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Monad.exe App
Oct. 27th, 2014 03:39 amOOC Information
IC Information
IC Information
Name: Søren Andersen [Denmark]
Canon: APH
Gender: Male
Age: Hellafuckin' old. [3900 BC] But he looks like he's in his mid-20s.
History: HERE and HERE
Personality: Denmark is the big brother that everyone wants. He's kind, enthusiastic about everything, and supportive to a fault, especially if you're in the group of people he would consider family. He's bright and cheerful and warm, always ready with a smile and a laugh and a strong hand to clap on someone's unwitting shoulder.
That said, he is far from perfect. He has lived for a very long time, and was not always on the "right" side of history. He lived through the viking era and thoroughly embraced it. He's been a conqueror, and has kept other nations in alliances and unions against the overarching will of their people (and, in Sweden's case, punished them for leaving when they eventually came crawling back). He's been on the "right" side of history just as often - if not more so, though that does not excuse any actions done in darker times.
A long life and immortality in general has made something go a little bit off in his head, where his humor isn't quite always appropriate (and yes, he is pretty casually racist without meaning to), and he'll be just as ready to react with violence to a perceived slight to himself or his own as he is to laugh it off or deliver a stern look. On a whole, though, it takes quite a lot of digging (or a Swedish accent) to reach his darker inclinations, so the surface-level of big, happy, (often) drunk Dane that one sees is quite likely to be what one gets.
On that front, he isn't nearly as stupid as he would have one believe. It's easier, sometimes, if people think he's a little bit dim, and he isn't likely to correct when the accusation is made - ignoring it, or acting like he didn't hear it is far more likely - but just the same he won't hold back any quips or actions that just might let his intelligence show through.
Powers/Abilities: When healthy, he has an uncannily fast ability to heal, but other than that, anything especially remarkable - such as ability with weaponry or smithing - is comprised of learned skills.
Keepsakes/Mementos: - His battleaxe
- A collection of books and stories that are important from his past and country (Sagas and Eddas and Andersen fairy tales, among others)
- Other Viking-era paraphernalia; from other weapons and armor and drinking horns and the like to seafaring instruments
Sample: Something had been wrong for years, he knew that, he tried to hide that from others by shutting himself off for a few days at a time whenever the rising heat would melt away more of Greenland's glaciers, when the sea levels would rise in just the slightest, when he would be wracked with the sort of fever that would bring on a cold sweat and lethargy, a personal battle waged for decades, and the spark of an effort to reform the world, lest he and others meet a similar watery demise.
Fate wasn't so kind as to allow reform to take hold before war sparked and suddenly the world at large was more preoccupied with arms and weapons and the workings of war than they were with the sea and those less important nations all made of coast and beach and island who were quickly ebbing away, because what good were they, those pacifists, when bombs needed to be let fly?
Ice melted and the seas continued to rise, and Denmark's coastline receded, it seemed, by the month, and Søren began to keep to himself. A cough settled in his chest, this time, along with the fevers that left his bedding soaked in seawater come morning. The lethargy became oppressive, and he found himself reading old stories in lieu of sitting around and waiting for more islands to slip under the waves.
Restlessness overtook the lethargy soon enough, but there wasn't anything to do but pace his house, wary of venturing out, lest someone see and wonder at the sorry state he was in, and unwilling to reach out for desperate final contact from other nations. It was pathetic, he was pathetic.
He'd thought he had given up on the aspiration to go out in a blaze of glory, a fight worthy of the old gods. The use of firearms in war had dashed that dream, and yet, he found himself frustrated that he couldn't stand and fight, couldn't do anything but ache and feel and cough up seawater as he waited.
He wanted to stand and fight and be able to fling his arms out wide and laugh as his consciousness faded out quickly in a flurry of gory activity, ached to be able to stare death in the face and welcome it, come heaven's light or angels, come devils or hellfire, come the valkyries themselves on winged horses and a song to spirit him away to the halls of his old gods and oathsworn ancestors. He didn't want this lingering, the slow fade of voice and strength, the ever-present wondering if each night would be his last, if enough of his people had emigrated inland, if the sea had inched in far enough to drown him in his sleep.
The day Zealand was taken, he spent on his knees on the hard tile floor of his bathroom, shifting in and out of consciousness as he vomited seawater into the bathtub. He swore he drowned at least once that day, from how many times he came to in a fit of coughing and violent gasping for air, body rejecting the idea of going out so feebly, spirit clinging to life and immortality as long as it could.
He didn't have much longer to wait.
Jutland had been eaten away by the day along with the rest, and most of even the most stubborn of the population had long since crossed the border to Germany, had fled to Sweden or Norway, had forsaken old family homes and lands and begun the process of forsaking citizenship of a country soon to be lost. Bitterly, he was left to wonder if he would run out of citizens before he would run out of land, if he would fade away before he would lose the battle he was waging with the sea herself, denied even that much of a defeat.
Paperwork did him in, stole his citizens and his immortality, pressed through in the early hours of the morning.
He woke choking up water and bile, shaking and fading in and out of blackness, the toll taken on his body for so long finally ringing in the end of a man who had seen ages pass and weathered it all, slipping away in an undignified mess on his bed.
He couldn't even laugh at the cruel irony of it all as he felt himself slip away.
Mindset: He'll have a bit of a mixed reaction to being in Monad, since he'll remember dying, and will recognize that he's dead, but won't know what to make of Monad as an afterlife. It doesn't fit the Christian depictions of Heaven or Hell, and it certainly isn't Valhalla, Sessrúmnir, or Fólkvangr, but it does fit closely into what a more modern interpretation of Hel (the realm) might have been like, as Hel (the goddess) could give out lodging and items to those who died outside of battle. So he'll be a bit disappointed by that, but will otherwise try to make the most of it, and might fall back into a more pagan mindset/belief system as a result.
G̶̶l̨͡i̵͢t̷c͝͠h̕é͠s̷̷͡: Blood and gore won't really bother him at all - he grew up and thrived in the era when all killing was done up close and personal with bladed weaponry, so at worst he might feel sorry for the poor sap who is going through the pain he's looking at. Gory body horror to an unnatural level (something that couldn't be done by sword or axe or mace or bow) would severely put him on edge, though. He brushes off psychological matters fairly easily, picking and choosing until he can find the bright spot in the given situation, so completely blocking out any possibility for that would be devastating.
Though he essentially drowned, water won't bother him as much as it should. He's a coastal nation, and a great deal of his early life was spent on the sea, sailing and exploring, so while he is bitter about how he died, he still has a respect for the ocean that never gave way into fear.
Additionally, he's fiercely protective of the rest of the Nordic 5, and will be of anyone else he grows close to, so causing them distress is a one way ticket to a visceral emotional reaction from him.
Canon: APH
Gender: Male
Age: Hellafuckin' old. [3900 BC] But he looks like he's in his mid-20s.
History: HERE and HERE
Personality: Denmark is the big brother that everyone wants. He's kind, enthusiastic about everything, and supportive to a fault, especially if you're in the group of people he would consider family. He's bright and cheerful and warm, always ready with a smile and a laugh and a strong hand to clap on someone's unwitting shoulder.
That said, he is far from perfect. He has lived for a very long time, and was not always on the "right" side of history. He lived through the viking era and thoroughly embraced it. He's been a conqueror, and has kept other nations in alliances and unions against the overarching will of their people (and, in Sweden's case, punished them for leaving when they eventually came crawling back). He's been on the "right" side of history just as often - if not more so, though that does not excuse any actions done in darker times.
A long life and immortality in general has made something go a little bit off in his head, where his humor isn't quite always appropriate (and yes, he is pretty casually racist without meaning to), and he'll be just as ready to react with violence to a perceived slight to himself or his own as he is to laugh it off or deliver a stern look. On a whole, though, it takes quite a lot of digging (or a Swedish accent) to reach his darker inclinations, so the surface-level of big, happy, (often) drunk Dane that one sees is quite likely to be what one gets.
On that front, he isn't nearly as stupid as he would have one believe. It's easier, sometimes, if people think he's a little bit dim, and he isn't likely to correct when the accusation is made - ignoring it, or acting like he didn't hear it is far more likely - but just the same he won't hold back any quips or actions that just might let his intelligence show through.
Powers/Abilities: When healthy, he has an uncannily fast ability to heal, but other than that, anything especially remarkable - such as ability with weaponry or smithing - is comprised of learned skills.
Keepsakes/Mementos: - His battleaxe
- A collection of books and stories that are important from his past and country (Sagas and Eddas and Andersen fairy tales, among others)
- Other Viking-era paraphernalia; from other weapons and armor and drinking horns and the like to seafaring instruments
Sample: Something had been wrong for years, he knew that, he tried to hide that from others by shutting himself off for a few days at a time whenever the rising heat would melt away more of Greenland's glaciers, when the sea levels would rise in just the slightest, when he would be wracked with the sort of fever that would bring on a cold sweat and lethargy, a personal battle waged for decades, and the spark of an effort to reform the world, lest he and others meet a similar watery demise.
Fate wasn't so kind as to allow reform to take hold before war sparked and suddenly the world at large was more preoccupied with arms and weapons and the workings of war than they were with the sea and those less important nations all made of coast and beach and island who were quickly ebbing away, because what good were they, those pacifists, when bombs needed to be let fly?
Ice melted and the seas continued to rise, and Denmark's coastline receded, it seemed, by the month, and Søren began to keep to himself. A cough settled in his chest, this time, along with the fevers that left his bedding soaked in seawater come morning. The lethargy became oppressive, and he found himself reading old stories in lieu of sitting around and waiting for more islands to slip under the waves.
Restlessness overtook the lethargy soon enough, but there wasn't anything to do but pace his house, wary of venturing out, lest someone see and wonder at the sorry state he was in, and unwilling to reach out for desperate final contact from other nations. It was pathetic, he was pathetic.
He'd thought he had given up on the aspiration to go out in a blaze of glory, a fight worthy of the old gods. The use of firearms in war had dashed that dream, and yet, he found himself frustrated that he couldn't stand and fight, couldn't do anything but ache and feel and cough up seawater as he waited.
He wanted to stand and fight and be able to fling his arms out wide and laugh as his consciousness faded out quickly in a flurry of gory activity, ached to be able to stare death in the face and welcome it, come heaven's light or angels, come devils or hellfire, come the valkyries themselves on winged horses and a song to spirit him away to the halls of his old gods and oathsworn ancestors. He didn't want this lingering, the slow fade of voice and strength, the ever-present wondering if each night would be his last, if enough of his people had emigrated inland, if the sea had inched in far enough to drown him in his sleep.
The day Zealand was taken, he spent on his knees on the hard tile floor of his bathroom, shifting in and out of consciousness as he vomited seawater into the bathtub. He swore he drowned at least once that day, from how many times he came to in a fit of coughing and violent gasping for air, body rejecting the idea of going out so feebly, spirit clinging to life and immortality as long as it could.
He didn't have much longer to wait.
Jutland had been eaten away by the day along with the rest, and most of even the most stubborn of the population had long since crossed the border to Germany, had fled to Sweden or Norway, had forsaken old family homes and lands and begun the process of forsaking citizenship of a country soon to be lost. Bitterly, he was left to wonder if he would run out of citizens before he would run out of land, if he would fade away before he would lose the battle he was waging with the sea herself, denied even that much of a defeat.
Paperwork did him in, stole his citizens and his immortality, pressed through in the early hours of the morning.
He woke choking up water and bile, shaking and fading in and out of blackness, the toll taken on his body for so long finally ringing in the end of a man who had seen ages pass and weathered it all, slipping away in an undignified mess on his bed.
He couldn't even laugh at the cruel irony of it all as he felt himself slip away.
Mindset: He'll have a bit of a mixed reaction to being in Monad, since he'll remember dying, and will recognize that he's dead, but won't know what to make of Monad as an afterlife. It doesn't fit the Christian depictions of Heaven or Hell, and it certainly isn't Valhalla, Sessrúmnir, or Fólkvangr, but it does fit closely into what a more modern interpretation of Hel (the realm) might have been like, as Hel (the goddess) could give out lodging and items to those who died outside of battle. So he'll be a bit disappointed by that, but will otherwise try to make the most of it, and might fall back into a more pagan mindset/belief system as a result.
G̶̶l̨͡i̵͢t̷c͝͠h̕é͠s̷̷͡: Blood and gore won't really bother him at all - he grew up and thrived in the era when all killing was done up close and personal with bladed weaponry, so at worst he might feel sorry for the poor sap who is going through the pain he's looking at. Gory body horror to an unnatural level (something that couldn't be done by sword or axe or mace or bow) would severely put him on edge, though. He brushes off psychological matters fairly easily, picking and choosing until he can find the bright spot in the given situation, so completely blocking out any possibility for that would be devastating.
Though he essentially drowned, water won't bother him as much as it should. He's a coastal nation, and a great deal of his early life was spent on the sea, sailing and exploring, so while he is bitter about how he died, he still has a respect for the ocean that never gave way into fear.
Additionally, he's fiercely protective of the rest of the Nordic 5, and will be of anyone else he grows close to, so causing them distress is a one way ticket to a visceral emotional reaction from him.
