Post by gustave on Jan 24, 2013 18:14:43 GMT -5
| [atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 460px; background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/34fb0ns.jpg);-moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; -webkit-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; border: 4px ridge #7a9aa9, bTable][tr][cs=2] Gustave Desjardins, 50. French Government. Russell Crowe. | |
[rs=2] | We're all Pigs. They spit and throw stones at us and run at us and threaten us and brandish weapons. They fight us for what we are. We represent an ailing Government, lacking in leadership but making up for said lack in leadership with an increase in heavy-handed violence. Something I excel in. They scream and shout at us as we draw swords and lower muskets and fix bayonets. They're screaming will do nothing to stop lead. My name is Gustave Desjardins, a decorated military veteran, a survivor of Napoleon's campaigns to increase his ego, fueled by his arrogance. An extremely capable general. A master of warfare such as the world has not seen or undoubtedly will ever see again. But arrogant nonetheless. What I would not give but for him to return to the gates of Paris, I would throw off this policeman's uniform and proclaim the Empire reborn and personally see to it that the foolish aristo's hiding in their manors were dragged out and guillotined as they rightly should be. I was born in Paris, to good, kindly parents, my father recently passed away from sort of blood disease and my mother passed when I was a small child. I have let neither loss affect me or my abilities to keep the rabble under control. I must admit I take a certain pride in my work as a Sargent of the law. Not least of all the fact that I still breathe after Napoleon's exile, let alone hold a position within Government, many men I served alongside who had faced the horrors of total war only to find themselves outlaws in the country they had fought with desperation to save. Perhaps I cling to desperately to my past, to my life in the army. To my strong morals, to the idea of a France ruled capably and strongly. Do not confuse me with some Royalist dog, obsessed with wealth and material possessions. A France that is the forefront power in the world, is a France I risked my life for. Yes the rabble starves, yes the children steal to eat, yes the criminals most likely outnumber the non-criminals and yes I have watched my country crumble. Nostalgic.... That is what I am. I was conscripted into the French Army at the age of 21, Napoleon had come to power and suddenly everything seemed to be looking up for France, we had fought wars and won, we had conquered territory as far as Italy, Napoleon was a master a man that I feared and respected. My Father named him an arrogant upstart, my mother simply sobbed as I slung my pack over my shoulder and musket in hand I marched out. It was 1803 and the wars to save my dear country were just beginning. I was first stationed in Boulogne, awaiting a chance to fight the cowardly British on their home-soil. They hid behind their wooden, naval wall and we could do nothing but wait.....Soon I was facing down Austrians and Russians at Austerlitz, my training drilled into me with such force that I can reload a musket in fifteen seconds to this day. We faced down the enemies of France that day and that day I won my first honor. I killed a man. Ran him through with the steel of my bayonet. But war is a horrible thing, it does much to change a man's mind of the true workings of the world. I was changed from division to the division as comrades and friends I had known since I was a child died around me, blasted and blown away by cannon fire like so many skittles. Indeed I sometimes regret my actions during Napoleon's foolish wars. But it was Russia that was the making of me. We had fought and fought through hostile territory, only to see victory snatched away from us by the cold. It was bitter. It cut into our skin like no Russian bayonet ever could and more than a few had tried on that long campaign. I believe at the time I was a member of the Middle Guard. The Fusiliers-Chasseurs. I had survived many campaigns, I had fought with distinction and with love for my Emperor. Yet I would refuse to die for him during a blizzard surrounded by cities whose names I could scarcely pronounce owing to how hard I shivered. Yes it was cold indeed. We were retreating back to winter quarters in Poland... so many had died, we tried to form squares when the Cossacks came and our squares were battered and broken. I refused to surrender my colors. I refused to abandon my Emperor. What a Fool I had become for him. I can remember so clearly walking past the dead, the wounded, so many futile lives lost for my Emperor, yet sacrifices worth making for the continued strength of France. I survived the march from Moscow, I had lost more friends than ever and as Napoleon left for Paris to order his affairs in Government, I grew disillusioned. Typhus was rampant, men were dying.... thousands of us had died already, thousands more continued to die even safe from the biting wind and slashing sabers. I simply waited. Having defended my colors, my comrades and my Emperor's honor as best I could. I was awarded with my bearskin. A member of the Old Guard. Surprising for someone in current Government? I agree. I had been apart of the republic and had risen to fight alongside Napoleon again in 1815 during hundred days campaign, yet I was forgiven, as were many men who had risen against the decadent Bourbons to replace them with our beloved Emperor. Yet here I stand. Still breathing, my limbs intact, my life almost over. I continue to serve my country in whatever matters her weak-minded Government deems necessary and just as before a revolution is brimming. Perhaps Leadership is again needed. Strong Leadership. Allow me to describe myself better. I am a tall man, dark of hair, grey eyes and neatly trimmed facial hair, though no mustache as many of my comrades in the Guard wore, nor any sort of wig, I prefer to keep my hair short, to prevent it spoiling my aim, or becoming too sweat logged during prolonged battle. I take special care of my appearance, a habit from my army days. My uniform is immaculate, my boots polished, my nails trimmed and my state of being almost always well-kempt. People often describe me as 'upright' someone who sits back straight, chest puffed out and chin held high, a man who is proud of who and what he is and will take no form of critiscism. It is why I refuse to bow my head to these 'Friends of the ABC' a group of school-children who have no grasp at all as to the true horrors of combat. I believe in any France that is strong, capable and holds the territory that she should deservedly hold. I do not believe in revolution for the sake of revolution. However let me divulge to you a story of true war. Waterloo had been raging for a day and a member of the Old Guard who wore his bearskin hat triumphantly was resting with his comrades, for he had eaten heartily and was prepared to give battle should his beloved Emperor tell him to do so. The man was tall, strong, tough and very literate. The man sat and wrote poetry and made witticisms much to the chagrin of his fellow soldiers whom found him often tiresome. The man and his comrades were closer than any other group of friends within the French Army. All veterans of a dozen or more compaigns. These men had survived were most had died. Either from the Austrians at Austerlitz. The disciplined Prussians whom had died around their banners. The Russians who had abandoned their city and then harried the French forces out of their land. These men were the survivors of disaster and of success, they had outlived parents, brothers, sons, daughters. We had outlived so much than we should have. Some of the men were scums. But the man who laughed and joked and wrote poetry was a good man. A strong man, kind at times, but cruel also. The man's name was Gustave Desjardin. A Swedish mother had bastardised her own language to give him the name and his French Father could do little but agree with her. Gustave smiled at the brief memory of home, he thought of writing a letter to his Fatber who had said little to him since he had decided to abandon the freshly reinstated Monarchy and follow Napoleon once more. Gustave's father had always seen his son as a military man, even for all the wrong reasons. Gustave heard the call to attack and he stood to attention, reaching for his musket and his saber, his bear-skin was pulled on, the men were gathering. Soon they were formed into lines behind the Chasseurs of the Middle guard, Gustave's former unit. They marched forwards, the British lines had seemingly crumbled and Gustave was filled with a triumphant glorious feeling that he had rarely felt in all of his life. France could be restored. The world could be returned. Napoleon could be Emp- Boom. Phut. Phut. Phut. Bullets whizzed past Gustave. The Guard had been surprised, the drums continued to be beaten, Smoke was obscuring vision. Gustave waited for the order, iron discipline ruling him, no fear prevented him from doing his duty. 'PRESENT ARMS!' The order rang out, the British foot-guard had overwhelmed the Chassuers and come running towards the ordered line of the Grenadiers, even as canon ball smashed into the man next to him in a flash of blood he was gone and Gustave remained standing. "FIRE." he pulled the trigger, his firearm bucked in his hand, across the line of Guards. A few of the British soldiers fell others faltered but they carried on forward. "FIX BAYONETS." with mechanical precision, the wicked sharp bayonet that Gustave had honed every day since his Emperor had announced his return. "GIVE 'EM HELL GRENADIERS." the men charged forward. Huge men, six foot four and above and all capable of lifting incredibly heavy weights, all muscle and brawn and training and discipline and equally large British men were running towards them. Gustave was unafraid as he bounded forward and everything seemed to slow and stab and twist and pull and a man was dead. He blocked a thrust and countered, smashing the butt of his musket into the man's face with impunity. Canon fire was raining in on the melee and people were simply being blown away by canister and grapeshot. People were dying all around him and Gustave was not going to surrender or fall, he would not be allowed to live. He would not be allowed to leave. There were was grunting and the sound of blood being emptied from bodies and explosions and smoke and Gustave's iron will kept him under control, moving from opponent to opponent with practised skill, drilled effeciency. Redcoats crumbled beneath him. Gustave felt as if he was winning the battle... but his comrades were running and Gustave could see why. More British soldiers were advancing and despite all they had marched through, all those men who lay dead and broken. The Guard had been broken. Some were already running. Gustave keeping hold of his musket and reaching for his saber, drawing it he ran too. As fast as his tree-trunk legs could carry him. Gustave made his way to La Belle Alliance were he formed part of the two remaining units of Old Guard to withstand the Coalition's assault. The man who had written poetry and laughed with his friends had watched them die and watched his poems burn in the flames of canon fire and musketry. Gustave Desjardins was a tired man after Waterloo, returning disillusioned to France he became a Sargent in the Police force. A man as tall, strong and indeed as tactically and militarily experienced as he would come in great use to an obsessive detective such as Inspector Javert, who may find himself lacking in general brawn. A few personality traits |
Gustave is a kindly man, even though he may seem a little rough around the edges and very cynical he attempts to be kind where possible.
He's rather arrogant in his abilities though he is certainly a skilled soldier and an experienced veteran, he is a little too confident in himself.
He's rather fond of coffee and alcohol. Particularly strong wine that he drinks regularly.
He's not too good with women, having never been married but has slept with a few ahem 'ladies of the night' obviously just for the female company.
He is friendly with Inspector Javert and often criticises his superior for his apparent obsession with this Prisoner 24601
He's not fond of Revolutionaries or protestors, he sees them as a weakness and often goes to extreme and damaging points just to scare them away.
He's incredibly aggressive when he's had a bit to drink and tends to end up sobbing over some memory of the wars he's fought in.
It's possible he suffers from a form of Post-Traumatic stress disorder as he still sheds tears when he even hears the mention of Waterloo.
He hates the cold. But it does little to him.
To Gustave, a good man is one who tells the truth, stands by that truth and defends it regardless of the implications.
He is a victim of his feelings, in the point that he falls in love rather easily and lets it go rather hard.
.[/size][/div][/td][/tr][tr][td]
Newp.22.Google.
[/td][/tr][/table][/center]
