Post by janegalt333 on Dec 21, 2010 20:16:09 GMT -5
TRISTAN
NAME: Tristan (angels don't have last names)
AGE: beyond remembrance (appears as though early twenties)
GENDER: male
RACE: angel
OCCUPATION: revenge (mostly slaying vampires or werewolves, but really anyone 'bad')
REGION: Mystère
ERA: Victorian
POWERS:
- Flying: being an angel, Trist has retractable white wings which he can whip out when he needs to go places.
- Healing: can heal most things, if he bothers too, since it takes up his time, energy, and concentration: Trist believes the best way to help a victim is to hurt the enemies, not heal the victims but rather stop them from getting worse hurt, in which case it would be better for them if he were at full capacity.
- Light manipulation: can control, generate, or absorb light. This makes him quite warm and shiny sometimes, but really he only uses this as a blinding technique when escaping, or just a little light show for anyone. At night, he creates a ball of light to float near him.
EQUIPMENT:
- Dual Short Swords: two shiny steel blades, one on either side, in hoisters at his belt, with rubies on the hilts.
- Dagger: classic small dagger in the boot, for sneaky stuff.
LIKES:
- justice!
- strong people!
- himself!
- cleanness!
- good pastries!
DISLIKES:
- mercy!
- thoughtlessness!
- chaos!
- ungratefulness!
- gross food!
FEARS:
- Eternal entrapment: becoming victim to a sort of endless pain, something of a Prometheus.
SECRET:
- He doesn't care for or worship his Creator, despite his angel origin.
PERSONALITY: Trist is an ungrateful bastard simply because he believes he's what people should be most grateful for, so anything given to him if simply a minor payment towards his greatness. He will save by slaying, not by kindness but killing. His methods are absolute and total, he will stand for no exceptions or mercies. He does not understand people who do not understand this, but if they are innocent then he will defend them anyone---although not many people are innocent for very long, in Trist's opinion.
He is arrogant in believing what he believes is always best, but Trist is always a man to listen to logic when it is applied to his moral reasonings. Meaning, he will give a man his last words but if they are a plead to not be the last they still will be anyway. Trist is not completely closed off to communications at his level, but he is certainly very difficult to sway.
Of course, though, Trist is not always so serious and solid on everything! Although this angel does not have to eat due to his constant complete healing of himself to keep his physique perfect, Trist loves good food and good times with good food. Decadence is his preference, along with strong and independent women---who agree with him, of course. Trist is open to strangers and kind people, but once his perception of them changes into bad everything is over. Trist is an all or nothing man.
HISTORY: There is not much to tell about Trist's hefty history, as colossal as it is none of the wonders of it stick long to his attention always set on the future. Trist has always been an angel, at least as long as he could remember, and heaven was merely a dormant watching place to only comment on the cruelty of earth dwellers. Disgusted with this state of this world, and now devoted to cleaning it up, Trist took a venture down to earth with his unearthly, ethereal powers at hand to be the murderous maid to this mess of morals. However, with refusal to mercy so that he will do a 'proper job', perhaps he is only adding to the stack of corpses, and nothing more.
ROLE-PLAY SAMPLE:Plum woolen socks climbed up her legs to her thigh, her soft pale skin beginning where it ended. Her small skirt swished around her as she walked quickly down the corridor, her shoulders hunched and narrow, one arm gripping the other almost as if she were wounded. Her pupil-less lilac eyes flashed left and right beneath her warm gray bangs, her petal pink lips as expressionless as ever. She looked like she had something to hide, which wasn't entirely nonsense. It wasn't like she intended on hiding it, though; if someone were to ask that she had a knife, she would promptly state 'yes' and ask if they wished to see it in action.
She was wet, she was cold, and she was cranky---there was no other way of classifying it. She had gotten a little carried away in the rain, just standing there and gazing up into the clouds. It was the insanity that ran in her blood, she told herself, that made her do it. To become crazily obsessed with something, someone, was merely in her nature. She could always blame it on her father---anyway, he had always blamed it on her; wouldn't it only be fair---balanced---to blame it right back on him?
The rain water dripped down her gray hair and onto the dark navy blue baggy shirt that she wore, which was clinging like a baby monkey to her sides and bosom. What with her dead look and humble, but elegant, walk and stance, one might assume that she was nothing but a slave---but this was untrue. She had once been somewhat like a slave to someone, once, but right now this was her revenge. Her knife seemed to whisper to her, promising relief from this grief, regret and burning that was eating her from the inside. Torture: that was the right word. She was being tortured---she wanted to let it free on the sole persons that made it so: males.
They were her fear, her disgust, her anger; she would not stop until she was satisfied. Although her eyes stayed just as dead and stagnant as always, her inners began to boil with the longing for one of them feeling the pain that she now felt. Why must this world be so uneven? she would often think to herself. No one ever did anything bad on purpose, they were always with good intentions. Hers were good intentions for humanity; she saw males as nothing but a treacherous plague---one which she must wipe clean with the gleaming malodorous silver knife.
She did not plan things, she never had. Everything was impulsive to Haruka; whatever was done today would certainly not be repeated tomorrow, and whatever she did in these times were never held in accounted for towards the future. Future, this thing that everyone in this mansion had such an endless abyss of, was nothing, here, as well. Dreams of petty little childish ideas, like traveling and making discoveries, were demolished as quickly and easily as a child bringing an end with a finger to a bug's life.
Today, she decided as she swiped a lighter that was so serendipitous enough to be there on the counter for her, she felt like burning something. Into the library she went, grabbing books at an alarming rate into her arms and then fleeing to a corner in the huge library that was there. All around her: books. All around her: lives. How she wished that they were ashes. How she wished that they were dust. No one can live without sin, what was the point of continuing then? In her story book castle around her, she flicked open the lighter, making the softest of noises, and let the end of a page to one of the random containments of knowledge she knew not of begin to burn.
She was nearly shivering from the cold wetness, and the part that was still human in her began to grow eager from the fire that was surely coming; the crackling, warm embers waiting for her to sit by them and watch them dance like trapped spirits, happy where they are but always trying to get free, to grow and expand; to consume, to kill...
Haruka understood the fire.
OTHER:
~~~~~~~~~
ALIAS: Jane Galt (or just Jane)
HOW DID YOU FIND US? Advertisement on another random site which I found from another advertisement. ^^;
