Name: Connor O'Flaherty

Age: 25

Appearance: Connor is a rather unimpressive person, being of average height and build. Muscular enough for people to believe that he is in the militia, but not so muscular that he looks more of a brute than an artist. He has ginger hair, cut short to militia standards, but it still licks at his brows and collar of his shirt. As if nature had decided to make him look like distilled-Irish, he has bright, green eyes. 

Occupation: Artist/Militiaman

Personality: Some might call him a coward, but Connor prefers to describe himself as being more discerning as to the types of risks he is willing to take. Who cares if his reputation suffers when he runs from a fight he's absolutely confident of losing? As long as he is in one piece and is able to function properly the next day, it's all fine by him. Besides, he never puts himself forward as a warrior; he's an artist first and a soldier second. A very, very, very far second.

He is rather open with his thoughts, though that has less to do with lack of tact and more to do with having lived much of his adult life on an island faraway from civilization. Sometimes it may even appear that he is talking to himself, but he's not crazy. It's just a method he uses to prevent his train of thought from derailing, though from the disjointed thoughts that comes of his mouth, it can be hard to believe. Just trust in that he knows what he's doing. Most of the time. 

History: An Irishman living in Scotland while serving an Englishman trying hard to be Scottish. Don't worry if that confuses you; sometimes Connor feels the same as well. Born to an impoverished Irish family in Victorian-era London, to say that Connor had a rough childhood would be an affront to the phrase 'massive understatement'. If the other - usually English - street urchins didn't make his life hell, then the deep-seated against the Irish, especially Irish Catholics like his family, did. If a day went past without him or his family being wrongfully accused of a crime, or he did not have to run away from anyone, Connor would have taken it as a wonderful day.

In a rather roundabout attempt to show others that they were a good, British family, Connor's father pressured him to join the army in some capacity. The best outcome would be that Connor would be sent off to fight in some faraway corner of the globe for Queen and Country, and his father would be able to proudly say that at least one member of his family was doing some good to the British Empire. Connor, however, wanted to have none of that. He loved drawing, and usually spent whatever spare time he had sketching out scenes from his life onto whatever scraps of paper he had. Soldiering was not for him; Connor wanted to be an artist.

After several arguments and failed attempts to physically pull Connor to a recruitment office, he and his father settled on a compromise. Instead of joining the regular force, Connor would join the territorial army. He would never be sent overseas, and as long as he pretended to be sad about it every time a war broke out, he would still appear to be a good little patriot. Even better, Connor had to option of choosing where he wanted to be posted, and he chose to be sent to the Shetland Islands, or as his father called it, the 'arse of the British isles'.

It was a perfect life for Connor. The Shetlands were faraway from the mainland enough that he was rarely ever called for service, and as long as he fulfilled his yearly requirements of showing up to prove that he could still fire a rifle, stand in a file and fight alongside his regiment of fellow misfits, he was left alone. The islands were also quiet, and provided no shortage of scenery for him to sketch, and eventually, paint. It was not long before his talents were noticed by a rather wealthy local who then hired Connor to produce his works of art for various auction houses. The money, while not amazing, was good, and Connor felt himself believing in the whole 'luck of the Irish' thing.

Oh, if only he knew where he would wake up.