Post by Ghost on Feb 17, 2009 23:06:09 GMT -4
((I'm sorry to say that you'll be getting mine and Ghost's perspective throughout the application. Hope you don't mind!))
“No wonder they call him Ghost.” The customer's words fell into a bustle of unhearing ears.[/ul]
Weaknesses::
[-] A pretty face.
[-] Kids.
[-] Gold
[-] The unknown and the unpredictable
---
Companions::
“Me, myself, and I,” Ghost told the little boy, ruffling his hair as he walked past. “Though the strolling players don’t mind my company every now and again. Don’t know why, but apparently a thief is welcomed among their ranks.” He shrugged, loping away from little boy who stood on his tiptoes as if that would bring the strange man back.
History::
Story time!
*clears throat*
Once upon a time, there was a little boy.
No one knew where he came from, just that one day the young girl in the outskirts of Ombra claimed him as her own. They all knew that he didn’t belong to her, for her own child had just died. A month prior, she’d given birth to a beautiful baby girl, who immediately fell ill and died within the month. No one in the girl’s family would admit that anything was wrong with her, but everyone could see that the life in her eyes had died away after her daughter died. After the new child mysteriously appeared, the light returned. That and the fact that there were no frantic mothers pleading to anyone about having lost their son were the only reasons that no one piped up and asked where she found the child.
And so became Magnus Prince. And seeing how Magnus, when translated from Latin, means Greatest, I believe that he grew into his name. Soon he had three siblings to fight and protect and teach; two brothers and sister. They grew up together in a house on the outskirts of Ombra, a stable or a farm of sorts, a small family of a single mother-- the children’s father was a travelling minstrel-- and her four children, one of whom who looked nothing like the rest of his family. They learned more about the world around them, like how to ride a horse or build a fire or knock an arrow than they did about the worlds in books or fairytales.
Magnus, from a very young age, got himself into the bad habit of taking things that didn’t belong to him, an art that he taught himself. Stealing from his siblings at first led to pick-pocketing on days at the market, and before long he had himself a nice little stash hidden where only he could find it. By the time he was ten, his family was low on money while he had a small fortune of his own. Guilt overrode his usual arrogance, and he packed up what few necessities he would need, a handful of his collected treasure, and left. Oh, and he left a treasure map under his little sister’s pillow, just to make sure that the collected fortunes would go to good use.
He travelled North, North to the unknown where he could learn more and take advantage of the fact that he was a new face in the crowd. No one would ever suspect a little boy passing through, right? In the first town, right. In the next town, right. In the next several towns, for the next three years, right. Then, all of a sudden, wrong.
There was a woman with wrinkles and white hair, and judging by her podgy belly, she had more than her fair share of riches. Mag stayed in town for a couple of days, and then made the move to sneak into his house and steal from her. Everything went according to plan. Until he got caught, that is. You’d think she’d have thrown him out, or hurt him, or done something bad, right? Wrong. She went into a motherly overload and made him get cleaned up, complained about him having no meat on his bones and proceeded to shove food down his throat.
He came to know her as Liza.
Liza refused to let him leave for the next month; basically, she held him prisoner. While he was prisoner, she treated him like her son, complete with making him read. One particular book was about a thief, who claimed himself to be the lord of thieves. And he was scared of ghosts. I’ll give you one name where Ghost got the idea for his alias. Exactly! When Liza finally set him free, he moved on to the next village, and stole from the wealthiest man there. As he was leaving, the man caught sight of him as he was loping off down the lawn. On such a silent night, his words had seemed to echo through the entire country side: “I’ve been robbed by a ghost!”
The last five years have been rather uneventful. The game of thievery is to always be on the move, so Ghost has seen most of the world. He hasn’t planted roots anywhere, because he doesn’t want to have to feel compelled to stay in a single place for more than a few days at a time.
RP example::
Darkness hung heavily in the air, so thick that it felt like swallowing mud or sludge instead of air. Despite the sheer thickness, an arctic breeze sliced through the still air. Suddenly everything breathed with its own life.
The trees, nothing more than darker blurs in the dark, lashed out at her as she dodged through them. They raked through them. They raked their sharp barky talons along her goosebumped arms mercilessly. Their knobby roots simply cackled with silent delight as they pulled up from the sooty earth to catch the toe of her boot and trip her. The leaves-- yes, even the harmless, innocent leaves-- rained down in a flurry of fury to blind her; choke her.
And that was just the trees.
That wasn’t even factoring in the scarce shrubbery, or the creatures big and small that called this forest home. The terrain over which she ran, she stumbled, she fled seemed just as determined to be an obstacle as the wind seem to last out with claws that tore at her skin relentlessly.
Another tree root grabbed at her ankle, this time sending her into a face first collision with the ground. If her hands hadn’t shot out first, of course. She gulped down lungful after lungful of sludgy darkness mixed with icy air that stung on its way down her throat. Maybe it only stung because of the blood coating the back of her throat?
She wasn’t an athletic person, dammit! Running for about ten miles, through the woods, in the middle of the summer, in the middle of the night, with no moon, was not something she usually did for fun. Then why was she running?
She paused to consider the question, allowing her painful yet rhythmic breathing to help her concentrate. What had driven her from her home, that may not have been perfect but was still home, in the middle of the night? What had chased her into the woods, into the unknown, without a second thought or hesitation?
Fear.
Overwhelming, overbearing, lung-crushing, heart-stopping fear. Fear in its purest form, so ugly and disgusting and terrifyingly cruel that it couldn’t even be described. Words hadn’t-- haven’t-- been invented yet to adequately describe what drove her from her house that night.
But it was the same that drove her to her feet now. Clawing at the loose dirt, scrambling to find a foothold, she fought to get to her feet. And she was a lover, not a fighter. The terror that drove her to her feet, drove her forward and onward into the mysterious forest, was error in its sheerest form.
A fear so strong that fear pulled her along by a thin string. If the knife of pain in her side-- placed there by running-- decided to detach itself and cut through the string, it would be over. If pain overtook fear, made her think “why am I even running? I can’t run anymore, and there’s nothing to run from anyways.” then she would be doomed.
If the indescribable fear didn’t catch up with her, the sheer vastness of the woods would. In the daylight it would only be worse, with shadows to play tricks and more animals on the hunt…
But the string kept pulling her along. Once or twice she could feel the hot breath of danger, of the end, on her tired heels. Eventually she stopped running, but she didn’t stop moving. Not even for a second.
She hardly even realized when the black sky faded to gray, to orange, to pink. Not until terror released its grip on her heart and lungs did she notice the sun had risen.
((And this sample can only be achieved when I'm dog-tired and supposed to be sleeping. Writing by light of glow stick might also be required.))
[/blockquote]
Your Name::[/i] he mused.
Everyone calls me Ron
Your Age::
Fifteen. *shifty eyes* And a half!
Canon or Original::
Original
How did you find us::
Ad. I saw the word Inkheart and spazzed. At, like, seven in the morning when I’m usually on my way to school, it was actually a very amusing thing.
-------
Name::
Magnus Prince
Alias::
Many, but most commonly Ghost or Mag. It depends on how you know him.
Age::
Eighteen
Job/Position::
Professional thief extraordinaire
Location::
Anywhere and everywhere. He tends to go where the wind takes him and where the windows are opened or the locks easily picked.
---
Appearance::
Dark. Sharp. Those are the only two words that would come to mind upon seeing Ghost. Everything about him is one, the other, or both. All of his lines are sharp, yet fluid, from his the curve of his spine to his strong shoulders to his strong jaw. Even the line of his smile isn’t a single, curving line, but rather has a kink in it that makes it his own signature crooked smirk. His skin is naturally dark, but not too dark, best described as being the color of liquid brown sugar spread into a flexible skin. Rich dark brown almond shaped eyes are usually half-lidded in lazy amusement, almost unnoticed because of the long lashes that every girl craves to have. There’s actually an overall foreign look about him.
To put it bluntly, his hair defies gravity. The black locks grow up, straight up, as though someone had knotted their fingers through the tresses and decided not to let go. Okay, maybe straight up is a bad way to describe how the hair grows, but the general direction it grows is never down like everyone else’s. If it did, though, Ghost’s would only just skim the top of his ears; he doesn’t like his hair long. “Harder for people to grab onto your hair when it’s short, you see.”
Tall and slim, Mag is built more for speed than strength. In his line of work, a ton of muscle isn’t necessary; getting the hell out of Dodge is.
Distinguishing Features::
Mag’s most notable features would have to be his bent out of shape, impish grin, his hair that refuses to be tamed, and lightly browned skin.
Personality::
Based solely on appearances, Magnus is expected to be distant, detached, and dominating. Yes, I got three d’s. I’m so proud of myself. Anyhow! In most cases, he lives up to expectations, with a few added twists just to keep things interesting and make you wonder “Where the hell did that come from?” He’s distant and detached --I just now realized they mean, like, the same thing-- in both the physical and emotional senses, separating himself from others because he doesn’t want to get attached and often spacing out and having to be snapped back to reality. This only applies when he’s in a group of people; when he’s on his own, he’s focused and could easily forget that someone else was even with him. The dominating part is simply referring to the fact that Ghost feels the need to be in control; he’s a leader, not a follower. An “Every man for himself” atmosphere fits him perfectly because no one’s bossing him around.
Beneath the surface is where the quirks lay, hidden to the untrained eye. He’s actually very protective, especially over kids and girls. If’ you happen to be a girl fourteen or younger, then you’ve really reached his soft spot. Though he’s never had to do so yet, Magnus would totally place himself in front of a child and the point of a sword because he’s just that protective. He’s also a lover. Not a serious lover who plans to spend the rest of his life with you; that would require commitment, and that’s not in his vocabulary. But from the few flings he’s had, he now has to avoid those towns so that the girls won’t come and hunt him down only to trail after him like a lost puppy. He’d say something sarcastic like “I have that affect on girls.” Ooh, right. He’s a sarcastic, cheeky little devil who absolutely loves loopholes.
Strengths::
[+] Lock picking
[+] Sneaking, especially if shadows are provided
[+] Getting from point a to point b in a timely manner
[+] Moving silently
“No wonder they call him Ghost.” The customer's words fell into a bustle of unhearing ears.[/ul]
Weaknesses::
[-] A pretty face.
[-] Kids.
[-] Gold
[-] The unknown and the unpredictable
---
Companions::
“Me, myself, and I,” Ghost told the little boy, ruffling his hair as he walked past. “Though the strolling players don’t mind my company every now and again. Don’t know why, but apparently a thief is welcomed among their ranks.” He shrugged, loping away from little boy who stood on his tiptoes as if that would bring the strange man back.
History::
Story time!
*clears throat*
Once upon a time, there was a little boy.
No one knew where he came from, just that one day the young girl in the outskirts of Ombra claimed him as her own. They all knew that he didn’t belong to her, for her own child had just died. A month prior, she’d given birth to a beautiful baby girl, who immediately fell ill and died within the month. No one in the girl’s family would admit that anything was wrong with her, but everyone could see that the life in her eyes had died away after her daughter died. After the new child mysteriously appeared, the light returned. That and the fact that there were no frantic mothers pleading to anyone about having lost their son were the only reasons that no one piped up and asked where she found the child.
And so became Magnus Prince. And seeing how Magnus, when translated from Latin, means Greatest, I believe that he grew into his name. Soon he had three siblings to fight and protect and teach; two brothers and sister. They grew up together in a house on the outskirts of Ombra, a stable or a farm of sorts, a small family of a single mother-- the children’s father was a travelling minstrel-- and her four children, one of whom who looked nothing like the rest of his family. They learned more about the world around them, like how to ride a horse or build a fire or knock an arrow than they did about the worlds in books or fairytales.
Magnus, from a very young age, got himself into the bad habit of taking things that didn’t belong to him, an art that he taught himself. Stealing from his siblings at first led to pick-pocketing on days at the market, and before long he had himself a nice little stash hidden where only he could find it. By the time he was ten, his family was low on money while he had a small fortune of his own. Guilt overrode his usual arrogance, and he packed up what few necessities he would need, a handful of his collected treasure, and left. Oh, and he left a treasure map under his little sister’s pillow, just to make sure that the collected fortunes would go to good use.
He travelled North, North to the unknown where he could learn more and take advantage of the fact that he was a new face in the crowd. No one would ever suspect a little boy passing through, right? In the first town, right. In the next town, right. In the next several towns, for the next three years, right. Then, all of a sudden, wrong.
There was a woman with wrinkles and white hair, and judging by her podgy belly, she had more than her fair share of riches. Mag stayed in town for a couple of days, and then made the move to sneak into his house and steal from her. Everything went according to plan. Until he got caught, that is. You’d think she’d have thrown him out, or hurt him, or done something bad, right? Wrong. She went into a motherly overload and made him get cleaned up, complained about him having no meat on his bones and proceeded to shove food down his throat.
He came to know her as Liza.
Liza refused to let him leave for the next month; basically, she held him prisoner. While he was prisoner, she treated him like her son, complete with making him read. One particular book was about a thief, who claimed himself to be the lord of thieves. And he was scared of ghosts. I’ll give you one name where Ghost got the idea for his alias. Exactly! When Liza finally set him free, he moved on to the next village, and stole from the wealthiest man there. As he was leaving, the man caught sight of him as he was loping off down the lawn. On such a silent night, his words had seemed to echo through the entire country side: “I’ve been robbed by a ghost!”
The last five years have been rather uneventful. The game of thievery is to always be on the move, so Ghost has seen most of the world. He hasn’t planted roots anywhere, because he doesn’t want to have to feel compelled to stay in a single place for more than a few days at a time.
RP example::
Darkness hung heavily in the air, so thick that it felt like swallowing mud or sludge instead of air. Despite the sheer thickness, an arctic breeze sliced through the still air. Suddenly everything breathed with its own life.
The trees, nothing more than darker blurs in the dark, lashed out at her as she dodged through them. They raked through them. They raked their sharp barky talons along her goosebumped arms mercilessly. Their knobby roots simply cackled with silent delight as they pulled up from the sooty earth to catch the toe of her boot and trip her. The leaves-- yes, even the harmless, innocent leaves-- rained down in a flurry of fury to blind her; choke her.
And that was just the trees.
That wasn’t even factoring in the scarce shrubbery, or the creatures big and small that called this forest home. The terrain over which she ran, she stumbled, she fled seemed just as determined to be an obstacle as the wind seem to last out with claws that tore at her skin relentlessly.
Another tree root grabbed at her ankle, this time sending her into a face first collision with the ground. If her hands hadn’t shot out first, of course. She gulped down lungful after lungful of sludgy darkness mixed with icy air that stung on its way down her throat. Maybe it only stung because of the blood coating the back of her throat?
She wasn’t an athletic person, dammit! Running for about ten miles, through the woods, in the middle of the summer, in the middle of the night, with no moon, was not something she usually did for fun. Then why was she running?
She paused to consider the question, allowing her painful yet rhythmic breathing to help her concentrate. What had driven her from her home, that may not have been perfect but was still home, in the middle of the night? What had chased her into the woods, into the unknown, without a second thought or hesitation?
Fear.
Overwhelming, overbearing, lung-crushing, heart-stopping fear. Fear in its purest form, so ugly and disgusting and terrifyingly cruel that it couldn’t even be described. Words hadn’t-- haven’t-- been invented yet to adequately describe what drove her from her house that night.
But it was the same that drove her to her feet now. Clawing at the loose dirt, scrambling to find a foothold, she fought to get to her feet. And she was a lover, not a fighter. The terror that drove her to her feet, drove her forward and onward into the mysterious forest, was error in its sheerest form.
A fear so strong that fear pulled her along by a thin string. If the knife of pain in her side-- placed there by running-- decided to detach itself and cut through the string, it would be over. If pain overtook fear, made her think “why am I even running? I can’t run anymore, and there’s nothing to run from anyways.” then she would be doomed.
If the indescribable fear didn’t catch up with her, the sheer vastness of the woods would. In the daylight it would only be worse, with shadows to play tricks and more animals on the hunt…
But the string kept pulling her along. Once or twice she could feel the hot breath of danger, of the end, on her tired heels. Eventually she stopped running, but she didn’t stop moving. Not even for a second.
She hardly even realized when the black sky faded to gray, to orange, to pink. Not until terror released its grip on her heart and lungs did she notice the sun had risen.
((And this sample can only be achieved when I'm dog-tired and supposed to be sleeping. Writing by light of glow stick might also be required.))
[/blockquote]
