh blood. Six hours since he had wandered the roads, searching for supplies. Now he was alone with the fruits of his struggles desperately clutched between his bandaged fingers. It was only a brief hesitation, as the speckled man's fingers hovered over the radio before flicking it on and turning it this way and that before holding down what -he hoped- was the correct button. "Hello. Ah... Well, this is Professor Hastings Sherwood. I was an english-born teacher who moved to Chernarus to assist with its recovery in '09. I am willing to trade medical and munitions in exchange for supplies of similar nature. Should you need to find me, search the area around.." A pause follows, the keen listeners hearing the muffled sound of paper rustling, "... Novaya Petrovka. You'll recognise me by my glasses. If you come seeking trade, I shall gladly provide however if you come with hostile intentions we'll need to... uh.. Do something. Thank-you for listening and good luck." Releasing the radio from his grasp, the professor dropped the device as if it had suddenly become of molten metal. 'I'm an idiot, I'm an idiot...' was the mantra repeating inside of his skull, quickly stamping out the fire he had made to curl up within the false-warmth of his hoodie.
  5. Thank you three! I wasn't sure if I went a little overboard with the backstory so thank-you.
  6. Thank you all! Have no fear, the rules are my home page.
  7. Greetings! I look forward to joining you all in this wonderful world of death and infected people trying to eat us. *tips hat*