Post by rooke w. ashton; on Jan 8, 2012 10:04:44 GMT -5
c h a r a c t e r i n f o
i am ROOKE WOLFRAM ASHTON;
also known as THE (CHESS) TOWER, DOGFIGHTER, WINTEREIGN;
born on SIX AUGUST, THIRTYTWO years old;
gender is MALE;
i am with the BLOODHOUNDS; a BLACK ELKHOUND;
i have no family;
i have no friends;
i enjoy PLAYING THE VIOLIN/GUITAR, the RAIN and DRINKING TEA;
i despise it when MY PEACE IS DISTURBED;
i am identified-
> height at 5'9", lean build;
> black hair, a slight brownish under light; shoulder length, messy;
> black eyes, shining differently at night; always riddled with fatigue;
> despite age, he appears young;
> burn scars on his shoulders, neck and half his back;
> often in collared shirts or a hoodie/jacket; sometimes wearing a military style cap;
> often in dark colored ¾ pants or jeans;
> often barefoot or wearing just black socks;
> a long black furred tail, curled or hanging; no attempts to hide it;
> carries either a violin or a guitar in their cases; often used to smuggle items and objects as well;
> carries a switchblade and/or brass knuckles as weapons;
> if needed, owns a Unique Alpine TPG-1 (sniper) rifle, stored at home;
> a slight hypnotic ability was recently discovered; hesitant, but wishes to find out more;
my usual act and moods-
> quiet mostly, doesn’t say much;
> passive and blank on everyday life; mostly alone;
> relaxed when playing his instruments, often sad songs;
> harsh if offended or disturbed;
> like a monster in a fight, tearing though anything;
> like a wolf, loyal to the pack;
> like a knight to royalty, willing to defend if needed;
my story as told-
> Rooke has a vague history, refusing to reveal on most occasions. As follows, clues of an accident, a fire, mutation and painful months. Previously a soldier in an army. Or was he an agent? Was he of rank? Or was he simply a pawn in the wrong moments? Nothing was solid. The past was ignored eventually.
> Years spent on recovering. Years spent accepting small temporary jobs that earned him next to nothing. Years spent on doing nothing except playing the violin or guitar for coins and change.
> He had moved on through all these years. Finally moving into dupliCITY with slight hopes of starting anew...
The lonely sound of a violin pierced the dawn. At day break, a lone man was on the edge of a rooftop, playing a gentle tune. Rooke had always started his morning like this. Eyes closed, relaxed. He was playing a song named ‘Sad Romance’ slowly. For some reason, no one came to complain to him about the noise he made in the mornings. Whether or not they enjoyed it, he paid no mind either. When he was done, he retreated to his apartment and prepared for the rest of the day.
He set out with his red violin. His switchblade and brass knuckles in his pockets. His tail swaying behind him. He frightened the people who feared supernaturals. He offended the people who hated supernaturals. At what cost? No one approached him. Maybe a curious child or two, appeared to caress the tail, only to be shooed away by their parents.
An order or tea. An order of muffins. He left the cafe and reached the park. There was barely anyone there, but he made camp by a sign. Bringing out his friend, he went on through the day playing his violin. Coins, bills or even food might be dropped into his case. Maybe one or two might applaud when he finishes. Violinists could be killers as well. He was waiting for someone.
i am ROOKE WOLFRAM ASHTON;
also known as THE (CHESS) TOWER, DOGFIGHTER, WINTEREIGN;
born on SIX AUGUST, THIRTYTWO years old;
gender is MALE;
i am with the BLOODHOUNDS; a BLACK ELKHOUND;
i have no family;
i have no friends;
i enjoy PLAYING THE VIOLIN/GUITAR, the RAIN and DRINKING TEA;
i despise it when MY PEACE IS DISTURBED;
i am identified-
> height at 5'9", lean build;
> black hair, a slight brownish under light; shoulder length, messy;
> black eyes, shining differently at night; always riddled with fatigue;
> despite age, he appears young;
> burn scars on his shoulders, neck and half his back;
> often in collared shirts or a hoodie/jacket; sometimes wearing a military style cap;
> often in dark colored ¾ pants or jeans;
> often barefoot or wearing just black socks;
> a long black furred tail, curled or hanging; no attempts to hide it;
> carries either a violin or a guitar in their cases; often used to smuggle items and objects as well;
> carries a switchblade and/or brass knuckles as weapons;
> if needed, owns a Unique Alpine TPG-1 (sniper) rifle, stored at home;
> a slight hypnotic ability was recently discovered; hesitant, but wishes to find out more;
my usual act and moods-
> quiet mostly, doesn’t say much;
> passive and blank on everyday life; mostly alone;
> relaxed when playing his instruments, often sad songs;
> harsh if offended or disturbed;
> like a monster in a fight, tearing though anything;
> like a wolf, loyal to the pack;
> like a knight to royalty, willing to defend if needed;
my story as told-
> Rooke has a vague history, refusing to reveal on most occasions. As follows, clues of an accident, a fire, mutation and painful months. Previously a soldier in an army. Or was he an agent? Was he of rank? Or was he simply a pawn in the wrong moments? Nothing was solid. The past was ignored eventually.
> Years spent on recovering. Years spent accepting small temporary jobs that earned him next to nothing. Years spent on doing nothing except playing the violin or guitar for coins and change.
> He had moved on through all these years. Finally moving into dupliCITY with slight hopes of starting anew...
The lonely sound of a violin pierced the dawn. At day break, a lone man was on the edge of a rooftop, playing a gentle tune. Rooke had always started his morning like this. Eyes closed, relaxed. He was playing a song named ‘Sad Romance’ slowly. For some reason, no one came to complain to him about the noise he made in the mornings. Whether or not they enjoyed it, he paid no mind either. When he was done, he retreated to his apartment and prepared for the rest of the day.
He set out with his red violin. His switchblade and brass knuckles in his pockets. His tail swaying behind him. He frightened the people who feared supernaturals. He offended the people who hated supernaturals. At what cost? No one approached him. Maybe a curious child or two, appeared to caress the tail, only to be shooed away by their parents.
An order or tea. An order of muffins. He left the cafe and reached the park. There was barely anyone there, but he made camp by a sign. Bringing out his friend, he went on through the day playing his violin. Coins, bills or even food might be dropped into his case. Maybe one or two might applaud when he finishes. Violinists could be killers as well. He was waiting for someone.