Post by Jack O'Connell on May 6, 2008 17:21:07 GMT -5
Jonathon "Jack" Seamus O'Connell
36
Born to Seamus and Mary Catherine O'Connell in Armagh, Ireland, Jack O'Connell is a hundred percent Irish from his ethnicity, nationality, and his stereotypical drinking habits and smart-assed behavior. Growing up in South Armagh, our boy learned quick how to generally avoid trouble and learned even quicker how to fight his way out of it. When he was nothing but thirteen, he joined the Provisional IRA by way of a friend in a raid on an 'orange' protest across the border of Ireland and North Ireland. His actions? Well, they endeared him to his comrades to be damn sure!
At age seventeen? He was actually under a cell leader while training in Libya...And that's where it went all wrong.
They came at night and didn't leave one damned man, woman, or child but Jack alive at the camp. Demons had razed the entire place to the ground and left charred bodies in the wake.
Needless to say, it left a profound awakening for Jack! Heh. He found something he hated more than British rule. While he figured he'd never be able to track down the demons who did the particular massacre, much less KILL them. The fact that they were out there and doing this most likely bothered him as much as what happened.
Over the years, Jack learned how to ply his trade through trial and error. Occasionally he messed up, occasionally he actually put the pain on evil. Hell, SOMETIMES, he managed to find other hunters or like-minded inviduals and learn more of the 'game' if you will. Our boy learned the game well he did, by himself and through his various teachers. His bout of globe trotting however, finally brought'im here.
Womanizing, cocky, quick to fight and slow to forget a grudge, the usually fun-loving Irishmen has a hard-edged side about him that'll 'cool off' even the hottest of heads. Despite having wisdom, he still has his youth which sometimes puts him in predicaments!
Oh Jackie boy's a damned looker to be sure. From his sandy-blonde hair to his greenish blue eyes and tanned skin he looks damned good. ...All-except for the diagonal scar on his left cheek that takes away from his looks more than a tiny bit. The bastard-son of Ireland also chooses clothes that tend to be darker in color, durable, and comfortable while having a degree of protection. The only 'permanent' addition to his clothing is his black, kevlar duster coat that has 'IRELAND UNITED' across the shoulders with various patches sewn in from the C-IRA, the P-IRA, the O-IRA, The R-IRA, The 32 County Movement, and Sinn Fein
Hunter. Former P-IRA and still retains those connections.
With a swift, sudden 'smack' the magazine was slammed into the reciever of the B.A.R. Safari rifle. A steady, nerveless hand'd raise up and pull back the slide of the high-powered hunting rifle shortly before tucking the stock/butt of the rifle firmly into the right shoulder area. Jack's left eye would close as his right one peered down the scope while he quietly 'led' the bastard down the street from his vantage point. He wasn't smoking, he had nothing on him that jingled, he was making no sound whatsoever, not even humming the usual tune he would when hunting, no. This was a situation that called for tact, for complete and utter stealth.
His strong, calloused hands held that instrument of death as if it was a lover. Firmly, yet gently. Sternly, yet with an incredible amount of intimacy and grace. His left hand steadied it while his right hand remained poised. Why was he waiting? Why was he letting the bastard get to the end of the street? Simple, he didn't want human eyes to pay attention to it, he wanted to make sure he was out of range.
It all happened at once, the moment the undead son of a bitch crossed onto the area of the graveyard, he'd squeeze the trigger and let loose the round that was originally meant to take down Bison and buffalo. It was a high-powered round, expanding..A hollow tip. It'd destroy whatever brain the bastard had left, but it was worse that. The bullet was cross-etched, the hollowtip filled with hawthorne, acacia thornwood shavings, and blessed rosemary.
Oh, there was another reason he'd done it so close to the graveyard. A reason he didn't see being as he'd dropped to his belly on the building to avoid being seen. The reason was his comrades, they'd rushed over to take that suitcase the now pile-of-ashes had been attempted to conceal under his coat..The bastard's plans'd never see the light of day.
36
Born to Seamus and Mary Catherine O'Connell in Armagh, Ireland, Jack O'Connell is a hundred percent Irish from his ethnicity, nationality, and his stereotypical drinking habits and smart-assed behavior. Growing up in South Armagh, our boy learned quick how to generally avoid trouble and learned even quicker how to fight his way out of it. When he was nothing but thirteen, he joined the Provisional IRA by way of a friend in a raid on an 'orange' protest across the border of Ireland and North Ireland. His actions? Well, they endeared him to his comrades to be damn sure!
At age seventeen? He was actually under a cell leader while training in Libya...And that's where it went all wrong.
They came at night and didn't leave one damned man, woman, or child but Jack alive at the camp. Demons had razed the entire place to the ground and left charred bodies in the wake.
Needless to say, it left a profound awakening for Jack! Heh. He found something he hated more than British rule. While he figured he'd never be able to track down the demons who did the particular massacre, much less KILL them. The fact that they were out there and doing this most likely bothered him as much as what happened.
Over the years, Jack learned how to ply his trade through trial and error. Occasionally he messed up, occasionally he actually put the pain on evil. Hell, SOMETIMES, he managed to find other hunters or like-minded inviduals and learn more of the 'game' if you will. Our boy learned the game well he did, by himself and through his various teachers. His bout of globe trotting however, finally brought'im here.
Womanizing, cocky, quick to fight and slow to forget a grudge, the usually fun-loving Irishmen has a hard-edged side about him that'll 'cool off' even the hottest of heads. Despite having wisdom, he still has his youth which sometimes puts him in predicaments!
Oh Jackie boy's a damned looker to be sure. From his sandy-blonde hair to his greenish blue eyes and tanned skin he looks damned good. ...All-except for the diagonal scar on his left cheek that takes away from his looks more than a tiny bit. The bastard-son of Ireland also chooses clothes that tend to be darker in color, durable, and comfortable while having a degree of protection. The only 'permanent' addition to his clothing is his black, kevlar duster coat that has 'IRELAND UNITED' across the shoulders with various patches sewn in from the C-IRA, the P-IRA, the O-IRA, The R-IRA, The 32 County Movement, and Sinn Fein
Hunter. Former P-IRA and still retains those connections.
With a swift, sudden 'smack' the magazine was slammed into the reciever of the B.A.R. Safari rifle. A steady, nerveless hand'd raise up and pull back the slide of the high-powered hunting rifle shortly before tucking the stock/butt of the rifle firmly into the right shoulder area. Jack's left eye would close as his right one peered down the scope while he quietly 'led' the bastard down the street from his vantage point. He wasn't smoking, he had nothing on him that jingled, he was making no sound whatsoever, not even humming the usual tune he would when hunting, no. This was a situation that called for tact, for complete and utter stealth.
His strong, calloused hands held that instrument of death as if it was a lover. Firmly, yet gently. Sternly, yet with an incredible amount of intimacy and grace. His left hand steadied it while his right hand remained poised. Why was he waiting? Why was he letting the bastard get to the end of the street? Simple, he didn't want human eyes to pay attention to it, he wanted to make sure he was out of range.
It all happened at once, the moment the undead son of a bitch crossed onto the area of the graveyard, he'd squeeze the trigger and let loose the round that was originally meant to take down Bison and buffalo. It was a high-powered round, expanding..A hollow tip. It'd destroy whatever brain the bastard had left, but it was worse that. The bullet was cross-etched, the hollowtip filled with hawthorne, acacia thornwood shavings, and blessed rosemary.
Oh, there was another reason he'd done it so close to the graveyard. A reason he didn't see being as he'd dropped to his belly on the building to avoid being seen. The reason was his comrades, they'd rushed over to take that suitcase the now pile-of-ashes had been attempted to conceal under his coat..The bastard's plans'd never see the light of day.
Celeb - Brad Pitt.