Post by Connor Reid on Dec 24, 2008 21:53:47 GMT -4
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I’m not crazy,
I’m just a little unwell.
I know…
Right now, you can’t tell.[/center]
;;_back to BASICS
name;; Connor Reid
nickname;; Connor
age;; 16
birthday;; August 18, 2004
place of birth;; Michigan
gender;; boy
sexuality;; Gay
canon;; Yes
year;; Sophomore
occupation;; Serial Killer
;;_craving for POWER
power clique;; Aerokinetic one
sub-skill;; Audiokinesis one
ability stats;; the stat points will be given by the admins upon approval of application. The better the app, the more the stat points given, so make it impressive. For more help please go here.
power;; signifies your characters power level
control;; signifies your characters control level
sub-skill;; signifies your characters mastery of his/her sub-skill
known limits;; Regardless, his skill lies in precision, not strength. For the past eight years, he has focused not on the strength of his art, but rather, his skill with it. He cannot create massive tornadoes to tear through the earth – but he could deconstruct one coming at him. He could not send a hurricane to decimate a village – but he would easily be able to reverse one. His mastery is unlike most people with supernatural ability – what he lacks in power, he makes up for in control.
In fact, his control is what makes him so terrifying – with enough concentration, he can control oxygen on a molecular level. Granted, that is all that air is, but it has allowed him to draw air from water itself.
As far as power goes, he’s strong enough to knock over a car with the full effect of his power. The control he has, grants him superior speed, manipulation, and mastery with his particular talent.
power history;;
He governed winds. It was a skill discovered when he nearly strangled a man by removing the air from his lungs, and keeping it from entering his mouth. The man had held a woman by gunpoint at a bank one morning, and he’d simply… removed the problem.
The woman was startled, needless to say. He nearly strangled her, as well, though mostly due to the fact that she would not stop touching him.
;;_mirrors reveal real APPEARANCE
celeb claim;; Matt Long
height;; 5’6
weight;; 140lbs
eye color;; Brown
hair color;; Brown
assets;; Lean stomach.
flaw;; Long scar from the tip of his right index finger to his wrist.
distinguishing mark;; ^
Less than physical perfection, but more than the mold he was shaped in, Connor stands tall enough to be the perfect ‘shoulder size’ for a girl his age. Or at least, that is how he is often viewed. On most days, he will wear clothes that are usually too big for him, forcing him to wear a belt, and keeping his hands hidden from view. As silly as it may seem to some, he takes quite a lot of comfort in keeping his body hidden, though most people have said it is an unnecessary action. He doesn’t lack physical self esteem, but his habit of keeping covered up stems from psychological self esteem issues.
Skin that would make a cosmetics girl jealous adorned a rather thin frame – muscle making up a majority of his physique. He was not scrawny by any stretch of the imagination, but it was streamlined muscle, that came from several nights of Aikido practice. A few freckles adorn his nearly hairless body, though he would be far too shy at first to reveal any of them to anyone. He favors cool colors when he chooses his clothing, blues, greens, and whites – he very rarely wears black, except on certain days.
CAREFUL x SUBTLE x PERCEPTIVE
;;_we have our own INDIVIDUALITY
likes;; at least five
[/li][li][/color] Aikido
[/li][li][/color] Tofu
[/li][li][/color] Swimming
[/li][li][/color] Sushi
[/li][li][/color] Education
[/li][li][/color] Reading
[/li][li][/color] Computer Programming[/li][/ul]
dislikes;; at least five
[/li][li][/color] Overpowered Breed
[/li][li][/color] Stupidity
[/li][li][/color] People who say he is ‘insane’
[/li][li][/color] Misuse of language[/li][/ul]
dreams;; at least five
[/li][li][/color] To become a world-famous figure.
[/li][li][/color] To stand up for equal human rights.
[/li][li][/color] To kill… when necessary.
[/li][li][/color] To live fearlessly.[/li][/ul]
fears;; at least five
[/li][li][/color] Dying young
[/li][li][/color] Becoming an invalid
[/li][li][/color] Losing control
[/li][li][/color] Not finding love.[/li][/ul]
eccentricities;; He kills people. He is almost always inaudible to telepaths / empaths, due to extensive mental fortitude – and his one-track mind. He is also a sixth dan at Aikido.
Careful: He is an ‘easy going’ fellow – which is to say, he does not step on toes if he can help it. There are very few people in this world who will ever cause his mask to slip, and those people are quickly removed from the picture. To everyone else, he exudes a calm nature, which is truthfully the way he is. He double checks most everything he does, and never overexerts himself. He objectifies ‘Measure twice, cut once’.
Subtle: He may hate you, but you would never know it. He has a quiet habit of making certain to keep a low profile, and as such, he may lie to your face, tell you the truth, or play you for a fool, and more than likely, someone would be none the wiser. He prefers to keep people at a distance, without arousing suspicion or making people think that he is trying to keep them away, and as such, knows how to make clever excuses to get him out of several things. As a rule of thumb, he wil also never encourage criminal activity, or participate in it. Well, most of it.`
Perceptive: Even when he moves quickly, he will make very, very few errors. Errors irritate him more than he would admit to someone else, and as such, he will do his best not to make any. Perceptivity is what keeps him alive, and he would swear by his ability to see things for what they truly are, to decipher, decode, and understand as many details as possible. His eyes are always observing surroundings, and he almost always counts seemingly random things.
;;_we owe it all to HISTORY
father's name;; Adam Reid
mother's name;; Evelyn Reid
siblings name;; got any brothers? or sisters?
significant other;; married? got a boyfriend/girlfriend?
children's name;; if any
others;; distant relatives? pets?
His story begins at three, with a body. Or rather, a series of bodies. Though, he hardly remembers it in anything more than a few scenes in his nightmares, he knows that what happened was real. His parents, both rather well-to-do doctors who had accomplished much in a short time, had sent him to his grandparent’s house for Christmas. His fourth Christmas, to be precise, and he, more than anything else, had been dreadfully excited.
He got to ride a plane, and wear a little snow suit, and his grandparents welcomed him with a delicious chocolate cake, and let him stay up as long as he wanted [ though he would never tell anyone, he’d fallen asleep soon after his usual bedtime, in the middle of a movie ]. He had a whole week to play, and play he did. His grandparents loved having him there, even though they were expecting a few guests later in the week.
Connor built snowmen and made little angels in the snow – Michigan, after all, was having yet another white Christmas, and the manor in which they resided was surrounded by land, and blanketed in the white powder. They had cake every night, and delicious meals… they went shopping, and he got almost an entire new wardrobe and several toys.
On Christmas Eve, just as he was getting ready for bed, the doorbell rang. Three men were at the door, and though Connor had been tired, he couldn’t contain his excitement at having guests to play with! He was told to be on his best behavior, and behave he did. The men in black talked to him for a little while, and one even held him on his lap while the slightly balding man was talking to his grandparents.
Even at a young age, however, Connor was perceptive. He could tell things were going awry – his grandmother had no bright smile for the men, and though he didn’t understand the words like ‘debt’, and ‘repayment’, he did understand the fact that he wasn’t allowed to get down.
They all went to the basement, where his grandfather kept his bench. The one room in the big manor that Connor was not allowed in. All the while, he was carried by the balding man, though he had no idea why. Squirming was impossible, too. Down there, his grandmother was crying, desperately asking the men things like “Spare him” and offering various sums of money that were too large for the three year old to comprehend.
It was the sounds that made him scream and cry – though his were not the only one. Power tools decimating flesh, shattering bone. Fingers lost. It was torture, pure torture, and there was nothing the poor child could do but sit and watch through tear-sore eyes.
The men were good at what they did. The torture lasted several hours, and when they were done, they tied up the screaming child, and left him next to the bodies of his grandparents. They ransacked the house, claiming valuables, and taking the small store of money that was left in the place.
He was found that way, though he was in a state much closer to unconsciousness death to be worried about his soiled pants. His parents had called the police when they arrived, finding the house broken in to. The police were the ones that rescued him… but no one could save him.
His story resumes ten years later, when he is thirteen. He had been a quiet youth, since then – he never answered questions in school, he never made friends, and he never really said much of anything. He seemed normal in any other respect – he got high marks an all of his schoolwork, he showed interest in sports – specifically Karate and Aikido, and he was highly perceptive. He was put in special placement due to his incredible recollective qualities. That wasn’t the half of it though – he was a supernatural. He governed winds. It was a skill discovered when he nearly strangled a man by removing the air from his lungs, and keeping it from entering his mouth. The man had held a woman by gunpoint at a bank one morning, and he’d simply… removed the problem.
However, that was merely the face everyone saw on the outside. That heavily reserved boy that the psychologists classified as a silent genius.
At thirteen, he’d murdered two other children. There was apparently no motive, no weapon, and strangely enough, no blood. He had killed them by slitting their throats, while they hung helplessly upside-down. They were drained of all their vital fluids. No suspects were ever found, no one even looked twice at him. After all, there was no reason to. Their deaths fell down to unsolved mystery.
He continued through the rest of his life this way, murdering seemingly at whim, and leaving no traces of evidence that even a fine-toothed comb could pick up.
Now, he is a junior at S-Academy – the least likely place anyone would look for a serial killer.
Right?
.
;;_totally out of CHARACTER
real name;; Ven
age;; 21.
rp skill;; awesome
rping length;; 12 years?
read the power guideline;; admininja
where did you find us;; >_>; Helpd buildy?
rp sample;; He never used the giant double-doors at the front of the cathedral. It was too showy, and even though they were always unlocked, he just felt a bit uncomfortable opening them like that. Plus, way too heavy. Piper had given him more than just peace of mind, today - she'd given him something of a hope, that made him more than a little content. He felt, for a little bit, at least, brave. Like maybe, just maybe, he could actually cope with all of this craziness.
Still, the side entrance was always unlocked, too, and that was what he used to get in. It opened into a small foyer style room, complete with hardwood floors that echoed each time he took a step. Honestly, he was pretty glad he'd made it in - he could feel the cold, sharp stings of rain on his head and shoulders. Dropping the bag carelessly by the door, he shook his head a little bit, letting the little droplets cascade around him.
Letting the door close behind him, he yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "Father Albright?" He called, listening intently to his own voice echoing along the stone walls of the cathedral. It was the most annerving point, no doubt - you could almost always hear what was going on. That, however, was usual. The silence that responded was not. Usually there was always someone here to greet him... one of the Sisters, Gretchen or Maria, Sophia and Mary-Clarence usually stayed inside. Either way, he slipped inward, only casually paying attention to anything.
He reached the kitchen after innumerable footsteps that sounded like small gunshots every time he took a step. The fridge, which was usually locked, was hanging open just a bit. Gretchen would have a fit if she saw it, so he got a bottle of water, and surreptitiously slammed it closed, knowing he probably slammed a door shut inside, too.
He was humming something that he couldn't quite place - a gentle tune that he wasn't sure he'd really heard before. It was nice.
"Father Albright?" He called, again. "Sister Gretchen?" He heard his voice once more responding before letting out a sigh. Had they all gone out? No... there was always someone here.
He actually jumped, when he heard Father Albright's voice. "We're all in the dining room!" He replied, his voice louder than it should have been. Trevor's brows furrowed. Twisting the lid off the water, he downed most of it, before sealing it once more, and dropping it into a cargo pocket. Absently, he rotated the rings on either of his middle fingers with his thumb... he did it, though he rarely noticed.
He couldn't help another yawn, as he headed back the way he'd come, to the primary foyer. The kitchen and the dining hall were on opposite sides, each decorated with their own royal purple sign, and a cross bearing the nearly nude, crucified Jesus. His own crucifix was plain - he'd never liked the effigy of Christ on the cross. It was almost disturbingly gruesome, so he'd gone with a shining obsidian crucifix instead, bound with silver. It was dangling from his wrist, tied so that it was just in reach.
He tugged the door marked "Dining Hall", and yawned once more, as he stepped in. His footsteps dampened - squelched, even. He was rubbing his eyes, as he moved in, half ignoring the sound.
His eyes opened.
What was usually an immaculate-looking hall, had been almost destroyed. Not physically, of course - it all looked mostly normal. Except most everything had a red sheen to it. Like the lights had been colored funny, even though the only lights came from the candles that ran the stretch of wooden table. It was big enough to hold around fifteen to sixteen people, and yet, there was only one person sitting there, at the very edge, facing him.
Ornate gold candelabra and sconces lined the walls, casting even more of the odd red glow. It took him one long moment of staring, open-mouthed, wide-eyed, to realize the lights weren't different... everything else was.
The liquid sheen wasn't in his head. It was blood. And the floor was literally covered in it. Not all the way, but there was a definitive trail that led from the door, under the table, and to the other side. The chairs, large oaken affairs, had been knocked asunder, and were pitched aside. One lay in splinters in the corner.
His heart was hammering in his chest. His breath was caught. He could feel a scream trying to struggle its way out, tearing at him like a wild animal.
Sitting there, in his pristine black cloak - white collar stained red - was Father Albright. He looked quaintly amused at the boy, as if he'd been waiting all day to see that look on his face.
"Now, now, my boy. You know the rules. Close the doors when you enter a room." A wide sweep of his hand had the large door slamming shut. "You seem shocked. Is something the matter?" He asked, that amused smile becoming something much more sinister.
Father Albright was a tall man, in his late forties. His salt-and-pepper hair covered most of his head, though it was cropped about the same length as Trevor's. His eyes, normally vibrant blue, were cold and narrowed on the boy, and what could have been mistaken as a kindly smile on a wrinkling face was starting to look a bit manic. He looked every bit the priest. Then again, he wasn't the problem. It was the surroundings.
"Wha---... what's... what's going on?!" Trevor asked, finding he had to speak to finally catch his breath. He'd been holding it since he walked into the room. That coppery scent assaulted his nose, and made his stomach turn violently.
"Isn't it obvious? There's been a murder. Or rather, four murders." He offered, leaning against the table. His fingers were digging into the solid oak frame of the dinner table, right where he usually sat.
"Oh, did I forget to mention? Happy birthday!" He intoned, the smile never fading from his face. "The papers were wrong, of course - your birthday is today. About ten minutes ago, you came in to some power." He added, tugging at the boy, though he was a room length away.
Trevor came crashing forward, as if tugged by an invisible hand. His breath left him once more, as he found himself all but swimming in the redness. Underneath the table, where it had been just out of his view, were the Sisters. All four of them. They were dreadfully pale in their habits, and two of them were suffering from massive neck wounds.
"They tried to protect you, you know. When I revealed what I was. They started saying the Lord's Prayer, and the Song of Solomon... it was almost quaint. But nevertheless, I ended them, too. Just like every other set of Nuns." Albright intoned, eyes becoming colder, more bright. Trevor was struggling to his feet, his front covered in the thick liquid.
"F-ather.... Albright." Trevor was shaking. No, trembling. Violently. This was... not right.
"Oh come now, Trevor my boy! We're beyond all that. Abel is my proper name. My proper demonic name." He added, as flames started to touch the edges of his garment.
Trevor tried to take a step back, and nearly slipped again.
"After five-hundred years, I find it customary to explain what's going on. It's adds a little more fun to the ritual. You see..." He knelt down, and touched his fingers to the still warm vitae he stood in, before rising once more. "You, are a witch. I, am a demon. A child-collector." His voice was almost childlike, at this point.
"There are several magical children born every generation. Few are given up for adoption, and fewer still are placed with churches, like this one. Ah... this one. This one, is my favorite." He gave a thoughtful look around.
Trevor was on the verge of a panic attack. No, he was beyond that. He was having a full-blown psychotic break. This was not - could not be - happening. And yet, there he was, with his bloodstained hands.
"And when they come to the church - as they always do - I am there. It's a perfect cover, really, especially with the shapeshifting power I was born with." He walked around the corner of the table, avoiding a chair, as he started his approach towards the boy. His body seemed to gain a temporary aura of soft crimson, before he became a beautiful woman, wearing much the same clothing. Another shift, and he was a short, stout, balding man in his early thirties. After another few seconds, he reverted to Albright, again.
"You see... children come into their powers at different ages. Usually on a birthday. And when that happens, I... gobble them up, so to speak." He looked thoughtful. "No... that is plainly spoken. I eat them. And with them, comes their power." His smile had grown, showing perfectly straight - filed down to points, now - teeth.
"Fifteen years is a long time to wait. But you're a special one. Your parents were half demons. Which means you were bound to get some very interesting powers. Very... very interesting. You might be the one that puts me over the edge. I might be able to stand up to the Source." He cackled, brilliantly. He reached out his fingers, tracing a thin line of red on the table.
"But I waited. I knew when you would get your powers... today is that marvelous birthday. Here you are... here I am. Are you scared? Frightened? I do so hope you are. Adrenaline is a wonderful thing."
Trevor was frozen. His back was against the wall next to the door, and he was about to break. He knew it. He was going to die.
"You children - when you first get your power - you never know what you are, or what power you might have. That makes you defenseless. It makes you... vulnerable. And, it makes you delicious." He paused where he was, tilting his head. His bloody hand curled, and fire leaped from his fingertips.
"And that's it. That's everything. Now, to give you a nice roasting."
Quietly. Too quietly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a switch flipped. Tears slid down the side of his face. His stomach roiled, and he felt that, for certain, he had to run. Screw destiny. He couldn't do this. He could taste the blood, though not much had gotten on his chin.
"My birthday..." He said, gently, reaching his hand for the doorknob. "You were right the first time. It was last week." He said, looking up at him.
"What was that? Oh, I love the parting repartee. Though it's usually crying and pleading. One more time, for me?" He said, leaning forward, almost an arm's length away, the flames dancing just inside his palm.
"My birthday..." He squinted his eyes. "Was last week!" With that, he enhanced the fire. He Enhanced it so much his head hurt. What was a fireball grew, enormously in the demon's hand. It became bright and brilliant.
Trevor threw open the door, and started running, leaving red, running footprints on the hardwood floor. The screams of the demon were echoing in his head, bouncing off the walls, mixing with the sudden rush of thunder outside.
He hated himself. The last images of Father Albright was him clutching the stump of cauterized flesh where his hand had been. He slipped, neatly slamming into a small decoration table, destroying the vase as he righted himself.
He didn't care. He had to run. He had to flee. He had to simply go. To hell with destiny. This was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. And he hurt. He hurt so much, that he couldn't hardly contain it.
His mind was racing as fast as his heart as he threw open the door to the outside, pausing only to grab the bag he'd dropped there and sling it over his shoulder.
He'd done something. He'd angered God, somehow. Was it those impure thoughts? Maybe Piper was wrong, and Witchcraft was evil. As evil as that demon.
Piper.
His feet beat furiously against the concrete as he ran, the blood slowly mixing with rain over what was once perfectly clean school clothes. That nice white shirt, manly cargo pants. Even a belt!
Let him have you, and it will be over.
No no no. No. Everything hit him all at once, and he found himself on all fours, losing everything that had ever been in his stomach. Vomit ran into the street drain, diluted by more rain water. Trevor was already drenched - but he was past caring.
Where could he run, to escape a God-damned demon!?
There was only one other place he knew.
He ran for the Halliwell Manor.
character adoption;; no?
;;_chapter one: SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
here are some questions we will be asking for this first chapter of the plot.
willing to get your character murdered;; HMMM? Maybe.
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