Post by xmisscrisis on Apr 6, 2009 15:57:00 GMT -5
And They Tell Me I'm Not Their Idea Of Normal
but this is just how i've always been
but this is just how i've always been
Name: Adrian Alexander Gale.
Nicknames: A, Gale.
Age: 21.
Sexual Orientation: Straight.
And I Hate My Reflection In The Mirror
because it shows me everything i'm not[/center][/size][/color]
Pb Claim: Gaspard Ulliel
Physical Characteristics: For the most part, Adrian's personality is reflected in his looks. Liking to spend his time indoors, away from most people, he has a pale complexion, which contrasts greately with his shock of nearly-black hair. His eyes, a dark grey, are the colors of the shadows he thrives on, and are always guarded with a blank expression. He has shadows under them, faint but definitely there, from sleeping very little--he has constant nightmares. He always looks fairly bored or frustrated, with his hands shoved deep into his pockets or crossed over his chest.
And, representing his need to go mostly unnoticed, he dresses very casually. On a normal basis, he's in a button-down shirt, often with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of jeans. As he's rarely doing anything very physically strenuous, there are no rips in his clothing, or even stains. While he doesn't exactly take pride in his appearance, he always looks acceptable.
And Money Is Supposed To Make Me Happy
so all i do is about the greenbacks
so all i do is about the greenbacks
Job Position: Student-- majoring in chemistry.
Schooling: Current junior in college.
Wealth Status: Upper middle class.
And I Keep Wishing On The Same Stars
but loyalty doesn't make dreams come true
but loyalty doesn't make dreams come true
Dreams:(at least 2)
Fears:(at least 2)
Secrets:(at least 1)
Likes:(at least 5)
Dislikes:(at least 5)
Three Best Personality Traits:
- Extremely loyal to anyone who manages to break down his cold exterior.
- Intelligent and quick-witted.
- Determined.
Three Worst Personality Traits:
- Sarcastic and rude to virtually everyone.
- Impulsive.
- Guarded.
And All This Shit Could Fill A Novel
because life's a crazy game
because life's a crazy game
Parents:James (46, businessman) and Marianne Gale (deceased).
Siblings: N/A
History:
Her scream: that’s the main thing Adrian hears, over and over again, every single day of his life. It hadn’t used to be like this. When he was a child, he was adored by his mother, and at least respected by his father, and had a fairly average childhood. He had “play dates” with friends, was taught to read and write by his father, and even had a pet—though the dog hadn’t lasted long. His barking drove his father insane, and the next thing he knew, it was gone. His father claimed it had run away, but that didn’t explain the knife covered in what had looked like ketchup to the four-year-old Adrian that was in the sink the next day.
His mother drove his father insane, too; that’s what he was told, at least, though he didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. Maybe she’d waited too long to get dinner started, or hadn’t been waiting to greet him at the door when he came home from work one day… those things tended to set him off, and she’d always be hit. The hitting got worse as the years dragged by, though, and finally, his father couldn’t seem to control himself any longer. Adrian still hears the scream as he remembers the dull thud of his mother’s body hitting the floor. Or that's what he now assumes happened; he was six, and had been coloring when it had happened, and his father had come back into the room like nothing was wrong.
Her body was found two days later in a dumpster on the other side of town, the police officer had told them on evening. As soon as he'd paid his condolences and left, his father had ordered him to go to bed, and not speak a word the next day; he didn’t for weeks.
In fact, he still doesn’t speak much, particularly around the house. It’s just safer that way. His father, having never been caught—or even suspected—of the murder lives at home with Adrian; or had, up until he was eighteen, and was shipped off to college.
He was hardly on the fast track to popularity there, through no fault but his own. He was approached by a few students at the beginning, but he brushed them off; eventually, the numbers began decreasing, and soon, very few people acknowledged him at all. And he preferred it that way. A loner through-and-through, he’s spent the past three years in the shadows, and doesn’t plan on changing.
And I Try To Sit In The Shadows
so no one can see my true face
so no one can see my true face
Name: Em, Emily, E, 'Hey stupid!'... I'm not picky.
Rp Experience: Oof. Er... four years, give or take?
Where did you find us?: You, actually. Surprise, surprise. :]
Rp Sample:
Sirius was hungry.
Not the normal type of hungry, which could easily be ignored in favor of sleep. No, this was the worst kind of starving. He felt as though he were one of the infamous-- though nameless-- children in Africa that he'd often heard parents (typically muggle) use when trying to convince a stubborn child to finish a meal. "You'd better finish your vegetables... there are children starving in Africa who'd kill for that food." Who cared about Africa? There were kids starving in England-- namely, one Sirius Black.
He lay awake, staring hard at the ceiling high above him, listening to the sounds of his stomach churning within him for a good five minutes before sitting up and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. Lying around would do him no good. In fact, it could probably do him more harm than anything; Remus was a known light sleeper, and the roar from his stomach seemed to echo off the walls in volume. At any given moment, his mate could wake up and-- while he wouldn't actually hit Sirius-- he would probably give him a stern talk about why he shouldn't skip dinner in favor of a prank.
Or... Merlin, what if he really was starving? Stomachs probably stopped growling once you were dead; he could just fall over and die, right in the middle of the night, and no one would know until morning came, and they found his body half-sprawled onto the bed, stone cold. They would spend months, years clad only in black, speaking only about how perfect he was, and how they could've done something to prevent his tragic, early death. They'd probably have a statue erected in front of Hogwarts in his honor, made of pure gold, and people would sob at the sight of it, for it would invoke painful memories of how he'd been the best person the school had seen. And, while all of that was good and well, he wasn't willing to put his friends through that sort of anguish.
He smiled to himself as he stood, amazed by how selfless he could be.
His stomach roared once more as he stumbled his way through the pitch-black room (only knocking into three out of the four trunks, he was proud to say-- a new record) and out the door, passing through the commonroom in favor of the portrait hole. In no time at all, he was sliding down the banister into the Entrance Hall, intent on a good meal, compliments of the house elves in the kitchens.
Just as he was turning, however, a flash of black caught his eye (though how that was possible, he wasn't sure; the entire hall was only dimly lit with a few scattered torches, and black on black didn't really catch anyone's eye, least of all his) and he turned back just in time to see the oak doors slide shut. Someone else was around at this time of night? One of his mates, maybe? His gaze lingered on the doors as he stood shock-still, now in a dilemna.
On one hand, he was starving. Maybe even dying, and he didn't much like the prospect of becoming a ghost-- or whatever else happens when you die. On the other, Sirius didn't cope well alone; he always had some form of company, and he wasn't sure he could last through a meal without talking to someone. He glanced between the overbearring doors and the corridor that led to the kitchens a few times, torn. What to do...?
An echoing growl issued from his stomach decided for him, and without a second thought to the mystery person (it was probably just a prefect anyway, patrolling the grounds), he started off once more to the kitchens. Once there, he was greeted by the perky elves, and after requesting a bit of everything from the meal he'd skipped to set up a prank, he settled himself down on an extra chair, humming off-key to himself.
Not the normal type of hungry, which could easily be ignored in favor of sleep. No, this was the worst kind of starving. He felt as though he were one of the infamous-- though nameless-- children in Africa that he'd often heard parents (typically muggle) use when trying to convince a stubborn child to finish a meal. "You'd better finish your vegetables... there are children starving in Africa who'd kill for that food." Who cared about Africa? There were kids starving in England-- namely, one Sirius Black.
He lay awake, staring hard at the ceiling high above him, listening to the sounds of his stomach churning within him for a good five minutes before sitting up and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. Lying around would do him no good. In fact, it could probably do him more harm than anything; Remus was a known light sleeper, and the roar from his stomach seemed to echo off the walls in volume. At any given moment, his mate could wake up and-- while he wouldn't actually hit Sirius-- he would probably give him a stern talk about why he shouldn't skip dinner in favor of a prank.
Or... Merlin, what if he really was starving? Stomachs probably stopped growling once you were dead; he could just fall over and die, right in the middle of the night, and no one would know until morning came, and they found his body half-sprawled onto the bed, stone cold. They would spend months, years clad only in black, speaking only about how perfect he was, and how they could've done something to prevent his tragic, early death. They'd probably have a statue erected in front of Hogwarts in his honor, made of pure gold, and people would sob at the sight of it, for it would invoke painful memories of how he'd been the best person the school had seen. And, while all of that was good and well, he wasn't willing to put his friends through that sort of anguish.
He smiled to himself as he stood, amazed by how selfless he could be.
His stomach roared once more as he stumbled his way through the pitch-black room (only knocking into three out of the four trunks, he was proud to say-- a new record) and out the door, passing through the commonroom in favor of the portrait hole. In no time at all, he was sliding down the banister into the Entrance Hall, intent on a good meal, compliments of the house elves in the kitchens.
Just as he was turning, however, a flash of black caught his eye (though how that was possible, he wasn't sure; the entire hall was only dimly lit with a few scattered torches, and black on black didn't really catch anyone's eye, least of all his) and he turned back just in time to see the oak doors slide shut. Someone else was around at this time of night? One of his mates, maybe? His gaze lingered on the doors as he stood shock-still, now in a dilemna.
On one hand, he was starving. Maybe even dying, and he didn't much like the prospect of becoming a ghost-- or whatever else happens when you die. On the other, Sirius didn't cope well alone; he always had some form of company, and he wasn't sure he could last through a meal without talking to someone. He glanced between the overbearring doors and the corridor that led to the kitchens a few times, torn. What to do...?
An echoing growl issued from his stomach decided for him, and without a second thought to the mystery person (it was probably just a prefect anyway, patrolling the grounds), he started off once more to the kitchens. Once there, he was greeted by the perky elves, and after requesting a bit of everything from the meal he'd skipped to set up a prank, he settled himself down on an extra chair, humming off-key to himself.
And If You've Read The Rules
you know what goes here:
Fits, eh? :]
you know what goes here:
Fits, eh? :]
