Will Tennesen

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About Will Tennesen

  • Rank
    Fresh Faced

CHARACTER PROFILE

  • GENDER
    Male
  • PLAY-BY
    Tom Hiddleston
  • AGE
    36
  • SEXUAL ORIENTATION
    Heterosexual
  • RACE
    Human
  • JOB
    Nowadays, he is a fisherman
  • 'SHIP:
    Parents died/One estranged sister, deceased/No other family
  • LOCATION
    Galway, Ireland
  • FACTION
    Factionless
  • APPEARANCE
    Tall and lean, soft skinned and with eyes downcast and a short and well trimmed beard.
  • PERSONALITY
    Will feels overwhelmed, in denial about the extent of the changes to his world. From a life of privilege to the hard working job of a fisherman, he is humbled by circumstance, but often bitter at the same time. He has his prejudices, which a few bruises and black eyes have taught him to keep to himself.
  • PERSONAL BELONGINGS
    The clothes on his back and a stash of cash that he hopes will buy him passage to New York. He also owns a 5th Generation iPod, although it doesn't work as well as it used to and opportunities to charge it are rare.

STAFF APPROVED ABILITIES/SKILLS/HISTORY

  • APPROVED ABILITIES
    None
  • APPROVED SKILLS
    Will is a bit of a lady's man, and has a knack with words. In better times, he could usually talk himself into or out of any situation. But in the poverty he now finds himself facing, he is much less charming, fighting depression and hopelessness. He has no tangible skills that are of use to the hard working folk around him, and is lucky enough to have a menial job on a small fishing trawler.
  • APPROVED HISTORY
    In 2012, Will was caught in the midst of the evacuation to Ireland from his home in Dorset. He initially refused to leave, taking advantage of the plummeting house prices to set himself up with a nice flat right in the town centre. When this all blew over he'd be sitting pretty at the top of the heap, but after Bournemouth was burned to cinders, he had no work to speak of and relented. By chance he had been visiting a client in Dorchester when it happened, but his home was gone, along with anything of worth he might have brought with him. He boarded a coach that took him to Bristol, where he waited a week for his place on a ferry to Wexford. He'd gone north immediately, hoping to ply his trade in Dublin, only to be evacuated west again to Galway. Once again he tried to stay behind, rolling the dice on the chance that the army would win, but he was wrong again, and arrived in Galway too late for the evacuation to New York. If he wanted to go that way now, he would have to pay.

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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  1. Walking without moving

    "If I don't do something, then I do nothing. And if I do nothing because of what they might do then I'm a coward." He turned that over in his head. All this bravado for a pretty redhead? It wouldn't be the strangest thing he'd ever done, but maybe he was just sick of this town. Sick of feeling like his life was on pause. * * * A few hours later, he was feeling less brave. It was past midnight, and he sat on the pavement bleeding from the nose. "I don't think it's broken," he said for the third time, the smell of liquor rolling off him afresh. One too many opinions that ran counter to the general mood had earned him a fight he couldn't win, and the scorn of the inn's patrons as he was put in his place. What was he supposed to say? "Oh hey, I'm looking for a ship that will smuggle my new friend out of the country. I think she's an outworlder." No, he'd talked instead about how crazy it was that people were so mad about it, comparing it to the refugee crisis of a few years ago, when he had been one of those fleeing England. He'd hoped to find out who held sympathies in that direction, and in a way he had his answer: nobody. Bolstered by alcohol, he'd become abrasive at the overt bigotry. And nobody had lifted a finger or uttered a word as he was soundly beaten and thrown out of the door. They'd strolled into town late, Will trying his best to reassure Rhyse and instil her with the confidence that he was faking. "We're just a couple out for a drink. You'll be another face they don't recognise." he'd said. He'd been mostly right. Nobody had paid her any heed because of her origins, but her long red hair had earned her a few wolf whistles. Thankfully, the fallout from his big mouth hadn't landed her in hot water. But they were no closer now than they'd been three hours ago.
  2. Walking without moving

    "Well I'm guessing you don't want to stay here. It's not a particularly welcoming climate right now." Will picked his next words carefully, aware that he wasn't really doing a great job putting this girl at ease. "There are ways out for people . . . people who . . . for outworlders. I don't know exactly who does it, but someone smuggles people like you out of Ireland. Hold this." He indicated the end of the bandage and waited for Rhyse to press her fingers to it, holding it in place. Will rummaged through the first aid kit as they talked, looking for tape or a safety pin - anything to hold the bandage in place. "The people I work with, they're not the most tolerant of outworlders. They say things . . . but they know something, I'm sure of it. I could try and find out ... something. I'm not trying to get your hopes up. But I think there are ships that dock at night. They don't come in by the fishing trawlers, which cuts out a big section of the dock..." He was fervent now, his brain shrugging off the drink as he reasoned his way to a solution. "Any ship making that journey regularly would have to be a good size, which rules out a lot of the smaller craft. And I don't think they'd stay for long. They'd be regulars, though - the same ships doing the same route again and again, coming into town for a couple of days and then gone again." He looked thoughtful, chewing on his lip as he threw down the first aid kit in frustration. He reached under the bed, rummaging, and pulled out a roll of gaffer tape. "This will have to do." He smiled apologetically, and began wrapping the strong tape around the top of the bandage before tearing it off and patting it down. Pushing himself to his feet, he sat on the bed next to Rhyse, wrapped up in his thoughts now. "You could make the journey in a week with a decent engine, but it depends if they take the northern route or head down to Europe and cross to the Caribbean. This time of year I reckon it's the northern route. There are a few boats I know of that could make the trip reliably - The Pretty Lark, The Belle, Fairwind's Folly. They're all in dock tonight." He looked to Rhyse and raised an eyebrow. Something had gotten into him, and the thought of going looking for these ships now seemed like a fantastic idea. "Think you can walk on that?"
  3. Walking without moving

    Will straightened up awkwardly, holding aloft the first aid kid. "Found it." He announced triumphantly, and then read the situation. The girl did not look at all comfortable or at ease. "Rhyse..." he tried the name out, moving slowly so as not to alarm her. "It's ok, you're safe here. But if we don't take a look at that leg it could get infected. Best to be sure, right?" He sat down on the edge of the and put down the first aid kit - a small green plastic box with a white cross on the face. Opening it carefully, he surveyed the contents. There were plasters, gauze bandages, some antiseptic cream... he removed each useful component as he found it, eventually removing the antiseptic wipes and setting the box aside. Indicating Rhyse's leg, he held up the wipe as he tore open the packet. "May I?" He asked, crouching down next to the bed. She didn't seem entirely happy with the situation, but with nowhere to go, she had little choice but to allow him to help or barge past him and run out into the night. He was sensitive to her ordeal as he gingerly brushed the wipe against her left knee. "Let me know if this hurts, ok?" he advised her. Probably should have said that before he started. He was careful not to press too hard or drag the wipe over the wound. "Looks sore," he said conversationally, trying to put her at ease. He took away the wipe, noting the colour of the blood. A "whaddaya know" hum was all that betrayed his reaction. Folding the wipe back in on itself, he applied the clean area to the wound again and continued his work. "I should probably tell you, I don't really know what I'm doing," he said with what he hoped was an affectionate smile. Opening the cream, he applied a small dab of the stuff to her skin. It was cool and soft. Rubbing it gently into the graze, he looked up at her. "Normally I'd buy you a drink first," he started, then thought better of it. Probably not the time or place for that kind of joke. "Sorry." He straightened out her leg. The graze was a little too big for any of the plasters in the kit, so he placed a pad over the top and started wrapping the gauze bandage around her knee. His hands weren't as soft as they used to be, but he tried to be gentle as he did so, conscious that he smelled of drink and his speech was probably slurring more than he realised. "So no to Galway then. Do you have another destination in mind?"
  4. Walking without moving

    Will climbed into the camper after Rhyse and pulled shut the door. The night was otherwise silent, and the noise seemed unnaturally loud. Will sat down on the edge of the bed and looked across at Rhyse, who was sat next to him. The night was clear, and in the moonlight she looked nervous, out of place. He struggled for a moment to figure out what to say, dismissing the usual lines he would have on hand when talking to a beautiful woman. He also didn’t want to pry. People could be sensitive about that sort of thing. She still hadn’t said anything, and he felt like she was waiting for him to break the silence. He cleared his throat, casting his thoughts around for something to say. Given a few drinks he normally had one thing on his mind, but this girl wasn’t like most that he knew. She wasn’t meeting his eyes, and her body language spoke of anxiety, not desire. You're safe, he wanted to say. It seemed like the decent thing to say, but he didn't. He just paused, staring at his hands, uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Then to fill the silence, his words began flowing like wine. “I’ve got work tomorrow. If you want to find somewhere more comfortable to stay I can walk into Galway with you. Or you can stay here. There’s not much to do, but nobody will bother you.” He sounded like a nervous teenager, but he wasn't used to making conversation that didn't have an ulterior motive. He felt like he should say the "right" thing. She was scared, and hurt. He saw her knee in the moonlight and blinked away the fatigue. "Wait, I have a first aid kit." He got up and leaned over the front seat, fumbling around for the plastic box that he knew was there somewhere.
  5. Walking without moving

    Will kept his eyes shut, breathing deeply. As the adrenaline left him, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand up without his legs buckling. It hit him how close they had come to a “situation”. As the girl crawled out from under the van, he made his own attempt to move, shuffling sideways into the gap between the two vehicles. Rolling onto his front, he pushed himself up, taking another deep breath before he laboriously heaved himself first to one knee, then to his feet. He still hadn’t said a word to his guest, nor she to him. But in the silence following the departure of the motorbikes he heard her sob quietly. Liquor-soaked synapses fired, trying to decide what he should do. There wasn’t much of a choice - he couldn’t tell her to leave. He would offer what help or shelter he could. “Hey.” He said from the other side of the van. He started walking around the camper, his legs weak underneath him. He took another deep breath and tried to walk with a little more self-assurance. After all, this was his home. He rounded the front of the van and stopped, one hand resting on the wing mirror near his head. “Hey,” he repeated. She was on the ground, arms wrapped round her legs and face hidden. “Come on, you can’t sit there all night, you’ll freeze.” A pause, and then he continued. “Do you have somewhere to go? I mean, do you need somewhere to stay?” He patted the side of the Volkswagen. “It’s not exactly the Ritz, but there’s room for one more.” He stepped a little closer and offered his hand. “I’m Will.”
  6. SITE EVOLUTION

    Put your character in the following situation: you are walking down the street when a huge werewolf appears, tearing apart pedestrians ahead of you. Which of the following describes your actions? You pull out your weapon and charge in, using your exceptional abilities to defeat the creature. You feel no real fear - this is all in a day's work. You rush in to try and protect others even though you don't stand a chance. It is the right thing to do, but ultimately you are vanquished. You run and hide, hoping that the monster doesn't find you. You would be torn apart, and the debilitating fear quashes any notions of being a hero. I imagine most people would fall into categories 1 or 2. You see a foe and now your character has purpose. There is nothing wrong with this, and there are many interesting motivations to be had from a hero. I imagine that few people would choose 3, however (correct me if I'm wrong). In the past I would have chosen 1 or 2. I'd have lots of fun describing in exquisite detail the kind of John Woo antics my character gets up to in defence of the innocent. Nowadays, however, I am a 3, through and through. I think of shows like The Walking Dead, or films like Cloverfield and Jurassic Park. These are tales of ordinary people in extraordinary situations. They are scrambling to survive, and the audience can identify with that struggle. I don't find I can identify with a fearless warrior trained in seventy kinds of martial arts with super powers coming our of their rear end. Playing a super powerful fighter generally becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, because the solution to every problem is combat. Will Tennessen is an example of this goal. He doesn't have a tragic backstory or a dark secret. He doesn't spend his days fighting monsters or leaping from rooftop to rooftop. He is unremarkable, with a slight drinking problem. He is scared and he is fragile. He is flawed. I'd like to see more characters like that. P.S. - This is not an attack on anyone's character or writing style. If anything, it's an observation of my own style as it's changed through the years. I went from playing a combat-centric special snowflake to an average guy over the course of 17 years.
  7. Will Tennessen signature

  8. Walking without moving

    Will snapped awake. Something had just hit the side of his van, and the growl of motorbike engines that had weaved themselves into his dream was punctuated by shouts in the distance. He sat up, pulling back the corner of a worn curtain to see outside. It was dark, of course - he could make out little through the grimy window. He slipped off the bed that almost filled the interior, cracking open a door on the side of the van. Immediately the noise became clearer. The camper was on the end of a row of similarly sized carcasses, facing immediately onto a wall of cars above it stacked 4 high. He contemplated climbing the stack for a better look, but immediately heard taunting voices getting closer. “Come on out, darlin’. We won’t bit yeh. Billy jus’ wants to play with yeh some.” Another voice snickered and added. “Aye it’s Finn who wants to fuck yeh.” “Fuck off, you gobshite. I’d rather fuck your ma’ than one o’ them!” He slipped outside, grabbing a length of lead pipe that he kept in the van as he did so. His boots crunched on the frosty ground - it was a cold night for April, but days at sea had steeled him against it and he closed the door gently, silently. The cold air and adrenaline had a sobering effect, and he felt alert. Jim Riley might want him to “keep an eye on the place”, but the lead pipe was likely to be no use in a fight. Still, the weight of it gave him confidence. The voices were getting closer, but the engines were not. They clearly weren’t after Will, but they didn’t sound like the friendly sort. Best not get in their way. He wondered who they were after and what she had done to deserve the fox and hounds routine. But “one of them” could only have one meaning these days. He ducked down behind the van as two men rounded the corner. They were maybe fifty yards away at most. One of them carried a cricket bat, and the other some sort of hunting rifle. The batter swung at the wing mirror of one of the wrecks and whooped in delight. Will had few options here. He was no fighter, even after a skinful, and he doubted he could get out of the yard without being seen. He knelt next to the van’s rear wheel and eased himself onto his front, sliding under the base of the camper and coming face to face with a red haired beauty. His shock paralysed him for a moment and he knew that this was the woman they were searching for. He remembered the thud that had woken him and pieced together what had happened. Cheeks wet with tears, the fear in her eyes bordered on panic, and Will silently put a finger to his lips. The two men were close, and the weak beam of a torch swept over the yard. Immediately, Will pulled his hood over his head and urgently put an arm around the girl, pressing his face down and out of sight. She was breathing hard, having been chased here, and this close it sounded like screaming that would bring the men down on them at any moment. The torchlight swept lazily over them both. From under his hood Will could see the underside of the van light up for a split second. But that’s all it was. With faces hidden, the two of them were nigh on invisible behind the overgrown weeds around the base of the van. Stood next to the Volkswagen, one pair of booted feet was inches away from the cowering duo. The man tried the passenger door, which was locked. All of the doors were locked except the one Will had used, which was on the inside of the row. The man moved on, following his companion further up the row. They were checking inside the cars and under them. Since they had already checked here, all Will had to do was wait. He fought to keep his own breathing steady, conscious that he probably smelled like the bottom of a whisky barrel right now. He didn’t dare say anything, and had to watch as the two men went from vehicle to vehicle, looking for their quarry. He felt that at any moment the girl would scream and run, leaving him to face these two alone. But she didn’t, and after what seemed like hours, the idle growl of engines in the distance roared back to life. The two men, who were now on the opposite side of the yard, said something to each other and walked back towards the camper van. The torch swung this way and that, and Will bit his lip, taking a deep breath and holding it. The pair walked right past, back the way they had come in the first place. Will dropped his head back to the ground in relief and looked up at the underside of the van. The world was still spinning around him.
  9. Walking without moving

    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.
  10. Will Tennessen Signature