Name Your Geologist

:copperore::copperore:i named mine "Copper" well. you know why.....

Vodka

My Geo stay drunk all time so i name them this basically Vodka is a distilled beverage composed primarily of water and ethanol, sometimes with traces of impurities and flavorings. Vodka is made by the distillation of fermented substances such as grains, potatoes, or sometimes fruits or sugar.

Stakhanov
Poor soul, spent half his childhood in coal mines. His highest ambition is to find a hidden stash and share it with the community. Too bad he cannot read.

This island is not my home. It is my prison. When the ship came with bread and brew to our small port claiming free land on a paradise island, a place with perpetual sunlight, it sounded too good to be true. Being a small boy at the time I of course had no say in the matter, and my family struggling to keep our cupboards full and with winter coming, readily accepted the free passage to the island. And after a long trip up the coast line stopping at each town and city with a port, the ship was full of families like ours. I was only six when I watched the land fade off into the distance. It would be for the last time.

When we arrived at the island it seemed as tho it was everything the men on the ship had promised. Little did we know what awaited us here. He calls himself the mayor, although no one has ever actually seen him. In his eyes we are insignificant, it is as if by some magic force he simply clicks a button and his will is done. Hidden away inside his mansion. He has no regard for our happiness or well being, it is as if we are here for no other reason but to entertain him. To slave for him. It seems all we are put through is simply so that he can have more gold coin in his pockets and more weapons in his storehouse.

The island was once no doubt a tropical paradise, the sun never sets here. All that means to us is that we get to work around the clock. The trees have all been cut down to the stump to build his long boats and weapons, to fuel the smog billowing cokers and smelters.

The only ones who get to leave are the hundreds of sell swords, all of them criminals, bandits , & pirates. Bought for nothing more than a full stomach. They leave to attack any nearby island, and more often than not, the only ones to return are the mayors lap dogs, the generals. But these are cruel waters and there are no shortage of sell swords to hire. Many of the workers eventually join the army as well. If you can call being thrust into the front line fodder ranks of the recruits joining that is. Such was the fate of my father when he was deemed unfit to work in the coal mines and was sent off to battle never to be seen again.

This however will not be my fate, I have a plan, I will not be trapped on this island forever! I've been shown certain courtesy on account of my intellect. I was trained as a geologist, and this generosity will be the mayor's undoing. I am not the only specialist that wishes for freedom. So for now I will continue to play the jolly geo, but soon our resistance will be upon him and this island will become his grave!

My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

Chalkos

Born in a mining village, as a boy Chalkos had a pet guinea pig with black fur flecked with gold and a copper patch by his ears. He named the animal copper. When the mines ran dry, he was forced to move and the pet was lost. But Chalkos never forgot his first friend, and began to specialize in removing it's namesake from the earth. As his skill grew, people began to refer to the young miner as 'Chalkos', an ancient word for copper.

Stoney. Cause he's just looking for stone deposits. Hehe.

As he turned back, his stare lingered for a moment on that rocky outcrop shrouded in mist far to the east. If you squinted, he figured, it should be possible to see his mark, the unique divining rod he had designed himself as a young boy. He managed a sad smile as his practiced hands easily outlined one in the air. Sighing, he noticed that it had become colder during his short respite, and so he clutched his cloak tighter around him and pulled his coif down over his ears. Retrieving his walking stick from the crook in a branch where he had left it, he began his journey again, unable to chase away the demons that came unbidden after that brief but painful pause. Like Lot's wife, he had succumbed to temptation, his curiosity crumbling his will like salt, his resolve dissipating like dust on the wind.

This road was well-traveled, a far cry from the wild and remote road up the mountain in the distance. A mountain that rose like a giant, pale lighthouse, forever calling him back to his past. That day had been brisk, too, he recalled. He hadn't wanted to wear his hat, but it had been suggested to him that "Your hat is a symbol of who you are, don't ever take it off until you lay down to sleep." Wise words, in retrospect, and ones that he would never forget. The road up the mountain had seemed so liberating that day, so inexplicably his, so unbelievably free. He had practically skipped up the mountain, over fallen trees, gnarled roots and stones that jutted like shaving razors unceremoniously strewn across the ground when a hill giant no long had use of them. His dog had nipped at his heels until he threw sticks for it, temporarily redirecting the famously fickle hound's attention. It was on this idyllic autumn day that he had discovered his own personal divining rod design, quite by accident, though his signature style had come at a terrible price.

Having come around the final bend near the peak of the mountain, he had seen his father peering out over the vista, scanning the horizon. As his father had turned, his eyes glowed, and joy danced playfully over his face, caressing away the weathered lines and revealing the once-strikingly handsome complexion beneath. "Come look!" he shouted, beckoning his son over while tucking a loose hair cap under his hat. As his son arrived, the father took his hand and pointed with his walking stick. "See that mountain?" The son nodded, unsure of why they were looking at another mountain after just finally having scaled this one! "It's made of gold, son." He had gasped at that, he recalled, as his father was always telling him how elusive a gold vein was. "The whole thing, made of gold, and that's not all." He lowered his stick slowly, from straight in front of him all the way down to his feet. "Do you see that? That's your inheritance, son. My whole life I've searched for a vein like this, my whole life I've traveled, studying manuscripts, tomes, and even the codices hidden in the top of wizards' towers, and it all led me back to this very spot." In awe, the son had gaped at his feet, like an ogre beholding the finest art, unable to register the magnitude of what his father had said. In that moment, though, everything had changed.

His faithful companion had bounded from the ledge above to jump on his father in greeting, oblivious to the looming cliff behind. His father's joy had quickly turned to horror as the mutt hit him squarely in the chest with his paws and yelped as they both began to tumble off the cliff. The son, now paralyzed instead by fear rather than awe, could only watch as...

Ahead he could make out a small inn, backed by a copse of trees. He sighed as he stretched out his weary legs, deciding that this would be a good place to stop for the night. At the very least he could get a bowl of soup, and if he was lucky maybe a loaf of this region's famously crusty and hearty bread. A tankard of brew might not go amiss either, he mused. Tomorrow he would reach his destination, one he had traveled towards longer than he cared to recall. He could still hear his father's voice from years ago, though the words were much softer now, like sage advice rather than desperate shouting. "Show the world," he had shouted, "how very far this thing goes! It goes for... miles... miles... miles...", his voice growing fainter, until Miles could no longer tell if it was an echo or his father. Miles had discovered two things that day: first, by sheer chance the combination of his walking stick (the one he carried to this day) and his father's made an odd but highly effective divining rod, though the first one he had made now marked the spot where his father had fallen; the second was that it would be his life's mission to bring gold to his entire island by mapping and unearthing the greatest gold vein of all. When his father fell that day, his son had died, but the heir to his quest had been born out of the father's final words as gravity bore him down to his fate. Miles was all that was left of his father, and miles of gold had been his doom. Miles was determined not to let his father's death be for naught.

As he left the inn the next morning, he flipped the innkeeper a coin and asked him how far it was to the base of the mountain. Upon being informed that it was miles away, he grinned and waved over his shoulder. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

I named my three geologists; Jubela, Jubelo, Jubelum after the mythological Masonic characters that killed Hirem Abif. Its seems appropriate since they wield little pick-axes and disappear for long periods of time. Also it is said that Jack the Ripper was believed to have writen this on the walls next to his victims. If I get a forth I'll likely name him Jack just to stick to the theme.

My French-Cajun Geologist is named Beaux. Leaving his humble and simple life in the bayou of Louisiana, he catches a ride on a merchant ship to none other than my island! Sacre bleu! How lucky is that?! Though many people don't give this simple man a second look, he is much deeper than he appears. Upon leaving to find resources, he sounds off with a loud and thunderous "Wallajabila!", which, translated loosely from his Cajun roots means "I will look for now, but I'm off this darned island the first chance I get!"

I named one of mine Geos Midas

After the king midas, that transformed everything in gold, with cience this geo will be the best for looking out gold deposits