Mahljee, Dharvan 'Johnny'

[DHARVAN 'JOHNNY' MAHLJEE]

DHARVAN MAHLJEE


(no wider then 400px pl0x.)

࿂

[/b]: Dharvan (unfortunate, but he's stuck with it)
SURNAME: Mahljee
ALIAS: Johnny (Not much better than 'Dharvan', in his opinion)
TITLE: Doctor

AGE: 23
AFFILIATION: Just your common-as-mud ship's surgeon.
BRANDED?: Not yet...
RANK: Doctor?
SHIP: Whichever he is hired by.

࿂ DESCRIBE YESELF![/color]


Heh. Well, I'm not much to look at. It doesn't take a mind-reader to notice that I'm... Well... Sort of... How do I put this without making myself sound like a wet fish? Oh. I can't. So, I'm slightly scrawny, tall and weedy. I'm swarthy with neatly-cut black hair (I can't stand when it gets too long. It drags in my patients' wounds) and a rather sheepish smile. I have dark brown eyes which always seem to come across as slightly apologetic. In fact, that sums me up pretty nicely! Apologetic. I kind of get the feeling that people are just waiting for me to leave. The nobbish accent on an Indian face doesn't seem to help much. People sort of tend to ignore me. It's not their fault. I don't stand out much. I wear average clothes, am of average height (if rather scrawny) and tend to melt into the back-ground. Which is fine by me, of course. Don't get me wrong. I just like to get on with my work undisturbed.

࿂ WHAT GIVES YE PLEASURE?


I like my job, which is essentially stitching people up and occasionally amputating limbs. I like the sea, though I am no noteworthy shipsman. I'm a fellow of simple pleasures. I like a small glass of port, I enjoy a quiet conversation, but mostly being left to my own devices, to think and observe, is when I am at my happiest. I am rather easy to please, and strive to be that way. I also, it seems, strive a little too hard to be helpful. What I really want (though I'd never admit it to anyone) is to... Well... Err... Let's just say that I'm happy to leave this as an unattainable dream, and go on stitching up sailors.

࿂ WHAT MAKES YE ANGRY?[/color]


Really? Do I have to? Well, if you insist... I dislike conflicts. I can fight, whether with words or with a weapon, but I hate it. It hits a little too close to home. I can't stand pirates. Not as individuals. When they're alone, I usually get along with people of that... Persuasion. But as a group, they're a vile, loud, raucous and foolish bunch (which describes most legitimate crews, too, but who's counting?) I have a deep-seated dislike for soldiers, I don't really like to be injured (who does?) and rum rather disgusts me. I don't truly 'hate' very much, but... Eh... Is that alright?

࿂ WHAT DO YE HIDE?[/color]


Do we have to do this? Really? Alright, well... Here goes...

I am terrified, absolutely terrified, of fire. It's nice as a pretty little bonfire on a beach, or in a hearth, but when it's any larger than that, it makes me want to scream and dive for cover. But give me credit here. It's rational.
My more irrational fear, on the other hand, is monkeys. I don't know what it is about them! Maybe it's those squished faces, or those wrinkly hands, but they make me squirm. I'd as soon face a squadron of armed soldiers than go up against a monkey.

Like anyone, I have my regrets. I regret that I wasn't older when the boat that my family was on was attacked. I regret that I couldn't help. I regret that I didn't pull my sister with me when I jumped. I regret Marlaine, but that's, ahem, rather personal.

Secrets? What, other than the fact that I am an Indian who speaks like a British nob? No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been sarcastic. Yes, I suppose I have secrets. I can shoot a musket with a scary accuracy (though I pretend that I can't handle the things at all) and I have a couple of useful little skills that I keep up my sleeve. They all interlace with my BIG secret, which may be slight for some, but is huge for a reputable doctor. And I'm not giving that up to anyone.


࿂ WHAT SKILLS DO YE POSSESS?[/color]


So... I'm a surgeon, right? Means I am pretty knowledgeable in the field of ailments and injuries. I am also a pretty decent sailor, and will happily pitch in and and sail the ship I serve on. I also know more than my fair share about pirate lore and various other samples of history. Call it a hobby, if you will. I am a rather mediocre fighter, I am afraid. I'd much rather hide behind someone burly than take part in a brawl. But I do have a little knife that I keep in my belt. Just in case.

Weaknesses? Funny you should ask. I'm pretty much a walking weakness in myself. Let's be honest. I'm cowardly, scrawny, weak and clumsy. My dexterity ends when I let go of the needle. All brain and no brawn, ha ha, that's me.



࿂ HOW DO YE ACT?[/color]


Have you not picked this up yet? I'm shy, withdrawn, embarrassed and awkward. I've never been good with people and my mentor didn't really help that. I like to work on my own, if possible. If you actually get me to talk without stammering and turning beet-red, I have a keen wit and am observant and interesting. Unfortunately, the only time I am not painfully shy is when I'm in surgery, and then there's too much shrieking and blood flying for anyone to get a word in. I'm one of those smart but quiet fellows. The ones that people give jobs to do but largely overlook. But that doesn't faze me in the least. As long as I get to work.

࿂ WOULD YE BE MISSED?[/color]


Ouch. Touchy subject. See, my immediate family is dead. My mother and father and my little sister Maleeha. I guess I might still have some relations back in India, but I rather doubt that they know that I exist. They've probably forgotten about me. I was never very important to them. I have few friends, simply because I don't really meet many people. I had a love once. Her name is, was, Marlaine. But I don't think she'll have much feature in my life any more.

࿂ YER STORY![/color]


It's not hard to realise that I was born in India. My mother and father were servants to a rich merchant. My father was a sailor, my mother a lady's-maid to the rich man's wife. They were not bad people, and since the wife did not travel, my mother was home with us. But one day, the wife decided to journey with her husband to England, to take the air, I suppose. My mother was asked to travel along too, and somehow (I don't know how my mother and the wife were let aboard, let alone us), my sister and I were allowed to come too.

It was not meant to be a tragic journey. The weather was mild, the sailing was easy. The sailors were even relaxed enough to give me a few pointers on how to keep a ship afloat. We were travelling abreast a large island when it happened.

All that I remember was that our attackers were in uniform. I don't know to this day whether they were pirates in disguise, soldiers, what have you. But they came abreast, and attacked. There was screaming, yelling, and then, behind me, I saw the sails start to go up in flames. Stricken with terror, I was unable to think.

I jumped.

I was lucky. We were shallow, and the water was kind to me. I was a weak swimmer (though I have mended my ways since) but I managed to grab hold of some debris and paddle to land. I didn't get the chance to look behind me until I sat on the beach, drenched and sobbing. I watched the light from the burning boat die.

I was six years old.

A lonely wanderer found me. I don't know why he took me in, but he carried me to his house, buried by forest, and decided to teach me. What choice did I have? I was lost, young, scared, and this man, who spoke so kindly and in such good English (a language I was taught meant the height of society) that I could not help but obey. And so Malchor taught me until there was nothing more that he had to share. He taught me about fighting, medicine, and a good deal else. Then, when I was sixteen, he deemed me worthy to release, and placed me on a vessel bound for the Caribbean. There I became a ship's doctor, following my ambition. I built up a sizeable practice, of which I am very proud, and a very high reputation.

What I can't understand is why the pirates keep hiring me! I am very lenient. If someone needs my help, I help them. But more and more these days, pirates are offering to hire me. Are there more of them? Or is some rumour being spread that I am not aware of? For now, I sit, running my practice from land (which is what I do when no ships have need of me) and await the next job offer that comes my way.

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ROLEPLAYER'S AGE ࿂16 PLAY-BY ࿂Dev Patel ROLEPLAY YEARS [spelled out] Five years? I think
ROLEPLAYER'S ALIAS: Verdana

RP SAMPLE. <3

For three days, I was clear. I was home free. I drove my stolen wagon, with its docile pack-animal plodding along in front of it, and no one suspected a thing. I didn't look particularly threatening, with my blonde wig and slow, thoughtless face. And if anyone happened to take a look inside the wagon, all they'd find were cabbages. Load upon load of musty-smelling cabbages. Not that anyone tried, anyway. The smell kept curiosity to a minimum.

And now I'm in the desert. My trusty beast, who I've fondly named Carderc (the Sylvan word for 'incredibly stupid animal'), seems to know his way around the endless dunes. And so, though I hate to admit it, I get complacent. I let go of the reins, and let myself doze for a little while, a hat tipped over my unwigged black hair. My wounds are healed, I'm in shade, there's water in close proximity. The soft clank and rustle behind me serves as a suitable lullaby, and I feel my lids beginning to droop...

I didn't think that maybe the city would be able to get information into the desert. I didn't think there'd be armed troops behind the occasional dune. I didn't think said troops would get a detailed description of me before I passed. I didn't think.

I wake up quite abruptly. Feeling an arrow ping off of the side of your wagon can do that to a person. My pack thing rears. I spot the camouflaged troops as they stand up, gesturing wildly. I gulp, uttering a very rude word. One curse becomes two as I leap to the side of the wagon that isn't being shot at, only to realise that there are armed forces waiting on that side, too. An arrow sinks deep into my left shoulder blade.

A word to the wise. Being shot tends to hamper your movement and dampen your outlook on life. Try not to get shot. Especially not with silver.

I leap into the back of the wagon, which rocks under fire. What to take, what to take... You can't just leave it there! I grab some expensive-looking jewellery, some good-looking weaponary, including a very nice sword, and a couple other odds and ends. It's a matter of honour. I leap back out, and make a run for it. Then stop, dodging a hale of arrows, and run back. Water. Need that. And I'm off again. The silver in my arm bites coldly, and I pull it out with a yell, flinging it back at my attackers. It falls far short, but it makes me feel better. In any other place and time, I'd stay to fight. Really. But the sun is hot, the air is dry, and the silver arrows, or whatever they are that nip at me so horribly, are draining my energy.

I choose to flee. It's not cowardice, it's self-preservation. I promise.

There's only one open end, and I take it. I find it strange that they left me a gap, but I'm thanking the knife for my good fortune too much to question it. However, I soon realise ('soon' being after about half a day's solid running) that they are herding me. Herding me back towards that forsaken ash city. And what can I do? They're keeping pace with me, for I'm steadily slowing. I can't turn back, and there's no way I can fight them now. They've called friends. So, swearing and keeping hydrated in turns, I keep going.

I'm faster than any pack beast. It takes me two short days (which seem endless under the beating sun and cruel cold in turns, but hey, that's pressure for you) to arrive back at the heavily-armed border. I suppose our thinkers believed that this would stop me. Ding ding, I'm sorry, come back and try again next time. I just hop over a weak patch, knocking out some hapless young guards as I go.

By this point, though I'm not bleeding heavily, I'm oozing through many minor cuts and, of course, my shoulder. I'm tired, I'm dirty, I ran out of water a while back. I still manage to merge seamlessly into the crowds and lose the troops. Good. I have to keep moving. By the blade, I didn't expect it to go wrong like this! I twist and dance over the milling herd of people, closing my eyes and letting my nose find sanctuary. There we go! My eyelids fly open. Dust. Parchment. Disuse. Library. No one will look for me in a library. I look around briefly. No one's following me any more, right? I can just leave. I take a step, hear a shout, see a pointing finger, and I turn right back around and head to a small side door. So much for wishful thinking, eh?

I run through the catacombs, limping now, weak and helpless, like a three-legged kitten. I hear thundering footsteps behind me, shouts. I resist the urge to groan in dismay. I find a side-door, and leap through it, closing it as quietly as I can behind me. Then I sink to the floor, panting swear-words in a steady river when I'm not coughing from that awful ash.

That's what you get for being cocky, my dearest. Oh, shut up. No one likes a smart-ass.

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[GENEVIEVE MARTIN]