<Snipped quote by Roman>
Vorpal.
@Roman Maybe someone along the lines of Robert Sheehan? I know he's probably kinda old, but that's the first person that came to my mind when I read the sheet lol.
▅▅▅▅▅▅ Y E A R B O O K P H O T O ▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅ Y E A R B O O K P H O T O ▅▅▅▅▅▅  ▅▅▅▅▅ S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y ▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅ S T U D E N T S U M M A R Y ▅▅▅▅▅ Harlan G. N. Callahan Danielewski _________________________________________________________ August 27th, 2000 | 23 | Caucasian _________________________________________________________ Single | Male | Heterosexual _________________________________________________________ New Orleans | Louisiana | Amerca_________________________________________________________ HouseTBD | TeamXX - TBD ▅ P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E ▅ P H Y S I C A L P R O F I L E ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅ M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S ▅ M O T I V A T I O N S & G O A L S ▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅ N O T E S ▅ N O T E S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ _________________________________________________________ | ▅ S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S ▅ S T U D E N T S Y N O P S I S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ Callahan is the eldest of 4; 2 brothers in the middle and his sister, the youngest, all of whom he has watched over carefully, effectively since his first brother could walk. His father meant well, but worked hard - too hard - and while he wasn't abusive when he drank, he was neglectful. His mother was loving and doted on all of them, but there were no funds to spoil them with and no free time to raise them by herself. Callahan stepped in, a silent pact to do the job his father either couldn't or wouldn't, and his mother felt equally guilty and grateful. And then Callahan's mother got sick, and then she got worse, and then his father - already working himself to death to provide what little finances they had - buckled under the pressure and fled entirely. The brothers and sister did what they could, and to their credit, they rallied valiantly beneath Callahan's soft guidance. The brothers old enough to work - Callahan himself and his first brother - did so, bringing money into the household; his second brother studied, hard, as did his sister, and between the two of them they also maintained the household. Callahan rose to the occasion nobly, and kept the family together while caring for their steadily declining mother, and trying to locate their absent father. Somewhere along the way, Callahan realised he'd lost any sense of individual, his own needs buried beneath those of his family. Six years later, their mother finally passed. The siblings were devastated, but also prepared. Callahan's abilities had awakened in the interim period, and while he'd thought little of them amidst the unravelling tragedy of their lives, his siblings saw in Callahan someone truly capable of great and beautiful things, and someone who surely deserved the chance to achieve those things. They were aware of P.R.C.U., aware of H.E.L.P. and H.I.T., aware of the academy and all the potential it held for Callahan. The night after the evening of the wake, his brothers and sister, weeping and smiling in equal measure, presented Callahan with the brochures, the leaflets, the course guides. They also presented him with a letter of invitation, and tickets for the journey. They held each other close and cried until they could produce no more tears, and then cried some more. A week later, Callahan set off for Dundas Island. ▅ A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S ▅ A B I L I T I E S, L I M I T A T I O N S, & W E A K N E S S E S ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ H Y P E R H U M A N A B I L I T Y || SCRIPTOKINESIS // ACTUALISED NARRATIVE __PRIMARY CLASSIFICATION ||EXOTERIC __SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION ||FUNDAMENTAL Callahan's ability allows him to manipulate the written word, and through it, the world around him. Fundamental primary use: able to extract singular words from written language, and manifest the meaning or concept represented by that word. For example, 'fire', 'burn', and 'ignite' become flame or sparks to set something alight; 'light',' bright', and 'dazzle' become glowing beacons; 'cut', 'slash', and 'slice' become sharp, inky blades; 'push', 'shove', and 'shunt' become short, forceful nudges. If the word is written, and its meaning straightforward and understood, then Callahan can manifest it for his own purpose. Mundane secondary uses: able to alter written word by thought; able to automatically transcribe his own thoughts, or the words of anybody speaking aloud within earshot; innate memorization of anything read; able to make written word verbalise itself; able to innately understand the written word of any language. L I M I T A T I O N S || If a word is too complex, or its meaning not understood by Callahan, he cannot manifest it. Manifested words are a one-time use only; you get one shove, one slash, one spark, then it collapses back into its material. Objects manifested from words are made of what the text was formed from - ink, graphite, charcoal etc. - and while are as solid as they need to be for their purpose, are easily distinguishable from their actual counterparts. Callahan cannot manifest abstract or philosophical concepts like 'death' or 'freedom', and cannot manifest living beings, or directly alter their states - physical, mental, emotional - though a manifested word (e.g. 'angry', 'tired', 'drunk', or 'crippled'). Manifested words do not return to the page they were taken from after use. Only written words can be manifested. W E A K N E S S E S || Callahan requires written word to be accessible to manifest it. He can also 'use up' words too quickly if he's not careful, as used words don't replace themselves, and each manifestation only has a one-time use. Without access to a source of written or printed text, or the means to write his own words, Callahan is completely powerless. ________________________________________________________________________________________ |
|
|
|---|
|
|
|---|
|
|
|---|
The past few days have been certainly something. I've thought about PRCU (and Ju-V) for awhile. Posted in the OOC/check a bit. Talked with some people here and there about their own thoughts and to just generally reflect on the situation.
To be honest, I do still want to RP Haleigh. She's a character I've had fun writing, one that I've constantly slung posts left and right out for. That being said, I was tempted to leave nonetheless. Admittedly, I've been simmering on issues with this RP, as seen above and in the DMs of the people I've talked to. This wasn't the first time I've had them, as @Lord Wraith would know when the "troll post" issue happened some months ago and ultimately led to a member of this RP being booted and banned from the thread (which itself is a whole another can of worms still half-open, IMO).
Despite all of this, I'm probably going to stay in the long run. However, this decision largely depends on whether or not communication and transparency can happen (for GMs and players). I genuinely do not think PRCU will survive without those two factors being part of it, as much of the drama we have had comes down to such matters. The inclusion of 12 new player slots. The "troll post". And now this. People on both sides end up feeling like they aren't being heard or consulted, leap to conclusions, lash out (myself included, which I apologize for if I've come off aggressive in the past), etc.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need people to promise (and I mean actually promise, not "yeah, sure" and forget about it) to actually engage and consult each other for me to 100% confirm that I'm sticking around. There is probably a better way to phrase that, but if people are more willing to actually talk things out, rather than have a constant break down in communication like we've had in the past, then I can see this RP thriving and a lot of the drama we've had never occurring again. Otherwise, the cycle is just going to keep repeating and we're going to get nowhere, making it pointless to stick around.
Luce woke up sharply, blindly fumbling about the floor beside her bed in search of her buzzing phone, seizing and pulling it toward her until the cable snapped out and she hit the snooze button. She rolled over onto her back, clutching the phone to her chest in both hands, awake but eyes closed; savoring these short nine minutes until the alarm rang out again and she really would have to get up. Nine minutes later she snapped open her eyes and shut the alarm off properly, before sitting up with a groaning sigh and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching rough carpet. She wiggled her toes and stood up, stretching in her underwear, feeling the morning chill cascade goosebumps up her skin, offset only slightly by the bright sunshine streaming through her small window.
She dressed quickly, pulling a grubby hoodie over her head to combat the brisk temperature in the house; despite the cold still clinging to them, even in these early summer months, her mother refused to spare the money for heating. Luce admonished herself for the irritation she felt. Her mother worked hard enough already, and her father's alimony, as absent as the mystery man himself, didn't plug the gap.
She peed, brushed her teeth, and then joined the rest of her family in the kitchen, sitting up to breakfast on a rickety chair after fixing a quick round of toast, smeared thick with peanut butter, washing it down with lukewarm coffee poured from the pot into a chipped mug.
James and Owen - Luce's brothers, both of them her elder - jostled her, lambasting that she held the room to herself while they had to share; her mother insisted young women needed privacy, trying to come to her daughter's defense and only managing to further spur on her sons, who now cajoled Luce about precisely what she was doing that needed such privacy. Luce didn't react to any of it, a learned response carefully-crafted from a lifetime of this routine. She just ate her toast and drank her coffee, letting her brothers wear themselves out. They soon did, and the kitchen lapsed into quiet contemplation, eventually broken only by her mother bidding her farewells, three rushed kisses on three foreheads before she was gone, out the door, not due back until the sun had set and the world dark again.
Luce watched her breath fog in the morning air as she, James, and Owen waited patiently at the stop for the bus. Her brothers chatted idly amongst themselves, occasionally pausing to invite Luce's input but she rarely gave it; often it was merely bait, and they seldom spoke about anything that had any real relevance to her. Again, it was a learned response: short answers, avoid detail, don't freely offer anything that could be later turned into ammunition. Her brothers were not cruel - not purposefully, at least - but they were insensitive, and often less concerned with Luce's teenage angst than their own amusement. There were moments - golden moments, that lit Luce's skin with a hazy warmth - where they came to her side, and in those moments the Calder's were a force to be reckoned with, and it was these moments that assured Luce they were both better men than their father had ever cared to be; but for the most part they were simply young men, past puberty but not quite into maturity, and content to exist in their own, Luce-less bubbles.
It was to that Luce-less bubble they quickly retreated when the bus arrived, and abandoned their sister for their friends at the back while Luce sat by herself up front, trying to ignore the social hubbub as friends and peers greeted each other at the start of a new day, greetings not proffered to her by anyone except the bus driver, who merely gave a nod before returning to his job.
The school day passed like many others, quietly, slowly, each minute inching by while Luce clock-watched, not entirely sure what she was so desperate to return to but self-assured that she did not want to be here, in Homeroom sat in the back corner, or in Math drowning amidst equations she struggled to understand, or in French receiving a quiz sheet handed face-down, folded over the teacher's thumb, signalling to everyone she'd flunked another test, or even in the cafeteria at lunch, again reduced to a silent observer, peering in from the outside at the bubbles of affection between friends, young lovers, scholastic comrades-in-arms. Luce wasn't bullied, wasn't teased, weathered no barbs from her peers. She was alone, a non-entity, of no real note to anyone at all. She ate her sandwich and waited for the bell.
English, the class before final recess, was her saving grace. They'd been studying Frankenstein, and the novel had consumed Luce's evenings as she read and re-read the tragedy; she connected harshly to the spurned monster at the center of the tale and his complicated tandem of craven rage and desperate love. When the time had come to write a report, she'd devoured the task whole, truly proud of her essay and handing it in well before the deadline, the first in the class to do so. She received it back that day - A+, gold star, and a warm smile from her teacher that she responded to in kind. She folded that essay carefully and slid t between the pages of her workbook. She'd pin it to her bedroom wall that same evening, and finish the novel again for the fourth time since its assignment.
The end of the day failed to maintain such noble heights: Phys Ed. Luce was a passable athlete, of acceptable stamina and athletic competence, but these qualities mattered little against the far more crucial measure of social stock. Lined up against the wall as teams were picked for hockey, she was used to her pick order: near-dead-last, and in actual play left to entertain herself while the puck was passed between the most popular students, boys in goal competing fiercely when their rivals shot but making cunningly poor plays when the right girl took a strike. Luce never got the chance to shoot, but she was confident she wouldn't make a goal if given the opening regardless. She felt invisible. It would probably be easier if she were.
She walked through the woods on the way home from school. They held no malice for her, not yet anyway, and with dappled sunlight filtering through leaves that had flourished in Spring, she felt peaceful. It had warmed throughout the course of the day and Luce took the opportunity to remove her hoodie and hook it into her bag straps, feeling the comforting heat of the sun on her bare arms and the nape of her neck. Surrounding her were the steady sounds of wildlife and nature; rustling ferns, chattering squirrels, chirping birds. She slowed her pace, letting herself linger amongst the trees.
Eventually she reached home, the house still and quiet. Her mother was still at work, and wouldn't be home until late; her brothers had headed into town proper immediately after school, hot on the heels of their friends. Luce shed her boots and bag - not before removing her essay from her workbook - and drifted back through the house to the kitchen. The pot on the counter still held the dregs of the morning's coffee; she emptied it into the sink, rinsing and refilling the urn before putting it back on to brew. A bowl of cereal understudied for a proper meal as a post-school snack while the coffee began to broil, and then with a full mug and another round of toast she switched on the radio and retreated to her room, leaving the door open just a crack.
She laid back on her bed, scrunched her knees up to her chest, and squeezed herself into a ball. She felt like she was compressing everything from the day into a small, easily-swallowed pill. It didn't work; it just made her arms hurt, and when she stretched back out, splayed across her mattress, each limb touching a corner, it all just radiated out from her core and filled her bones with a despondent heaviness that weighed her down and felt like ropes trying to pull her through the floor. She rolled over, taking a drink of coffee and a bite of toast. The noises of the radio, mixed banter and chart-toppers, drifted in steadily from the kitchen, and if she closed her eyes she could pretend it wasn't a radio show but others in the house, filling her home with sound and warmth; she tried to convince herself it made her feel less alone. She laid back down and closed her eyes.
Half Pint
Festive
Qia
Melissa
webboysurf
Supermaxx
Nemaisare
Aeolian
Yankee
