Gender: Male
Age: 23

Rank: Lance Corporal
Class: Sniper

Weapons and Equipment:

• Brondel M1: He prefers the superior stopping power found in the Brondel even if it means he has to be more dead on with each hit due to the drop in accuracy as compared to the GSR.
• Small Ragnaid Canister: One use generally, he would prefer it he didn't have to use it at all.
• Hunting Knife: A token of simpler bygone days.

Personality:
Mascen may be the most laidback individual that can blow your head off from 800 meters away. It may be because of his upbringing mostly in on his father's account who was fond of telling him things like "Boy, call a jack a jack. call a spade a spade. but alwus call a 'oor a lady. their lives are 'ard enoof, an' it never 'urts ter be polite." and the importance of never worrying too much about life and treating everybody you meet with kindness. He finds joy in the simple things of life like a pleasant breeze in the springtime or a well cooked stew. He does not revel in the death he creates and killing people was never something that really spoke out to him as the way for his life to go. What he does appreciate is the "artistry" of his work being able to find a target so far away you can barely see him with your eyes and being able to match the wind and everything else to hit your mark in a way it's rather fulfilling at least or some core level to him.

Bio:
Mascen was born in the forests of southern Gallia on the border of the Kloden Wildwood rather stereotypically in a log cabin. His father like his father before him was a licensed lumberer of the crown it was a simple existence chopping down trees and occasionally heading out to town to sell the lumber to the factories and carpenters before doing it all again. The cabin was a relatively lonely place his mother having died when Mascen was still young and his father out at work most of the time. Mascen ended up taking care of himself more often than not, walking by himself through the woods to town to attend what little schooling he could at the local village. He was fairly popular among his peers with his inviting smile and reasonable athletic ability. Thus was the early years of his life characterized by simple actions of helping his father, wandering about and having torrid affairs with the pretty village girls. All in all he really could not complain about things for a long time.

Though as he grew older things started to become more difficult as the wave of change crashed over him. Mascen's father had grown ill, the type of sickness that you just don't end up getting over. As his illness progressed the two's relationship started to become more strained. His father had begun to push him towards taking up the family trade and becoming a lumberer, to take up his old work boots and start working at the lumber yards like a real man. His reasons for it were kind and just knowing that he didn't have much longer that at least his Son would have a stable foundation and some roots so that he could have a nice life. Mascen though saw things differently, he looked upon their meeger existence in an empty aging cabin and with barely a broken pot to piss in. It wasn't the life that he had dreamed of having, he wasn't going to be some lumberer he was going to find his own path in life. So tension become resentment and anger but the day he turned eighteen he left after one last heated argument never to return to that small log cabin in his woods, that heated conversation would be the last he would have with his father.

Mascen stayed true to his word and spent the next two years wandering the world going wherever he seemed fit through Gallia and the grander world. He learned the ways of a traveler and living on the road without a warm bed beneath him skills that would come in use once the war began in earnest. He took any oddjob that came his way and because of it has an odd plethora of random and mostly useless knowledge and trivia at his disposal. Evidently a wrenching nostalgia of sorts brought him back home to the Wildwood, he took up work as a hunter and a fur trader brushing up on his skills with a gun. He rarely went into town become a recluse of sorts keeping to his lonesome and living off the land. Out there in the woods with little human contact and seemingly isolated from the world whispers of unrest rarely reached him. Though in the early days of March on the dawn of war, he was on his monthly run in town selling the animal parts he had acquired in exchange for more supplies to last the month when he heard unsettling news. He knew what he had to do not that he was going to like it one tiny bit.

RP Sample:

Badump, Badump, Badump the percussive beat of his heart always seemed amplified when he was lining up his shot. He was kneeling next to a large pine his rifle aligned next to it to give him some semblance of balance. He peered down the ironsight of the old hunting rifle towards his target - a deer way off in the distance taking a drink from a small stream. He tried blocking out the other sensation of the world the chipper of the birds, the sweat trickling down from his forehead or the slight rumble in his stomach from having not eaten in about a week as the game in the area had been sparse. He instead focused on what was important the slight tremor in his hand, the breeze and the fact that the rifle had a tendency to place its marks to the right of where you actually aimed it. Taking these factors into account he pulled to the left of the target and up above to account for drop. Another breath and then he fired. A snapcrack as a bullet was launched forward, his target looked up but it was too late the bullet finding its mark. The great buck staggered before dropping to the ground.

"Sorry friend but Mister Mascen has to eat sometime." The hunter muttered to himself as he shouldered his rifle and stood up. He walked briskly across the space between him and his fallen prey whistling a small work tune that he had picked up some time ago in his travels. Reaching the recently deceased buck he looked down at his work - he hit it below the eye at least the poor thing wouldn't of felt the pain from long. It was a solid creature and would have enough meat on it to last him for some time and the antlers would fetch a fair price at market. He shuffled around in his jacket before producing a small hunting knife, the handle was worn but the blade was fresh and shined in the midday light. He knelt down in front of the beast and began to harvest the bounty of his hunt. It was just another average day of Mascen reminding himself of his own mortality as he partook in the circle of life.

Name: Emmaline Muller

Gender: Female

Age: 19

Appearance:



5'6 | 130 lb.

Rank: PFC

Class: Lancer

Weapons and Equipment:

• Lancaar-MSH 01
• Ragnaid (Small)
• Pistol (The type Alicia used at the ruins; was that close to a Makarov?)

Personality: Emmaline is best described as a businesswoman who brings stricture and a worker's mindset in and out of the field. While she comes off as overly serious, sometimes cynical, and often sarcastic, she does have her soft moments when confronted with death, which she views as "just another goddamn door for the reckless or the hopeless". She fears it as much as the next woman or man, but in her self-righteous perspective, she believes she should be right next in line to the Darcsens, if not in front of the Darcsens, if possible.

That being said, she isn't going to give any special treatment to anyone that's still alive, regardless of what happened in their childhood or the last 25 seconds.

Bio: Emmaline was the overseer of a grain field and mill by the time she was 18, and was already considered in an arranged marriage. The eldest of four sisters, Emmaline had to hop between taking care of herself and her sisters while her parents tried to ascertain the best match between the three Muller brothers.

It was quite unfortunate to say that they took the Muller cousin, who lied about his wealth and played coolly the poor man against his three cousins. Emmaline was a little more than disappointed, but at the time said nothing.

Then the war came about, and the Muller cousin fled to avoid the draft. Emmaline wasn't going to stand for that. In a fit of anger, she burned their small cabin and stomped back to her village, only to find it under attack. One thing became another and soon, she found herself dropping grenades into the hatch of a tank.

There was a certain satisfaction about explosives one could get from using them. Maybe it was the comfort knowing that if the shrapnel, the fire, or the force was failing, the shock from the results thereafter would demoralize many. So when she, amongst a slew of other young people, were sent to the Academy, she found her calling as a Lancer.

RP Sample:

Emmaline frowned as she rolled the head of a wheat plant between her fingers. Today's year was extremely good, since the crops were much hardier than the last three. They had almost grown wild without her employees noticing, and so the harvest was more of a mad rush to reap, thresh, and process into what would be fine flour for the Capitol.

It came to her as odd that if she did meet the production quote, she was to send every seed of that strain to the Capitol too. In other words, she was playing roulette on whatever she could muster or send back. Policies like this made her blood hard-boil, but if she was only reborn as a man...well, then she couldn't wear dresses, couldn't she?

Appreciate your given life, her mom always chimed, but Emmaline always felt she was making withdrawals from a bank of time. This life of a lady wasn't to her liking, but her brain couldn't frack up any alternatives under that straw-colored hair, so here she was.

A wail from inside the mill told her someone had just soiled themselves again. Children these days...