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Will Tennesen

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About Will Tennesen

  • Rank
    Fresh Faced


    Tom Hiddleston
  • AGE
  • RACE
  • JOB
    Nowadays, he is a fisherman
  • 'SHIP:
    Parents died/One estranged sister, deceased/No other family
    Galway, Ireland

Profile Fields

  • Primary
    Will Tennesen
  • All My Characters
    Will Tennesen
  • Typist's Interests
    When I'm not raising my two children or playing computer games with my wife, I can be found huddled behind my guitar singing to myself and remembering the glory days. I exercise my creative streak by running a home brew campaign setting for Savage Worlds (https://sites.google.com/maloric.com/essealath/home), while exercising physically by deadlifting, squatting and bench pressing my way to a better body.

    I'm also a tech geek and build web applications for a living.
  • Typist's Role Play History
    First started writing collaborative fiction / free form roleplay on Terranoire back in about 2000 when I was a mere slip of a lad at 15 (if I recall correctly). I also tried my hand at some X-Men settings where I was lucky enough to play Wolverine, but ultimately my leanings became more towards mundane people in fantastic situations. Lately I've had the itch to write again, and lacking the patience to write a book or the audience to write a short story, I decided to dust off the keyboard and dip my toes into free form again. Between two kids, two dogs, a wife and a job, I can't promise I'll write as much as I did in my youth, but I can promise the writing will be better.
  • Role Play Sample
    Soft hands on hard rope, Will pulled hard, straining his arms, it seemed, to reel in the entire sea beneath them. The Lucky Penny bobbed gently as the catch was hauled up the side of the boat and onto the deck. She was a small boat whose trawl winch was in a semi permanent state of disrepair - which was why Captain Driscoll had hired Will (and others). It was simple work, requiring the ability to follow instructions and drag the fishing nets up onto the boat when the winch broke down. And gutting the fish, of course.

    If anything offended Will’s delicate sensibilities more than the backbreaking work of hauling in the catch, it was the process of gutting them. He’d never been one for the smell of fish, but now he swung gradually between retch-inducing revulsion and being completely desensitised to it. Hands that had never known calluses or honest work were now weathered, steeped in blood and fish guts. And cold. The wind was bad enough, but the water had a way of seeping in, no matter how you tried to guard against it. He’d given up on gloves, which seemed impractical anyway, and embraced the cold while he worked. But cold hands meant slow work, and slow work meant frequent tongue lashings from the captain.

    “Hurry up lady boy!” Driscoll growled as he stepped past, over a crate of gutted fish.

    “Aye captain.” Will murmured. After losing a job on the last fishing trawler, he’d learned not to mouth off. Best to keep quiet and keep all of your teeth while you were at it. Derogatory nicknames aside, the work was solid and dependable. Even if the fish were scarce, Captain Driscoll had a knack for finding them. The only reason he employed the likes of Will was economy - he had one worn out boat and scarcely enough money to keep her running. That meant low wages for the crappy work he offered. Will truly was at the bottom of the food chain here, except for the unfortunates who couldn’t find work.

    If he’d arrived in Galway a week earlier, he could have caught one of the last big refugee barges heading west. But he’d dawdled on his way here, trying to cling onto his old life and ending up stuck in his new one. Not the fresh start he’d wanted, which now lay over the Atlantic. He could try his luck in Europe, but he would only get one chance, and New York was where he had his sights set. Supposedly they were untouched by everything that had gone on in England. No burned out husks that used to be cities. They still had their share of weirdos - nowhere had avoided that. But at least in New York they didn’t have the Outworlder Registration Act. Will was as normal as they came, but he wasn’t stupid either. This was only a step away from concentration camps.

    Like Will, everyone else on this boat was 100% homosapien. It was deliberate, he’d learned, and he did his best to mutter in agreement whenever Driscoll started ranting about devils and abominations. If he threw away another job he’d never get out of here. As it was he seemed to be moving backward at times - every time he got close to affording a ticket, the prices would rise and he would drink his savings away in a fit of depression. It was hard not to, and all the extra calories in Guinness helped make up for the lack of nutrition in his diet. Or so he told himself.

    When the boat finally made shore that evening, he waited his turn to be paid by the captain. When the old man dished out his money, it was light.

    “This is less than yesterday.” Will stated. He tried to keep the complaint out of his tone.

    “You did more work yesterday.” Driscoll countered. “Come back tomorrow and do a man’s work and you’ll get a man’s pay. Otherwise fuck off.”

    Will seethed, but pressing the issue would only result in no money and a solid beating. He took the money and left, conscious of the eyes on him as he did so. Dragging his feet under him, he left the dock behind and headed up into town. He heard raucous laughter at the Twelve Pins Inn, and as he passed it, the breeze behind him carried with it the smell of something delicious (and more importantly, not fish). He grasped the money in his pocket. It was scant enough to enjoy the evening, but if he didn’t get something to eat then tomorrow he would have no energy left to work. Time to invest. Turning around, he pulled open the door and let himself in.

    Two hours later, he staggered out and headed home, which to him was an abandoned Volkswagen Camper van in a junk yard. The owner of the yard was happy to let him stay if it meant more money and someone “on watch” overnight. He fished out the key from his otherwise empty pocket and slumped onto the mattress in the back. Despite working his charm at the Twelve Pins, he’d come home alone tonight. Wasn’t so long ago that he didn’t need to work his charm much at all, but having to try harder was a consequence of age, not to mention the smell of fish guts and sweat.

    He closed his eyes while the van started spinning, sinking into sleep once again, no closer to his ticket out of here.
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