Avatar of cerozer0
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Recent Statuses

6 yrs ago
Current rpg’s biggest issue? the gender binary
2 likes
6 yrs ago
im a fool in fool clothes
2 likes
6 yrs ago
pussi
6 yrs ago
the nyc commute grind reveals why adults pass out at 9 pm daily
4 likes
6 yrs ago
its a dick suck dick world ya know
7 likes

Bio






F R A N K I E
Nonbinary || 20 || Gay || EST
Tumblr || Twitter || frunk#8974



Most Recent Posts






King turned as Jess returned with the pillow case, a wild smile distracting from his otherwise burning eyes. At first he pretended not to hear her suggestion, hands instead shoveling stack after stack of bills into the makeshift bag, but he kept one out and let his face glitter with teenage rebellion. "Make it rain, huh?" His finger looped under the plastic keeping the final stack together, pulling it loose with a swift flick of the wrist and wild chortle. Crisp twenties flew into the air as King drifted a hand over the stack, raining down onto the book covered study, raining down onto the shoulders of Jess, raining down onto the yet untouched desk. King couldn't keep track of just how many bills suddenly leapt into the air, all he knew was that the stack was well over one hundred dollars and all the money would be a hassle to collect later.

King let his hand drop when the stack was gone, staring at the papers and bills that collected at his feet with wide eyes. His chest rose and fell with heavy sighs, mind a collection of panic and excitement. A horrid combination for someone like Richard King. He saw the colors shimmer to life in the air and then fade away into static. He was fine.

"Well, that was exciting." King finally said, turning towards the desk idly. His hands pressed down on the mahogany goliath, feeling cool wood press back. It was serene and neat save for the few twenties that had drifted onto the empty space, and King hated it with a passion. His hand swept over the entire length in one rough motion, scattering as pile of papers and pens and books across it and onto the floor. The Zippo light in his back pocket weighed down on him like concrete and, without thinking too much of it, he pulled it back out and lit a single document ablaze. The paper rested between his thumb and index finger and burned, burned, burned. Orange fire licked up at him and rolled down the page, erasing whatever important information could have settled among the front of the paper. King only released it after the fire nearly burnt his fingertips raw and the only thing remaining was a single blackened ember. Then he lit another, and another.

"Shit-- Jess, be a doll and open some windows in here." He said in a toneless voice, watching as another document crumbled in his hands, "Gotta get the smoke out before the fire alarm goes off, ya know?" He grinned warily down at an ember that settled in the palm of his hand, burning lightly. The next document he set off held his name and some scribbled information. He swore he read magic in here. He knew, he knew didn't he? It burned away quicker then the rest, willed by King alone, and the fire took on a blueish tint due to his influence. It vanished with the rest.

He started on another.





"Now that that's settled, then," King's face was unknowable. A mixture of countless expressions, happiness and fear and disgust and excitement and everything in between. He stepped across the room in five big strides and pulled open the door with more force then necessary, already aware of what his first mistake and first act of freedom would be. A priceless, empty vase sat on a hall stand just outside Astrid's door, leaning against the banister as if it were just asking to get thrown off. He thumped forward, heavy footed and inspired suddenly, and his calloused hands clutched the ornate decor. He reveled in how light it was, how delicate the intricate white handles seemed to be beneath his grip, and his smile widened into something much more sinister. "Rest in pieces, bastard!" He cried over a roar of white noise and anxiety that only appeared after he told his brain to throw it, and then he held it over the banister and let it fall and fall and fall and shatter on the floor below.

His whooping laugh almost sounded like a pain cry. He stared down shakily at the remains, the white dust and chips that glittered in the afternoon sunlight, and he shook and shook and shook because it was so close to the front door now. If his father walked in he would see it easily, and he would blame King and King wouldn't be able to fight back.

But he's not coming back yet.

King glanced back at the room full of kids, smiling or grimacing (he wasn't sure), and then stepped back to kick the hall stand over. The clatter inspired another laugh from him. "Destroy this place! It's gonna be fun." His voice was laced with anxiety and excitement, and without another word he rushed for the stairs and vanished to the lower floor. Panic continued to surge but the less he thought about his father and his fists the more he realized how much easier it would be to run from him. With a van and friends and stolen money, he could get far, far away form this house. Farther then he ever thought possible. The cycle was crumbling in his head, the abuse was now nothing more then a scare tactic and he was overcoming it faster then someone should perhaps.

But are you really?

The study was grand and empty when King pushed through the usually locked doors, glittering with dust and afternoon light. His father's work place stood before him like a hideously nostalgic dream, or nightmare. It didn't hold the clutter of a scholar, rather the neatness of a politician, complete with fat silver pens with 'Henry King' written on them and wax stamps. Books were bound in blacks and browns, their binding nameless save for dates and the occasional surname. King brushed passed the bookshelves first, ripping the binders from their place, watching them curl at his feet like dead and browning flowers. Documents with his father's name, his own name, Astrid's name fell from some of the less-professional looking books, as if they were meant to be hidden away from curious eyes. King found more pleasure in stomping on them than reading them.

The safe was hidden behind a rather hefty collection of lawyer-esque trappers, pressed deep into the wall like a shadow or a painting. King had to prod at it a few times to test the reality of the object, and when his finger tips met cool metal and matte plastic his smile spread. His panic swelled to anxiety, but he didn't even notice the tightness of his chest. Not yet. Not yet.

Combinations passed through his mind constantly; his father's birth date, his mother's, Astrid's. The surprise he felt was huge but easily forgotten when he placed his own birth date into the safe and found that it worked. He didn't want to have time to think about it, so instead he ripped open the door and grabbed whatever was in there. Checks, either blank or late, shuddered in his grasp at first, and after throwing those useless things away he found what they all needed: cash. Stacks of money, tied together by plastic and string, sat heavily in his palm. Twenties and hundreds, stacking higher and higher at his feet and as he continued to pull out wades the only thing on his mind was how were they gonna carry all this dough.

With the final available stack came a stowaway. King didn't notice the metal box at first, but when he felt it shake against his palm as he let the bills settle his eyes automatically fell to connect with it. Shiny silver metal gleamed up at him, calling to him, and as he collected the small trinket in his hand he suddenly knew exactly what it was.

A Zippo lighter.

It was heavy despite it's size, and otherwise clean and unscathed save from an odd collection of letter near the base of one of the metallic sides. The lighter was engraved, pressed perfectly to read out "Si vis pacem, para bellum". King's brow furrowed with curiosity, and while he could tell the saying was in Latin he had no idea of how to translate it. Curse small town education, his mind whispered coyly, and King grinned to himself, shoving the lighter into his back pocket before collecting the remaining cash up into his arms.

They were going to need a very big bag.





King stared at Malcolm, as he so often did, and grinned a venomous grin at his morbid joke. The smile remained even as Astrid hissed out a complaint and moved on to more pressing matters, and King pressed his back against the far wall as ideas came and went. King watched the colors shimmer in the air, changing as time went on. The coins flipped again and again as hormones and stress kept his companions from staying sound of emotion (and perhaps mind). He honestly didn't want to think of a plan. He had no motivation, and even if the suicide pact idea was said with jest his heart seemed to swell with the thought of just ending it all early.

But at the same time, he didn't want to die like this.

King's eyes drifted from Astrid, to Jess, and then finally Aiden Philips. His jaw automatically set at the boy's voice, tight with distaste and annoyance because the kid finally had something useful to say. Death ran further away from King, replaced with just the smallest flame of hope for this whole escaping plan. A van was one step closer to the outside world, one step closer to being on the run but warm and almost safe. His eyes lowered to his feet, glare vanishing as he let out a noise that could perhaps be deciphered as appreciation to Aiden's words.

The next issue floated before his eyes now: food, water, clothes, necessities. King tapped the wall to get everyone's attention and leaned forward, face shadowed by the back light gleaming in through the window, "Okay, van: check. Now we just need everything else--" His eyes turned to the door opposite, glaring again. His father's house sat just outside this space of theirs, a house full of secrets. Secret doors, leading to an under used wine cellar, secret security systems, secret weapons, secret safes. The card sitting in his wallet would only be of use in town, and would endanger them everywhere else. Money, money, money. King felt a sliver of an evil smile return to his lips, and he said darkly, "I'm sure dear old dad wouldn't mind if we borrowed some things, right? Maybe some cash, and whatever else we can find in his room or study." King's hands fell to his chest, gripping at his shirt with unshed anxiety. If they didn't escape, if they couldn't get away, then this idea would murder him and perhaps the rest of them as well.

Motivation to die was swapping with motivation to live however, and the mental block that made his back ache had to be pushed aside for the greater good. For the others. For himself.





Richard King was distressed.

Well, stressed--- currently becoming distressed. Wallowing in a backlash of cluttered words and an air of thickness and color and feeling. King normally wallowed his way through life, like some kind of fat lazy pig he barely had enough motivation to do anything but. Today, however, he truly was soaking in it all and refusing to move. Wallowing. His body pressed against the floor beside his sister's bed, unmoving and heavy as he breathed in and out and in and out and tried to stay calm.

But he wasn't calm, he was distressed. Or currently becoming distressed.

Emotions were a fickle thing to Richard King. He felt as though he understood them better then anyone else in the room currently. Pleasure and displeasure, hate and love, excitement and disappointment. Feelings were coins, flipped over and over again in one's mind, and King saw each toss with a glinting eye and an apathetic smile. Right now , the emotions he saw were almost all muddy and depressed. Anxious. Scared. For once King related with every single one of them, and he accepted the harsh thoughts to churn in his own mind as he sent a single gaze across the room. He froze only when Jess leapt up onto the bed, eyes widening with brief shock that faded away into more dubious sighs as she complained about the silence. King wasn't shy about letting people know who he liked and for what reason. Astrid was probably one of the many who know of his faint obsession with the blonde pretty girl. Jess spoke her mind loud and clear and King couldn't help but adore this fact about her. He sat up slowly from his wallowing-position (back straight, arms tight, head arched up, eyes searching) and passed on a snake-like smile to the girl.

"What do you wanna talk about?" He moved more, a shocking action from the initially silent teen, "Ah, how about we talk about the fact that we're going to be as good as dead the next time we step outta this house. Oh! Or we could discuss ways to run from our friends and families when they pull a taser or a gun on us for being witches." He rose to his feet, quickly and full of malice, and he stalked over to stick his forehead against the glass of Astrid's window. The world continued on despite their circumstances. He saw a tree across the street shudder with time passing, dappled with sunlight and September heat. His brow puckered with more stress, and he traced the road below and the dog walker heading down the street and the distant pines that had haunted him for years now.

He loved this town. He didn't want to be killed by it.

"What we need to talk about is a plan. This plan-- whatever. Can we run? Should we run? I mean... We could also plan a suicide pact or something." King's lips spread apart again, smile so sharp it could cut diamond, and he turned to face the sprawling shapes of his friends and enemies. The emotions surged from them, and for once he let his own do the same. The smile turned into a pained grimace.

King was distressed.
For: Ѧasks



Name
Skav


Age
Nineteen


Gender
Androgynous


Affiliation
The Razors.


Years with Gang
Four


Appearance
When one thinks of Skav, they may think of their mask first. Huge, feathery, all seeing. The crow symbolizes mystery and life, a trickster blessed with discovering destiny and intelligence. The dark feathers that form from crown to neck don't appear to have a visible seam when connected to Skav's head, leaving most to assume that the mask either attaches at the shoulders OR Skav is actually a disgusting crow-human hybrid. He's fine with both assumptions. They all just add to the mystery that is Skav.

Body wise, they are an assortment of twists and angles. Sharp shoulders, normally hidden below a thick leather jacket or colorful and ratty sweaters, lead way down to angular arms and spidery, beautiful hands. His body is a plain of flatness, with taunt, tan skin that stretches down to from long and powerful legs. Skav is a study in survival; bore form a hard life and brought up by the strings of their boots, and such evidence of that is made real and possible when one glances upon his bare flesh. Their body is marred in old, white scars and new clusters of scabs and bruises, and every lanky or skinny corner is buried deep behind thick, long sleeved sweatshirts and sweaters and tattered jeans. They’re tall enough to appear intimidating despite their lanky shortcomings, standing at about 6’3” when not slouching or seated behind the wheel of his Qrow.

Skav moves with the motivation of a senior in high school. Apathy literally pours from every cell, shown through sluggish ambling an a prominent slouch that only ever goes away when Skav feels the need to get serious. Skav never runs anywhere unless necessary, finding it both a waste of effort and a sign of fear or weakness. Slow walking, with hands shoved deep into their jeans' pockets and head high to the sky, is how Skav usually shows up to gigs or fights, looking both relaxed and electric depending on the situation. One their knuckles are visible and their posture more serious, it is evident that Skav isn't one to shy away from a hit. Bruises line their fist, along with the old memories of broken bones and twisted tendons. A past leg injury also becomes clearer half way through a brawl, when Skav may slow to twist their hip a certain way in an effort to not show off a rather noticeable limp.

As for accessories, well, Skav is never seen without a cross dangling from his right wrist. The golden bracelet has since been worn to an off-silver, splotched black with grime or blood or other substances not worth mentioning, and it acts as a reminder to most that Skav is indeed a believer of Heaven (even if their actions say otherwise). Their nails are always painted a vibrant pink, and a scratchy '3' is tattooed into their forearm, along with a few Russian and Filipino sayings.


Personality
Secrets are made to be kept, and Skav has many, many unspoken thoughts. From the story of their family, to the origin of their name, every single little thing about Skav is hidden in someway, be it behind thick clothing or unseeable faces or glossy and fake words. Skav shoulders countless secrets, and is willing to keep others if offered because his shoulders could do with a bit more weight, but in the end these thoughts are jus made to make Skav feel unknowable and lonesome. Secrets are made to be kept, and Skav is prepared to keep himself hidden away and mysterious until he is put into the grave.

Despite being a little secretive rat for the most part, Skav has a tendency to be confrontational and rash, especially to those who threaten him or his gang. His loyalty is deeply rooted and even one sour note sang from the mouth of a stranger could lead to a verbal or physical brawl. Even if he is quenched with apathy for the night, too drunk or stoned to move, if something seems amiss or if someone thinks to lie to them Skav will be prepared to sober up and stand up for himself or whoever the opposite party is trying to rile up. His observant nature makes this scene play out a bit too much, perhaps, but Skav will assure everyone it's "for the good of the group". Liars are often the focal point of Skav's aggressiveness, because Skav can't stand those who cannot be one hundred percent truthful to them. Honesty may be their only policy, but is one of the few good traits Skav likes to show off in the presence of others.

Even if Skav is a bit sharp around the edges, there are some gentle sides to them. Religion may be the most notable one. Skav takes every Sunday morning off to go to weekly mass, perhaps in an attempt to pray away their sins or just to feel one step closer to something that is as unknowable as they feel. To them, God is as real as can be, and to them, God ignores their very existence but that's fine. Just praying to a benevolent force for an hour can quell the anxieties that may spur during the week. Other than that, Skav is usually drunk on Fridays and horribly sober on Saturdays. Their voice carries an apathetic tone most of the time, and they seem to have a bit of insomnia when everything is a bit too peaceful.


Strengths
Observation
"The eyes of a hawk", or, in this case, the eyes of a crow. Skav is best known for his sleuthing and spying abilities, being able to seemingly perch in a secret spot of their own to keep a close eye on those worth watching. Skav is one who watches thinks before acting, finding it much safer to attack once they know their enemy's weak points as well as strengths.

Dirty Fighting
Got a bottle to the back if the head? Some gravel in your eyes? A knee right to the balls? Then you're probably squaring up against Skav, the quickest, dirtiest fighter around (or so they boast). Using their keen eyes and general gifted sense of direction, Skav takes his time to check what possible environmental wounds he can inflict on his opponents. Of course, this means he spends a few extra moments plotting out his course of action, but it'll be worth it once he has a hand around the muzzle of a mask, ready to take down who ever dares to confront them.

Transportation
Or, as others see it, "street racing". Skav adores his Camaro not because it's fucking gorgeous (though, that's half of it) but because it speeds up fast and hard when ever he needs it too. Skav's a fan of speed races of course, but when it gets time for serious driving he seems prepared. He knows his car AND the city like tha back of his hand, and is always willing to take transportation jobs if ever asked to.

Luck
Skav, in general, is a rather lucky fellow. Now, gun shots don't just magically bounce around them like they've got some sort of luck-shield or something, but Skav seems to be blessed with the uncanny ability to find loose change in gutters and pretty necklaces left behind in parks.


Weaknesses
Physical Endurance
Skav isn't the best at managing their energy nor the amounts of hits they take, and because of this they can often be put down quickly in a fist fight. Running or fighting or exerting energy for long periods of time puts him both in an awful mood and sometimes a hospital bed. This fact has also granted them a weak constitution, leaving them to get sicker often (especially after a night of boozing and partying).

Superstitions/Horror
Okay, honesty Skav is a bit of a wuss when it comes to horror stories or ominous surroundings. They adore the downtown area's lights and music, but always seem to tense up when faced with a particularly narrow and dark place like an endless alleyway or an abandoned warehouse. They also seem to rely heavily on luck, and becase of this Skav takes his time in making sure he doesn't step on a crack, trip under a ladder, or pick up a face-down penny.

Attitude
Skav has the tongue of a crusty old drunk and the temper of a three year old. He is quick to irritate and even quicker to set off on a tangent if forced, and Skav is able to go on and on in a verbal fight until they eventually cry themselves out (or, scream rather). If one would like to take on a headstrong and reckless Skav, then the best way to do so would be to get on their nerves.

Bees/Hornets/Wasps/ECT.
Actually, Skav just has a fear of anything that has more legs than himself. Be it ants or spiders or beetles or centipedes, Skav hates them all the same and seems to react wildly if one decides to land on any available bare skin. This fear was spurred during a childhood accident where Skav accidentally stepped into a wasps nest. Thank God they weren't allergic, but in the end he was left with glaring emotional scars and a fear that just won't leave him be.


Likes
Alcohol; both sweet and fruity and hard as shit. Skav will ingest any kind of colorful and bizarre tasting liquid as long as there is some kind of brewed substance within.
Neon lights, neon signs, neon colors. They drive Skav's eyes crazy and for some reason they just can't look away. This infatuation with bright colors is notable in Skav's sense of fashion.
The Qrow. Pronounced "crow" (Skav just likes to spell like a tool), Qrow is Skav's trusty 1969 Chevy Camaro and is souped up to holy hell. They treat it like a child, and will at times be found whispering to it when anxious.
The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit, for obvious reasons.
Reading, mostly pleasant YA novels and a few biographies. It's a secret past time that not even Skav's closest mates now about probably.


Dislikes
Blaspheme, again, for obvious reason.
Drugs; pills, and smoking. Skav prefers his habits to have the constancy of water and the possibility to bite him in the ass in the morning.
Liars, cheaters, and people who chew with their mouth open. Skav likes to say that there is a special place in hell for all three of these offenders.
Buzzing noises, because of his incurable fear of bees. Even the slightest feeling of something brushing over his arm or the threat of a fly coming too close can send him into a pulse-stopping panic attack. It's a nasty curse he carries, really.
People prying, whether it be over their gender or their past. Most just end up with a mouth full of fist if they try too hard.


Relationships


Other
Skav's weapon of choice would be his stainless steel butterfly knife, which he always has on his person no matter what.
In Ѧasks 9 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay


N A M E
Skav


A G E
Nineteen


G E N D E R
Androgynous


A F F I L I A T I O N
The Razors.


Y E A R S W I T H G A N G
Four


A P P E A R A N C E
When one thinks of Skav, they may think of their mask first. Huge, feathery, all seeing. The crow symbolizes mystery and life, a trickster blessed with discovering destiny and intelligence. The dark feathers that form from crown to neck don't appear to have a visible seam when connected to Skav's head, leaving most to assume that the mask either attaches at the shoulders OR Skav is actually a disgusting crow-human hybrid. He's fine with both assumptions. They all just add to the mystery that is Skav.

Body wise, they are an assortment of twists and angles. Sharp shoulders, normally hidden below a thick leather jacket or colorful and ratty sweaters, lead way down to angular arms and spidery, beautiful hands. His body is a plain of flatness, with taunt, tan skin that stretches down to from long and powerful legs. Skav is a study in survival; bore form a hard life and brought up by the strings of their boots, and such evidence of that is made real and possible when one glances upon his bare flesh. Their body is marred in old, white scars and new clusters of scabs and bruises, and every lanky or skinny corner is buried deep behind thick, long sleeved sweatshirts and sweaters and tattered jeans. They’re tall enough to appear intimidating despite their lanky shortcomings, standing at about 6’3” when not slouching or seated behind the wheel of his Qrow.

Skav moves with the motivation of a senior in high school. Apathy literally pours from every cell, shown through sluggish ambling an a prominent slouch that only ever goes away when Skav feels the need to get serious. Skav never runs anywhere unless necessary, finding it both a waste of effort and a sign of fear or weakness. Slow walking, with hands shoved deep into their jeans' pockets and head high to the sky, is how Skav usually shows up to gigs or fights, looking both relaxed and electric depending on the situation. One their knuckles are visible and their posture more serious, it is evident that Skav isn't one to shy away from a hit. Bruises line their fist, along with the old memories of broken bones and twisted tendons. A past leg injury also becomes clearer half way through a brawl, when Skav may slow to twist their hip a certain way in an effort to not show off a rather noticeable limp.

As for accessories, well, Skav is never seen without a cross dangling from his right wrist. The golden bracelet has since been worn to an off-silver, splotched black with grime or blood or other substances not worth mentioning, and it acts as a reminder to most that Skav is indeed a believer of Heaven (even if their actions say otherwise). Their nails are always painted a vibrant pink, and a scratchy '3' is tattooed into their forearm, along with a few Russian and Filipino sayings.

Art by Loom: X X


P E R S O N A L I T Y
Secrets are made to be kept, and Skav has many, many unspoken thoughts. From the story of their family, to the origin of their name, every single little thing about Skav is hidden in someway, be it behind thick clothing or unseeable faces or glossy and fake words. Skav shoulders countless secrets, and is willing to keep others if offered because his shoulders could do with a bit more weight, but in the end these thoughts are jus made to make Skav feel unknowable and lonesome. Secrets are made to be kept, and Skav is prepared to keep himself hidden away and mysterious until he is put into the grave.

Despite being a little secretive rat for the most part, Skav has a tendency to be confrontational and rash, especially to those who threaten him or his gang. His loyalty is deeply rooted and even one sour note sang from the mouth of a stranger could lead to a verbal or physical brawl. Even if he is quenched with apathy for the night, too drunk or stoned to move, if something seems amiss or if someone thinks to lie to them Skav will be prepared to sober up and stand up for himself or whoever the opposite party is trying to rile up. His observant nature makes this scene play out a bit too much, perhaps, but Skav will assure everyone it's "for the good of the group". Liars are often the focal point of Skav's aggressiveness, because Skav can't stand those who cannot be one hundred percent truthful to them. Honesty may be their only policy, but is one of the few good traits Skav likes to show off in the presence of others.

Even if Skav is a bit sharp around the edges, there are some gentle sides to them. Religion may be the most notable one. Skav takes every Sunday morning off to go to weekly mass, perhaps in an attempt to pray away their sins or just to feel one step closer to something that is as unknowable as they feel. To them, God is as real as can be, and to them, God ignores their very existence but that's fine. Just praying to a benevolent force for an hour can quell the anxieties that may spur during the week. Other than that, Skav is usually drunk on Fridays and horribly sober on Saturdays. Their voice carries an apathetic tone most of the time, and they seem to have a bit of insomnia when everything is a bit too peaceful.


S T R E N G T H S
Observation
"The eyes of a hawk", or, in this case, the eyes of a crow. Skav is best known for his sleuthing and spying abilities, being able to seemingly perch in a secret spot of their own to keep a close eye on those worth watching. Skav is one who watches thinks before acting, finding it much safer to attack once they know their enemy's weak points as well as strengths.

Dirty Fighting
Got a bottle to the back if the head? Some gravel in your eyes? A knee right to the balls? Then you're probably squaring up against Skav, the quickest, dirtiest fighter around (or so they boast). Using their keen eyes and general gifted sense of direction, Skav takes his time to check what possible environmental wounds he can inflict on his opponents. Of course, this means he spends a few extra moments plotting out his course of action, but it'll be worth it once he has a hand around the muzzle of a mask, ready to take down who ever dares to confront them.

Transportation
Or, as others see it, "street racing". Skav adores his Camaro not because it's fucking gorgeous (though, that's half of it) but because it speeds up fast and hard when ever he needs it too. Skav's a fan of speed races of course, but when it gets time for serious driving he seems prepared. He knows his car AND the city like tha back of his hand, and is always willing to take transportation jobs if ever asked to.

Luck
Skav, in general, is a rather lucky fellow. Now, gun shots don't just magically bounce around them like they've got some sort of luck-shield or something, but Skav seems to be blessed with the uncanny ability to find loose change in gutters and pretty necklaces left behind in parks.


W E A K N E S S E S
Physical Endurance
Skav isn't the best at managing their energy nor the amounts of hits they take, and because of this they can often be put down quickly in a fist fight. Running or fighting or exerting energy for long periods of time puts him both in an awful mood and sometimes a hospital bed. This fact has also granted them a weak constitution, leaving them to get sicker often (especially after a night of boozing and partying).

Superstitions/Horror
Okay, honesty Skav is a bit of a wuss when it comes to horror stories or ominous surroundings. They adore the downtown area's lights and music, but always seem to tense up when faced with a particularly narrow and dark place like an endless alleyway or an abandoned warehouse. They also seem to rely heavily on luck, and becase of this Skav takes his time in making sure he doesn't step on a crack, trip under a ladder, or pick up a face-down penny.

Attitude
Skav has the tongue of a crusty old drunk and the temper of a three year old. He is quick to irritate and even quicker to set off on a tangent if forced, and Skav is able to go on and on in a verbal fight until they eventually cry themselves out (or, scream rather). If one would like to take on a headstrong and reckless Skav, then the best way to do so would be to get on their nerves.

Bees/Hornets/Wasps/ECT.
Actually, Skav just has a fear of anything that has more legs than himself. Be it ants or spiders or beetles or centipedes, Skav hates them all the same and seems to react wildly if one decides to land on any available bare skin. This fear was spurred during a childhood accident where Skav accidentally stepped into a wasps nest. Thank God they weren't allergic, but in the end he was left with glaring emotional scars and a fear that just won't leave him be.


L I K E S
Alcohol; both sweet and fruity and hard as shit. Skav will ingest any kind of colorful and bizarre tasting liquid as long as there is some kind of brewed substance within.
Neon lights, neon signs, neon colors. They drive Skav's eyes crazy and for some reason they just can't look away. This infatuation with bright colors is notable in Skav's sense of fashion.
The Qrow. Pronounced "crow" (Skav just likes to spell like a tool), Qrow is Skav's trusty 1969 Chevy Camaro and is souped up to holy hell. They treat it like a child, and will at times be found whispering to it when anxious.
The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit, for obvious reasons.
Reading, mostly pleasant YA novels and a few biographies. It's a secret past time that not even Skav's closest mates now about probably.


D I S L I K E S
Blaspheme, again, for obvious reasons.
Drugs; pills, and smoking. Skav prefers his habits to have the constancy of water and the possibility to bite him in the ass in the morning.
Liars, cheaters, and people who chew with their mouth open. Skav likes to say that there is a special place in hell for all three of these offenders.
Buzzing noises, because of his incurable fear of bees. Even the slightest feeling of something brushing over his arm or the threat of a fly coming too close can send him into a pulse-stopping panic attack. It's a nasty curse he carries, really.
People prying, whether it be over their gender or their past. Most just end up with a mouth full of fist if they try too hard.


R E L A T I O N S


O T H E R
Skav's weapon of choice would be his stainless steel butterfly knife, which he always has on his person no matter what.
In Ѧasks 9 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
they done

In Ѧasks 9 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
@DeadBeatWalking

gankona13 (dont ask dont ask blame 13 yr old me KILL THAT NAME) is my skype~
In Ѧasks 9 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
i shall be posting a full cs on this very lil post eventually but until then

ill probably be clinging to a nice 1969 black camaro btws

In Ѧasks 9 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Holy shit this is the sexiest rp I've been shown so far and I've only just skimmed the intro. Stunning. I'm in love with prosing about cars so expect a Razor character from me sometime this weekend :3c
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