Post by Laertes on Apr 14, 2015 20:37:13 GMT -5
OOC
Name:Nyx.
Years RPing: It's been about four or five years.
Other: Nia and I discussed Laertes taking my third character slot since Artemis isn't technically playable for another two months; by the time she IS playable, there will have been more than a month of activity proven with three characters. If another staff member objects to this, please say so!
How You Found Us: Rita referenced me once upon a time and then Jaienyx was born, shortly afterward followed by Erebos, who was then followed by the unborn Artemis.
General
Name: Laertes [lay-are-tease].
Birthday: April 13th, 2013.
Gender: Male.
Species: Mackenzie Valley Wolf.
Physical
Height: 36 Inches.
Length: 57 Inches.
Weight: 127 Pounds.
Coat Color: Mainly dark brown, black, and white, with a few streaks of gray and reddish brown.
Eye Color: Grayish green.
Health Issues: Laertes suffers from congenital insensitivity to pain [approved by Uruviel].
Other Information: N/A.
Mental
Mental Stability: Sane, borderline unstable.
History:He was born among brothers and sisters, the first thing he heard upon entering this new and exciting world being the sound of their joint cries for Mother. The second thing he heard was when their cries escalated, sounding like inhumane shrieks, picturing behind the sealed eyelids of a newborn how that type of sound would actually look. He did not feel it when Mother’s jaws closed around his neck, carrying him to safety, defending him from Father while he was at his worst, frantic to ensure that every last one of his babies was dead. Mother, desperate to protect what remained of her sons and daughters - what remained being a single son - put Father out of his misery. Mother cradled him tightly into her chest, her heartbeat wild and savage, whimpering as if she, too, was a mere puppy. What was strange was that her son did not cry. Her son was silent, perhaps asleep, oblivious to the massacre around him. He does not remember whether or not, upon that first catastrophic night, he had any dreams. What he does remember was the smell of freshly spilled blood. It was engraved into his senses, for it was the first aspect of life that he experienced. Even behind a pair of eyelids that could not yet open, he somehow knew the way that the smell of blood would look: it would look dreary. And so, in turn, the first way that he ever felt was dreary.
He had always been troublesome, but it worsened with age. There was a recklessness about him that longed to defy, to bend to no rule that was not purely his own, and each worried glance from Mother intensified his insufferable need to put himself in harmful situations, dangerous situations, because he fed off of the worries of others, he craved it for a period of time, because he could do nothing more than blindly hope that the worry of Mother could one day outlive his own when those harmful situations, those dangerous situations, did not inflict him with the kind of pain that it should have. He did not feel gifted to possess a body that did not feel the burden of injury, and so he never confronted Mother, never eased her worry, but instead chose to continue throwing himself into catastrophe, each worse than the one before, until he had been on the brink of death countless times and just barely restored by his caregiver, his nourishing Mother, that had been driven to her last breath because of the stress that he had placed upon her shoulders and engraved into her elderly heart, no longer strong enough to persist with another beat.
For a while he could have been rightfully considered depressed. Laertes never ceased with his childish rush to the grave, but it seemed he was cursed with some kind of twisted luck he wished not to have, and there was no shedding it from his seemingly immortal skeleton. The only release he found was within the tender affections of a lover, someone he could never keep, someone who would give to him their life, the essence of their existence, and he would take, he would take everything, but never would he give. He craved touch, something simple, something innocent, like a nose pressed against the fur of his neck, because he could observe those delicacies so keenly that sometimes he could have the privilege of pretending he knew what it felt like. He had always been a master at pretending, after all. He could stay with someone for a while, and he could pretend that he knew how to love them back, how to love their touch like they loved his, but patience wears thin upon his soul, and eventually he would rip himself out of their life almost . . . lethally. And he would do it because he does not deserve the kind of happiness, the kind of happy ending, that everyone finds themselves chasing from time to time. It makes sense to him to stop pretending, to stop hurting everyone, but it has become something like an addiction. To pretend is to not give up, to believe that one day it might turn out differently for him, and so on the sidelines of his urgency to die, to be rid of his cursed body, he will keep pretending that he knows what love feels like on the inside - but in order to feel that, he believes that he must have the chance to experience it on the outside, and that is a fairytale that he will forever chase.
Nobody understands that the wolf who washed ashore, barely breathing, nearly drowned, having chased that fairytale into the water, had not possessed the inclination to surface on dry land once again the day that he had disappeared into the current. Now he is somewhere new, somewhere unfamiliar, but to him it is just another place, another beginning, that was not supposed to have been in the first place. He brings with him his jovial smiles, those brilliant oddities that are as deceptive as they are tempting, and in his eyes is this brightness, this shine that never leaves, like to live another day in the hopes of dying is the best kind of bitter sweetness he can hope to have.
Personality:It begins with the intensity of his eyes, the way they fixate, as though there is nothing else in the world that could ever be more worthy of his attention. Sometimes, it will progress into that of a miniscule touch, be it the flutter of his feathery tail or the pressure of his handsome jaw. By this point, all that is left is for him to speak, because few things are more enigmatic, elegiac, whimsical, expressive than the very fabrication of his words. It is easy to call him something along the lines of a “player”. Someone who seeks only to use and then to abuse, his most honourable intention being the careless desire to abandon and to discard at the most unanticipated second. That is precisely what he is, after all: unanticipated. The way he acts and speaks is rarely linked to a genuine feeling of attraction, for often times he is plainly bored and without muse. It would appear as though his body language ultimately seeks to defy him, making him seem alluringly unknowable in the place of what is truly unsatisfied and, all in all, to the surprise of many, depressed. When the question is popped as to the origin of an individual’s greatest fears, many are quick to think of death. That is among the last to make an appearance on this male’s list, for frankly, he welcomes death, embracing it warmly and ever in patient wait of its arrival, for what is the point of living when you are absent of the ability to feel? To genuinely feel. It is not spoken in the sense that he cannot feel the electric pulse of happiness, or the deep, mournful pull of sadness that so often infests the inside of him, living behind his eyelids and slowly drowning his mind at its core where it it at its weakest. Instead, it is spoken in the sense that if the antagonist of his story was to pin him to the ground and dig mercilessly into the tender flesh of his throat, they would never be able to live with the satisfaction of knowing that they caused him pain because they did not. He suffers from congenital insensitivity to pain, which although a blessing in disguise in the eyes of many, is but a curse that weighs heavily upon the heart that he cannot feel beating. He breathes shallowly, leading his life with a meticulous indifference, a fascinating recklessness, because there is simply nothing out there that he need fear - there is no monster capable of being more lethal to him than his own reflection.
This is the part where he becomes unstable; when onlookers will see him and think to themselves how he has a death wish, pursuing the jaws of trouble in the simplistic hope that, maybe, this time, he will actually feel some pain on the same level as his peers. Whether it’s through bruised limbs, a torn ear, a dislocated jaw, a mere scratch . . . Laertes wants to feel the suffering that, since his birth, he has been immune to. It is in these situations, when in this mindset, down to the last detail, that he becomes something to fear. He will look directly into the eyes of any nearby healer, and if he knew how to say it without sounding completely insane, he would follow their worried eyes to every last one of his injuries and tell him/her to let him bleed. He wants to die, truly and wholesomely, to the bottom of his heart, but at the same time he wants to be able to live and to find something that can make him feel happy, ecstatic even, and warm in the places that physically disable him. This is, ultimately, what keeps him from literally throwing himself off the edge. He wants to believe that there is something worth living for. The trouble is actually believing it after having become so terribly broken.
And yet, despite his disastrous tendencies, his negligent disposition, he somehow remains beautiful and desirable in his own twisted, morbid way. He is capable of appearing compassionate and deeply enthused, but in opposition to this he is capable of appearing careless, ungrateful, and even sometimes arrogant despite his immense self-loathing. He is calculative and sneaky. He is infuriating and misleading. He is dextrous and enthralling. He is so many things, such a wide variety, because there is not one individual to which he is the exact same. He is both easy to love and easy to hate. Easy to admire and easy to want to best. He does everything with a purpose in the most purposeless fashion. He merely exists as a constellation of contradictions. Above all else, but not necessarily so, he wants to be able to care so immensely, so entirely, that he is willing to pretend, to fake it, in the hopes of convincing himself that it is real regardless of who it destroys in the process. In some ways, he is darkly selfish. If someone turned to him and offered him the chance of a lifetime, in which he would be able to feel pain again, he would slaughter anyone and anything to get it. Deeply disturbed, and yet remaining an eerily fascinating creature with his many undiscovered attributes, he is an individual eagerly met, plentiful a wolf intrigued by his oddities, but never anything short of venomous along the way. There are limitless ways in which he can be described. It is entirely up to you, he would say, to figure out what you want to voice aloud, what you want to think, when you look into his eyes, see a mixture of absolutely everything humanely possible, and choose what stands out to you the most.
Image: