Oooh this looks so cool, but I might be too late. Are there any spots left?

Name: Flynn Kelly

Age: Recently turned 20

Gender: Male

Rank (Servant, etc): Young Lieutenant 

Appearance: Tall, obviously strong, but not extremely muscular, has sharp features, slightly wavy brown hair with hints of red that goes nearly to his shoulders when it’s down, though he almost always keeps it in a ponytail. He has striking ice-blue eyes that tend to show lots of emotion, dark eyebrows and fair skin with a slight tan, as well as a smattering of freckles across his nose, from spending lots of time outdoors. He can appear a bit harsh at first glance, but has a contagious smile. He has a long scar starting at his jawline and running down to his collarbone that he doesn’t like to talk about, and he usually gets angry when anyone mentions it.

Personality: When he was younger, he was happy, carefree, and reckless. Now he’s been somewhat hardened by the war, making him more reserved, withdrawn, quiet, and calculating. He doesn’t trust easily, but when he does, he gives that person his full trust, and if they break it, he will most likely never trust them again. He holds grudges for a very long time. He hardly ever lets his emotions show, preferring to hide behind a shell of his real self. To those who take the time to get to know him, he’s more of himself, easygoing, quick-witted, and clever. He loves nature and being outside, and he’s most relaxed when he is. He often speaks or acts upon impulse and without thinking, a habit he’s trying to break. He’s a talented fighter, but hates fighting and being in the war, though he doesn’t admit this to anyone. Inside, he’s afraid, and he doesn’t want anyone to know it.

Backstory: Flynn grew up in Ireland with his parents and his older brother, who he’s very close to. His family immigrated to the colonies when he was five and his brother was seven and bought a small farm. Several years later, his father joined the army, followed shortly after by his brother. Flynn stayed with his mother, who had fallen terribly ill. He attempted to nurse her back to health, but she died late one evening as he knelt by her bedside. After her death, Flynn joined the army and became a lieutenant. When General Washington returned to his home to plan attacks, he brought along a few soldiers, including Flynn. 

Other: He has an Irish accent.

@Aspen, do you want to ship him with Lucy? 

@Alta, can Flynn and Ambrose be friends?

@Leeli Good to have you!

@Tux (good nickname?) Sorry to pester but will we start soon? I'm really excited!

@Alta I'm just going to RP as if Ambrose and Melody are shipped. *Nervous laugh* I hope you're okay with that… 

Melody~

Soap and water slosh up my arms. Cook yammers away about some weird spice that he's missing, and various other servants bustle around. At some point, all of the dishes are washed and now I have to dry them. I grab a small towel from off of a rack and begin wiping the plates and bowls and forks and spoons and knives and cups dry. A different servant puts them away. When the last dish is dry, I throw the cloth back onto the rack and rush upstairs and out of Mount Vernon, to the gardens. There, I find Ambrose fingering a pink damask rose petal.

"Ambrose!" I shout. He looks up from the flower and smiles.

"Melody!" He stands up and I stop just before him. "Don't you have work to be doing like the rest of us?" He says in jest. I smile.

"I'm a little bit ahead of schedule, so I wanted to come see you in your handsome brokeness." I say laughing. Ambrose smiles pitifully. "Which reminds me! I think I've figured out a way to straighten you nose!" Ambrose looks at me quizzically. "I haven't worked out all of the kinks yet, but I really think it'll work this time." I touch the end of his crooked nose lightly and playfully.

"I really do hope so. I want to look my best for you." Mirth and love twinkles in Ambrose's one eye and he wraps his arms around my waist. I blush.

"Since I'm here, could I get some herbs for Cook? He's going mad because he doesn't have any oregano." Ambrose laughs, a warm but strange laugh. I laugh too.

"Okay then. I'll get some herbs for Cook." He says, smiling.

~~ 

@Rogue

Yes, I think that ship would be rather interesting.

@Leeli

I would love for them to be friends. Maybe Ambrose could live the war vicariously through Flynn.  

Ee! I love this! Side note- I changed True's mom from British to African-American, because I think her past makes more sense that way.

My tan hand matches Splash’s coat perfectly. I don’t know why it’s this specific fact that I notice when I walk into the barn, but I do. Inside the barn, although it is drafty, I already feel warm. It’s snowing so hard out that I can barely see. My brown hair has clumps of snow stuck to it, even though I had my white hat over it. I pull my tan-and-pink checkered coat tighter around me, and wrap the white scarf around my neck more securely with a white mitten.

I hear a whiny from the stall and walk over to the grain cart. I’ve just finished feeding Splash and Phoebe and Pegasus and Arthur and Spots and Mr. Mittens, and I’m reaching for the pitchfork to give them hay when I hear a noise. The creak of a floorboard up in the loft. I know it’s probably nothing but a mouse, but having a murder mystery fan as a father, I know from bedtime stories that things aren’t always “just mice”, especially in the night.

“Who’s there?” I call out. “Who’s there?” I call again, more insistent. Even though, it could mean, the death of me, I start climbing the ladder. I’m partway to the loft when a man jumps down from it and starts running out into the storm. I roll my eyes.

“You’re gonna get killed out there.” I tell him as he sprints into the paddock. I meet him out there and corner him. “The storm’s so strong  I’m not sure if it’s safe to walk back to my shed. And I won’t hurt you, I promise.” I hold up my empty hands and walk toward him, Surprised that he stopped for me, I fiddle with my bracelets. I can see him closer now, and he looks old, around 35 maybe. He’s wearing weathered clothes, including a tattered army jacket. I look at him curiously.

“You can stay in the barn until the storm lets up, or I can take you back to my place. It’s chilly in this barn, and you don’t have the right clothes. I have some old clothes that William, the head servant, gave me. ‘Cause he outgrew them so most of the time I make them into clothes for myself. But I have a spare coat I didn’t use yet.” I tell him, talking fast like I do when I’m nervous and sliding my bracelets up and down my arms. He smiles a half smile.

“That sounds marvelous. I thank you for your generosity.” His voice is low and gruff, and when I look in his eyes, I know that I can trust him. His eyes are dark, like mine, but have lost all life. They tell you that he’s tired, that he’s been through a lot. My eyes used to look like that, too, but now I have hope. And even if nothing comes through, I still have the horses and my English sheepdog, Stella. I crunch through the ice as I lead the man back to my  hut. It looks like a little tiny house painted a faded light blue with black roofing tiles, and it’s right across from the outhouse, which is handy. I live in this house by myself, since I’m not a slave or a servant but here of my own free will. I crack open the dark brown door and squeeze through. The man follows. My house is small. There’s a loft, which holds a mattress that serves as my bed and has thin white sheets and a thin blue blanket over it, along with a pillow, and rag bear. The bed is the only thing that fits in the small loft. On the main floor, a wall has a cookstove, a small icebox, and a small countertop with a cabinet under it. I store food in the cabinet, and there’s a sink next to that/ The fireplace glows brightly across from the door, and my patched couch sits on the last wall. Next to the fireplace is a small closet that holds all of my clothes and my yarn. I instruct the man to take off his shoes and coat and sit across from the fire. I rummage through a pile on the floor and pull out a thick brown coat with a small tear and two pairs of holey wool socks. I look out the window above the counter, but everything is so white I can barely see the stream that runs by my hut or the woods across from the barn. I toss him the coat and socks, along with a torn piece of thick fabric for him to use as a scarf. I shove the pile back into the croner behind the wash tub.

“So what’s your name and why are you here?” I ask the man as I sit down on the couch, and I listen to his story with curiosity.

Like it Birdie! I was thinking that Timothy would not actually tell her anything, and be quite wary and ask her to not tell anyone he was here, and she would say yes or something than he would somehow be found out by one of the older serbants or something… and enter in other characters… you like?

Ya, I like that, Tux. Do you want me to add anymore or should you?

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