Jake Michael Mullen (Gryffindor)

[Jake Mullen]

Here's Some Info About Me;;

The names SHANE. I've been roleplaying for FIFTEEN YEARS. And I usually post around 650 - 700 words.

Now Enough About Me, Onto My Character!

In General;;

Name: Jake Michael Mullen
Nicknames: n/a
Gender: Male
Age: Sixteen
Height: 6”2
Weight: Nine stone
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Black
Dress Code, What I Like to Wear: Jake is usually seen in slim-fit jeans, a pair of trainers and a t-shirt, or a checkered shirt of some sort. He doesn’t go to great lengths to dress stylishly, but pulls of what he does wear due to his moderately toned physique.
My House: Gryffindor
My Year: Sixth
Parents: Michael Patrick Mullen (Father) – Helen Anne Mullen (Mother (Maiden Name O’Callaghan))
Siblings: None
Blood: Half blood (Both parents muggle borns.)

Personality: Jake has a pleasant personality, and gets along with most people relatively easily. He’s an easy-going person, who likes nothing better in life than to relax and not have to worry. Not worrying is one of his specialities, in his opinion, though in others it is more of a downfall, putting him in predicaments he later regrets.
Some people call him too laid back for his own good, other people lazy. Other people (these are a minority) believe that he goes about life in the right way.
Being laid-back doesn’t mean he’s a pushover, though. Keen to make friends and keep them, Jake will defend them fiercely if provoked. He doesn’t like bullies, and will tell them so. When dealing with bullies, though, he tends to act first then think later, most probably when he is lying in the hospital wing, or else in the headmaster’s office for putting someone else there. He has mostly good intentions, though.

I Like; (at least five)

• Drawing
  
• Swimming
  
• Winter
  
• Snow
  
• Brooms
  
• Quidditch (Purely from the spectator side.)
  
• Broom design
  
• Potions
  
• Transfiguration
  

I Dislike; (at least five)

• Summer + Heat
  
• Running
  
• History of Magic
  
• Old fashioned things
  
• Divination
  

I'm Talented At; (no more than three)

• Drawing + Broom design
  
• Swimming
  

I Fear; (at least 2)

• Enclosed spaces
  
• Sharks
  

My History

By the way, my roleplaying looks like this (write in code your sample (at least 50 words)):
The wind howled and the rain poured down, torrents of icy water battering the landscape into submission. Mud flowed down the hills, and the grass moved in waves, pushed by the unforgiving wind. The sun was no-where to be seen, taken captive by the dark clouds swathing it. Was it an omen? Was it warning the masses assembling themselves on the ground of things to come?
These masses weren't in high spirits. The rain had washed all chance of a fast-paced attack away. This battle would be long and tiresome, and they would be hindered by the mud and rain. It seemed as if the gods were set on them losing the battle, which they desperately needed to win.
And, every single man there knew that this would be his last battle. They knew that this war was lost, that their clan was tired and depleting. They were going to make a stand, go down fighting and with pride, screaming their war cries and taking as many of those soldiers who had made their lives hell with them. Each man knew that their last heartbeat could be just minutes away, banished with a scream filled with pain. Each man knew they had women, daughters, sons at home, mothers and fathers. Each man knew they would never see them again.
The hundreds of men stood holding swords and wooden shields, the rain dripping from the lethal weapons. Each man wore little armour, many of whom were wearing nothing but cloth pants and boots. The crowd was a mass of Red and Green war paint, spread across the warriors chests and faces. From here and there in the crowd, banners and stands fluttered in the wind, showing a clan crest, with an eagles head and a sword emblazoned on a red background.
In front of the crowd, a man sat on a horse. This man was dressed the same as his warriors; Cloth pants that only fell just below his knees, leather boots, and his bare chest, which had stripes of red and green across the muscles. From his neck hung leather straps with coloured beads on them, a gift from his sister when she found out about the battle. His hair hung in braids around his shoulders, auburn in colour, and matted with the same paint that graced his chest.
A sword hung limply from his hand, which he slowly raised, as the crowd started muttering. Over the horizon, a long black shape was appearing. Finally, it was time. Time to go down fighting. Slowly, and in one perfect rhythm, each man struck his shield with the handle of his sword, making a steady, ominous beat. It would be a while before the sound reached the enemy, but when it did, it would stop them dead in their tracks.
The Hallor clan were fabled for their fearless fighting, and their absolute bravery (stupidity, some called it.) in the face of death. They had been fighting with the kings men for almost a year now, but due to the kingdoms superior fighting powers and modern weapons, they were fighting a lost war. The kings men had armour, they had the numbers. The Hallor's might have the superior fighting technique and power, but the kings men would always prevail, just by sheer numbers.
So that's why, on the skyline, the bulk that was the massive force sent to destroy the measly clans warriors was so much bigger than the clans. Their army was easily seven times as big as the Hallor's. The Hallors were a clan, old style fighting, one family. The kingdoms men were a proper army, ruling a country. They dealt in thousands, not hundreds.
Slowly, as the army got nearer and the clan could see the full extent of their disadvantage, the beating got louder and faster, accompanied by vicious war cries that could surely be heard by enemy ears now. The beating was a crescendo now, faster and faster, louder and louder, mixed with the roars of a last mans stand, and the enemy were getting closer, almost close enough to see the look of disgust on their faces, watching these barbaric warriors...and they were charging. With thunderous cries that would stop the bravest lion in its tracks, the clan surged forward, sprinting to meet their death. They got nearer and nearer, and the first rain of arrows fell. Many of the Clans small number fell, but they were not hindered. Still screaming their war cries, fuelled by rage and blood lust, they met the line of Kingdom warriors.
The look of terror upon the soldiers faces was evident. They had heard tales of the fearlessness of these barbaric warriors, though many of them didn't believe what they heard. The clan leader was the first to enter the battle. His name was Trakaen.
Trakaen pushed through the crowds, swiping down with is sword wherever he saw fit. He struck many soldiers and felled them, and saw the look of astonishment and pain on their faces as his blade ended their life. But he could see his own losses. His men were fighting valiantly, but their numbers had already thinned considerably, and their hopes were dying. To boost morale, Trakaen leaped from his horse, landing on the ground on his knees. Jumping to his feet before a soldier struck him dead, he swept round with an uppercut, dislodging the man's jaw and sending him crashing to the floor. A quick stab with his blade stopped the man from rising again. His men seemed boosted by his sudden act of comradeship, and they fought with renewed vengeance, striking soldiers down at the double.
Sweat poured from Trakaen's face as he landed yet another blow, screaming his challenge. Suddenly, the crowd he had been fighting his way out of pushed back, and in a gap through the wall of soldiers pushed a horse, with a man sitting astride it. Trakaen instantly recognised the man. He was a captain in the kings army, and had been responsible for burning down one of his clans villages.
"”You!"” He bellowed, pointing his sword at the figure. "“I'll have your head hanging from my fist before this battle has ended, mark my words, coward!"” Trakaen spat the words, the fury in his eyes showing no fear. "“Will you now? You and your...army of peasants are going to succeed, are we?"” A few of the soldiers laughed amidst the fighting. “"We might not win."” Replied Trakaen. "“But I'll bet you we'll take as many of your soldiers down with us, including you."”
“"You're going to kill me? Try your best, peasant."” The captain had immediately drawn his sword. But the instant it had taken him to reach for his harness, Trakaen had rushed forward. He embedded his sword in the vulnerable thigh of the captain, hanging off the side of the horse. He immediately roared in pain and leaned down to pressurise his wound, a movement that allowed Trakaen to reach up and drag him from his horse. The crowd immediately surged forward again, but they were not quick enough to stop Trakaen drawing a dagger from his belt and thudding it into the Captains chest. They were quick enough, however, to ascend upon him with fist and feet blows, kicking and punching him to within an inch of his life. The battle was over, and most of his men dead. Their captain had been killed, and they wanted this man hung strung and quartered. But they had orders. He was to be left alive.

((This Roleplay sample was taken from my account on hexrpg.com, and was written a few months ago. I have improved my vocab and writing skills since then.))

[Jaylen Nemechek]

Accepted