Lysander Islinger

Boatswain, safecracker, duelist... this profession favors the multitalented.

0 · 169 views · located in The Jewel of the Seven Skies

a character in “Sky Pirates: Band of Misfits”, originally authored by Pyroteknik, as played by RolePlayGateway


Give me twenty seconds and the safe won’t be a problem—actually, make that seventeen.

Back to Basics


Name: Lysander Roark Islinger (III)

Nicknames: Well, there was this one time early in his career when he got piss drunk and sort of… rolled himself around on the sand, singing at the top of his lungs. It probably took him about a week to get all the grit out, and there are some who still call him “Sandy” because of this. He’d much prefer Andy if a nickname is really necessary, but he’ll take the mocking with good humor.

Age: 30
Gender: Male
Birthdate: September 18
Birthplace: London, England
Role on Ship: Boatswain
Role in Circus: Duelist/Acrobat—Put simply, what Lysander does is stage very elaborate, flashy fights with his partner, or else against groups of “opponents.” The entertaining part is all the fancy leaping and cartwheeling and such that goes on, as well as the fact that most of the weapons are on fire a good portion of the time. It takes a lot of athleticism, knowledge of, well, how fighting works, and some chemistry, actually.

First Impressions


Height: 6’6”—and he occasionally forgets this and hits his head on doorways inside the ship. They typically aren’t made for people of his size.
Weight: Eh… a good guess would be quite a bit.
Build: Lean, a bit lanky, but clearly muscular enough to throw himself around in handstands and so forth.
Hair Color: Some indistinct brown/black color that really just qualifies as dark.
Eye Color: Dark green
Scars or Markings: Well, his occupation can be hazardous, so he does have the occasional burn scar or old slash from where he was cut by something. Most of these are on his forearms or torso.

Brief Written Description: Bit of an awkward duck, this one. At least, that’s how a few people would put it. He’s not built for life on a ship, generally being too tall for just about everything. He’s learned to duck under doorways and so on by now, of course, but that doesn't change the fact that he has to sleep spread-eagled on his hammock, limbs hanging off the sides like a drunken spider, simply because the thing won’t accommodate his entire height. He’d sleep on the floor, if that didn’t carry the danger of rolling around during the night time, and he’d like to avoid the bruises from smacking into his own furniture, thanks. He’s long and lean, with a certain kind of natural dexterity about him that doesn’t precisely translate into grace as such, but he can make it work when he takes a second to think about things.

Though most people have to crane their necks a bit to talk to his face rather than his torso, it’s not a bad face, as they go. His nose is maybe a little crooked, perhaps broken a time or two too many, and his whiskery beard is maybe not shaved quite as often as it should be, but his features are well-enough assembled, his teeth in rather remarkable condition for someone with a sailor’s lifestyle. He has a nice smile, Lysander does, and several variations of it to boot. His eyes have a hint of mischief about them, just a glimmer, but it’s there for people who know how to look. He rarely scowls, though has been observed with the occasional contemplative frown.

His skin is sun-darkened and a little bit wind-roughened, though he’s got perhaps another decade before it truly reaches the level of “leathery.” He’ll often pull his lower lip in between his teeth when he’s thinking, and perhaps sketch things in the air with his fingers.

Digging A Little Deeper


Quirks and Faults
| Fast Talker | When someone gets Lysander warming up to a topic, they might get lost if they’re not running to keep up, so to speak. He tends to get seized up by ideas and carried off into the nether, a bit—he’s a smart fellow, especially with mechanical things, but he’s not always very good at conveying what he means to say. Though an empathetic listener, he may not always seem to be paying attention, like his brain is scattered in three or four places at once.

| Mischief (Managed) | As boatswain, Lysander’s responsible for knowing the ins and outs of ship maintenance—engines, ropes, sails, you name it. It also means he’s well-positioned to sabotage these things for a little fun, and he’s not exceptionally good at resisting this temptation. He tends to enjoy pressing people, be it with pranks or questions, and testing their mettle, or perhaps he just gets a kick out of pissing them off, it’s hard to tell. It’s worth note that none of his tricks have ever seriously injured anyone—he does know what he’s doing, even if he doesn’t look like it.

Tricks | Performances | Mechanical Devices | Books | Liquor | The smell of fresh air | Storms | Fantastic tales | Engine maintenance | The color purple | Spicy food | The sound a series of tumblers make when they all click into place.

“Nature” | Authority | Restrictions | Cramped Spaces | The way blood smells | Yellow things | Dirt | Interrupted trains of thought

| Buying back the Estate | His family’s old money, without the money. An empty title sits on his name, and for all that, it feels heavy. He couldn’t care less about any of that gentry business himself, but his mother’s getting old, and he wants her to have her house back before she dies.

| Infamy | Granted, he’s already got a bit, but Lysander’s just odd enough to want to be famous for all the wrong things.

| Enclosed Spaces | Well, unfamiliar enclosed spaces, anyway. It’s less a paralyzing phobia and more of a nerve-wracking sensation. He could still function in a crawlspace, he’d just get really touchy and irritable, likely to snap at anyone who said anything superfluous or what-have-you.

| The Hangman’s Noose | In an abstract kind of way, Lysander fears getting caught. He’s not afraid of death exactly, but something about the idea of being hanged just sets his teeth on edge. It’s that kind of death specifically.

| Mechanics | Before his eventual turn to crime, Lysander was a locksmith and a watchmaker as the situation demanded. He’s adapted to be good with engines like the one on the ship, and more than that, his expertise also gives the team a reliable lockpick and safe-cracker.

| Athleticism | He’s in great shape, enough to perform as an acrobat, and his skills with a blade are nothing to sneeze at, either. If a situation needs to be fought out of, he’s a good bet for the front line. His shot is a bit less fantastic, but he’s working on it. Slowly.

| Coordination | Lysander is very much a marcher to the beat of his own drum, so to speak, and his drum isn’t really like other people’s drums. This can make it difficult to interpret what he’s thinking or how he should work best with others. It also means that he sometimes ‘forgets’ to play by the rules if he thinks his idea is better. He doesn’t disrespect Annie—he’s known her for far too long—but they do occasionally butt heads over things like this.

| Distraction | Sometimes, Lysander gets so wrapped up in his practice or his tinkering or even just the thousand-and-one thoughts in his own head that he forgets to do things like eat or sleep or bathe, unless he notices that he smells rank, of course. But this means that on any given operation, he may not be at the top of his game, which carries considerable risk, given what they do.

Under My Skin


| Brilliant, Scatterbrained, Vital, Honest, Impatient |

The operative word with Lysander might be quick. He’s a quick thinker, a fast talker, but just as swiftly drops into silence if he feels a particular need to listen. His movements are sure, and enacted with celerity. His emotions ignite with minimal stimulus, but it’s tricky sustaining them, for they burn out with great speed as well. Trying to get a decent read on the kind of person he is or what he’s really thinking under there is kind of like trying to hold fire in your hands—and sometimes just as painful. He tends to keep most at arms’ length, and the number of friends he has is quite small for someone who is generally liked among the non-officer members of the crew, the ones he commands. Ideas seem to come to him out of the ether sometimes, but his muse is a fickle bitch, and just as often as he’s rushing down to the engine room trying to enact his latest inspiration, he’s forced to find something to do with himself because she’s chosen to withhold his intellectual ambrosia from him.

It’s typically when he doesn’t have any fantastic ideas that he substitutes the artful movement of body for that of the mind, and that’s about the only time he’ll slow down, even a little. When he manages to become totally absorbed in something, his demeanor will change a little, and he’s more willing to take his time to get things right. This doesn’t mean his mind is moving any more slowly—only that he’s at least realized that the rest of him might need to.

Socially, Lysander is an engaging if occasionally nonsequitur conversationalist, willing and able to move deftly between topics at the drop of a hat. His rather posh accent and extensive working vocabulary hint at a good formal education somewhere along the way, one more facet of his strange patchwork life. How exactly he wound up on a bloody pirate ship is anyone’s guess, but he’s more or less a fixture now. His scattershot interests in things and people can lead to the (perhaps true) impression that his feelings for those around him are shallow and fleeting and unreliable, and until this point, this has been more or less correct. He takes friends and occasionally lovers mostly out of convenience, but that’s not to say that while you have him, he’s bad at either. Quite the contrary, in fact—but the understanding must be that all things are temporary, Lysander’s attention perhaps moreso than most other things. It’s all about interest with him: if it’s interesting, it can absorb him to almost obsessive levels, but only until it’s not longer interesting, at which point it is promptly abandoned.

Diving Into The Past



Well, it goes a little like this: Lysander Roark Islinger III is perhaps more properly known as Lord Islinger, of Wessex. Not that the title means anything to anyone with a lick of sense, of course. His family is titled, but they are not wealthy. The slow decline of the County of Wessex started some generations ago, and really it’s all a bit dry to be recounting in a biographical sort of way, but suffice it to say that by the time it got stuck at the end of his father’s name, the title was mostly empty, just like the family coffers. They were forced to sell their once-grand estate at about the time Lysander finished boarding school, and he was unable to attend university as he would have liked, instead essentially sold into a trade. His happened to be locksmithing, though he spent just as much time with his younger brother, attempting to help the poor lad learn watchmaking. Both were better off than their sister, who was shunted off into marriage with some old ditherer far too dull for her brilliance.

The drudgery of his life did the active mind that was Lysander no favors, and he spent much of his free time trying to either find something to inspire him, something to care about, or something to distract him from the painful dullness of his apprenticeship. Oftentimes, the search ended temporarily in bars or brothels, and this new set of experiences satisfied him for a bit, but not long at all.

He was roaring drunk and a little bit barmy on a cold night in the December of his twenty-second year when he first met Malik, and after him Annie. Malik was a large man, almost as tall as the skinny ‘gentleman’ Lysander but probably twice as broad, and he walked into the dreary London tavern bristling with exotic weaponry, the like of which the British youth had never seen before. Their friendship was a fast one, made faster by a barroom brawl that taught Lysander an awful lot about bruising patterns, and somehow (he was still quite drunk at the time) he found himself accepting a position on, of all things, a pirate ship.

When he woke up the next morning, hungover as hell and half-falling-out of a hammock sandwiched into the back of crew’s quarters, he was understandably a bit confused. In the end, it was probably the best decision he ever made. It may have honestly been the first one of any significance that he made for himself. Lysander may in all honesty never fit in anywhere, but with Annie’s crew, that was sort of par for the course. Initially, the two butted heads quite frequently and on just about any topic—the woman was hardly older than he was and thought herself in charge of the whole ship? Not bloody likely. But over time, Lysander grew to respect her as much as he could respect anyone, save perhaps Malik, who taught him the ins and outs of ship life, as well as how to use more than a few of the interesting, deadly things he carried on his person.

Ship life agreed with Lysander, and his scrawny frame acquired lean, corded muscle, his gentleman’s hands callusing over, and his appearance backsliding from meticulous to mostly unkempt. Nobody cared, and that was rather liberating. He came to value that freedom he’d never had, that his family never would have. He sent them all word, of course, though how much of the truth he told each of them varies. His sister may be the only one who knows the whole story, but either way, he was in it to stay. Time made him one of Annie’s more unconventional supporters, and though the early years of establishing her authority were still hard, the support of himself, Malik, and a few others smoothed things over at least a bit. To this day, he may not always do what she tells him to, but he’ll quite quickly point a sharp object at someone who insinuates that she didn’t work to get where she is today. It’s an odd kind of loyalty, but then, Lysander is an odd kind of man.

He was there when she burned the first ship, after a battle in which Malik was slain, and he, like she, was presumed dead in the aftermath. One day, he’ll tell his family that’s not true. Until then, he does what he’s done for years—he follows his captain into the next adventure, now in the position Malik once occupied.

How often do you get online?: I’m usually on about once a day, slightly less if I get busy.
How often can we expect you to be able to post?: On average maybe twice a week. More if I’m not busy.
Password: Buried Treasure!

So begins...

Lysander Islinger's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lysander Islinger

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#, as written by Guest

Somewhere, down in the lovely bowels of an ugly ship—or was it the other way ‘round? He could never be sure—the oppressive heat was largely ignored by the closest thing to a mechanic the crew really had. Whatever might be true of his educational status in the matter, Lysander could keep the engine running, even if he did do it with bailing wire and tape more often than not. Genius was, after all, that which operated outside the petty norms of things like convention and (often) good sense. It wasn’t like anyone else ever came down here to check on the heart of the ship—because they didn’t need to. There weren’t any problems to be checked on. Empirical confirmation of an abstract hypothesis. Beautiful.

She was a complex lady, full of moving parts, little idiosyncrasies and ticks and bits of selective neurosis that would have sent another man running years ago. But Lysander Islinger, in his own humble opinion, was not most men. Flighty, not too far shy of neurotic himself, capricious, and often absurd, he was nevertheless capable of patience and innovation when he wished to be, or more precisely when the she-phantom that sometimes gave and sometimes stole from him his inspiration desired him to be. This, his craft, was not only science, but art, and art was subject to the whims of the muse.

Fortunately, science was in fact enough to keep the ship in the air when art wasn’t quite cooperating. Fancy that.

It was certainly stifling in the room, the engine’s output only making the ambient heat from the atmosphere that much worse, creating a cauldron of wet warmth that did not fail to plaster his shirt to his back nor his hair to his forehead. Not that Lysander noticed, of course. The body could and would suffer under the shackles of circumstance. The mind was more than that. Well… and he was bad at paying attention to anything else when a problem held his focus. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead and ran with unerring precision down the bridge of his crooked nose, dangling for just a moment at the very tip of it, as though on a precipice. Then it fell, unheeded, to splash the series of cogs and gears that the boatswain currently examined.

The general whir of the engine was interrupted every once in a while by a periodic grinding sound, and the cause seemed to be that one of the gears had been warped by the recent turn of the weather. It now did not occupy the exact dimensions it once had, and was scraping cacophonously against the one to its left every time they intersected a certain way. Lysander added a few new cogs to the mental list of purchases to make for the vessel next time they landed, but for now… he hopped down from the perch he’d occupied atop the cylindrical engine shaft, grabbing a metal file from the box of equipment he kept in the engine room, then opened one of the side panels of the cylinder, allowing him to pass through a gap in the piping and machinery to stand inside the engine. A series of levers rested on a panel to his right, and his fingers flicked idly over several of them, until an idea came to him, and he grinned.

It was not an expression of outright joy. Far from it: crooked and wry, it seemed more like the sort of expression one might wear in the company of people one dislikes, when something unfortunate but not fatal occurred to the worst of the lot. For a moment, his hand tightened on one of the levers. Just a bit—lose a few hundred feet of altitude, no big deal—but then he shook his head, recalling something else. There was a job today. If he knew Annie (and so help them both, he did), she would already be flipping her lid—quietly, yes, maturely, probably—but the anxiety would be present all the same. It gave him enough pause that he passed over the lever he’d been planning to flip and depressed the proper one instead. There was a loud shift in the pitch of the engine’s hum, as the work it was doing was shifted away from the section he’d shut down, so that he could file the warped gear down to size and put everything back in working order.

Really. The sacrifices he made sometimes. Lysander shook his head at himself, but was soon enough distracted by his task, and didn’t bother considering it any further.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lysander Islinger Character Portrait: Barbarus Brennan

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Barbarus Stroud

Barbarus scratched his beard absentmindedly as he wandered back through the bowels of the ship, his small crate of tools clutched in his hand. The days seemed to be going quickly these days, suns rose earlier and then they set again within what felt like moments, perhaps it was just the extra work, then again it could just as easily be his age finally catching up with him.

He peered in towards the engine room balefully; he wasn’t one for all this metal machinery. It just didn’t have the life that a good piece of timber did, there was no grain to decipher and certainly no nails involved. Anything that couldn’t be fixed with a few good nails was really quite questionable in his opinion.

His hand moved from his beard to his small pendant as he stepped inside, he had been tasked with repairing the door again, the heat from the boiler had been warping the entire room and despite his best efforts he couldn’t rescue the door from the steam’s onslaught although at least it was now possible to walk above the room without sinking slowly downwards.

Placing his tool box on the floor Barbarus wiped his brow; his expert eye surveying his task before him. He was about to bend down to collect the necessary implements before a very noticeable shift in tones from the monstrosity behind him shifted his attention. “Hello?” He questioned after some moments of staring out his adversary.

Creeping closer he held a large hammer defensively, the machine couldn’t harm him of course. But he’d seen weirder things in his life so nothing could be ruled out. There were stories of ships turning on their crews after all. Standing almost half a yard back Barbarus tapped the machine lightly with his hammer. “Hello?” he asked again, this time slightly more audibly. “Anybody in there?”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lysander Islinger Character Portrait: Francis Savage Character Portrait: Emilia Knox Character Portrait: Katarina Zarubin Character Portrait: Amalia Winchester Character Portrait: Blayke Crandall Character Portrait: Leopold Doherty

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Curled up, much like a cat, in the hammock the small sail maker began to stir. No movement coming from her until her grey eyes began to flutter open, yet they closed as soon as they were open. Soon more movement accompanied, Amalia slowly uncurled herself from her human ball. She stretched, her muscles tensing as she gave a small satisfied sigh, finally opening her eyes all the way. She scanned her surroundings, feeling a bit lost at first, causing her to look very kid like. Once she got her bearings she sat up, swinging her legs over to where they hung off the hammock, no intent on touching the ground quiet yet.

Amalia had made it a habit of being one of the last to awake on the ship. She stretched once more, her feet reaching for the floor but not finding it. She glanced around, running a hand through her wild red hair. Hopping off her hammock as she went over to a pile of clothes, Amalia wasn't one to keep things organized. Throwing off her clothes she was in carelessly as she slid on a loose-fitting blue shirt, rolling up the sleeves and then shimmied into a pair of pants, which fit tightly, yet she rolled them up to mid-calf. Running a hand through her hair yet again, trying to decide if she should go with or without shoes.

Though she would regret her decision she made her way out of her cabin, silently and barefooted.

The sailmaker was going towards the large sail out on the deck, just for routine inspections. As she made her way towards the upper deck, she repeated a list of things she needed to do - out loud.

"Check the sails, try to make Lysander's hammock longer, fix a few of the circus flags, double check Kat and Blayke's silks, and fix that hole in your pants.." (The first was a given, the second was due to the height the man possessed, the third was due to the show they were putting on, fourth was for good measures, and last is a story Amalia would rather not revisit) She repeated that, over and over to herself quietly a good three times before she reached the top deck. Out of instincts she stopped, silently observing her surroundings. She recognized the pilot right off, Emilia, Amalia found the blonde a bit intimidating. The things she could do with knives was incredible, yet scary. Amalia was just glad they were on the same side, plus she found it amusing that their names were similar. Then her eyes were on Francis, recognizing the hang over immediately, she gave a small grin. "Been there, done that." She mused, quietly to herself, with a small giggle.

Then she heard the familiar clip-clopping of shoes on the deck, "Good morning, Leo!" She called, with a small wave and a large grin. She then headed towards the sails so to began marking things off her to-do list. "You better do what you're told first..don't want you gettin' in trouble." Amalia's voice was soaked in her southern accent as she gave a sly grin towards the boy. "I'll be right here when you get back." She promised before he could object.

With her attention now on the sails, Amalia smiled into the warm sunlight. She kept her mind on anything but the heist that would be occurring that night. She had no desire to be worried.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Annie Doherty Character Portrait: Lysander Islinger Character Portrait: Leopold Doherty Character Portrait: Oluchi Yeboah

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    She dreamed of days where she worried more, and fussed over the small things that didn't concern life and death. Horizontal though she was, pelts brushing her cheek, it seemed she could not have more of a care in the world. She was not dressed, not made up, and feeling altogether contentedly reluctant. Selima had no plans of getting out of her bedclothes for a while, however long she'd been awake. Someone was coming to fetch her, after all, and it would be best if she stayed still.

    "Mm..." she arched her neck, cracking a chain or two along her spinal cord as her eyes fluttered shut. Only blackness and the after image of the window's light greeted her. Groaning, Zizi rolled upright. Annie would be disappointed that she didn't have more specific news--specific, specific, the girl always wanted it specific and Zizi couldn't blame her--but the lack of ill will shall have to do. The politician was careless, she knew that much; one would have to be to decide to swindle money from the less well-to-do populace. What danger there would be would come from what lies around him. Her chin perked upwards, and she traded stares with the broken clock on the wall before her. Jutting from the ajar little door, the little bird on it's plank had its beak mostly shut. The minute hand below twitched from time to time. Perhaps... her Boatswain would be willing to give it a fine tuning.

    Unfurling, her feet came flat against the floor, and her toes wriggled as the cold crawled up her legs. Slippers, slippers. She found them under her vanity, adjusted her tri-fold mirror, and got to work adding some color to her cheeks. "Yes, you're already beautiful," she told her reflection, "but we need to hide some discerning details." Or enhance them. Depending on the day and the crowd, Selima was better off looking older and haggard. It would not be today; richer audiences expected their fortunes to be clean and not laden with cobwebs and the juices of a boiling cauldron.

    Still in naught but a linen dress and cozy footwear, she dragged a shawl about her shoulders and stepped out of her room. Leopold was late, and she was steadily growing hungry. A drift down a hallway and half a flight of stairs later, she had pancakes set before her. Pancakes. With chocolate in them and a merciful coating of jam--"Mercy me, Oluchi. Oluchi, darling. Pulling out all the stops today, are we?" Crewmembers behind her were chowing down, and pretty happy about it from what she could hear. Oh, she knew adopting this one into the crew would be the best thing that would happen to them, she knew from the start. "Oluchi," she called again, balancing a plate of food and utensils on her hip by the time she found him. She leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke in a giddy hush. "I've a plot, you see. There is a bloodhound puppy sniffing out my trail; what say you come with me when he finds me, bring an entire stack these scrumptious things, and make sure madame captain actually feeds herself this fine morning? It will be so horribly unprofessional, I could die."

    She squawked out a curt laugh. Then her trouble-making grin seeped back, fading into a more demure smile with wide-eyed blinking. "And I'll give you my love if you've tea to spare."