Post by larrensia f. raines on Dec 13, 2009 12:39:25 GMT -5
L A R R E N S I A R A I N E S
* I feel jesus in the tenements of honest, nervous lovers
I feel Judas in the pistols and
the pagers that come with all the
powders lost in fog and love and faith was fear and
I've had kisses that make
Judas seem sincere .
HEY THERE. THE NAME IS LAWNY, AND I AM 18.
I'VE BEEN ROLEPLAYING FOR ABOUT TOO LONG
- - - - nicknames, larren
- - - - gender, male
- - - - age, appears to be 23
- - - - race/level, Angel/Archangel
- - - - sexuality, hot
- - - - occupation, religious zealot
- - - - wealth class, changes with days of the weak and flip of the coin.
- - - - describe power, Sacred Contagion; able to place his spiritual properties into inanimate objects/people/places through direct contact or physical proximity. Best used to monitor Human Hosts and the opposition.
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- - - - hair, muddy brown
- - - - build, lengthy and imposing
- - - - weight, 12 stones
- - - - height, 6'3
- - - - fashion sense, when he's not clothed in his brilliant celestial robes, Larren's sense of fashion, or rather, lack there of, is composed of plain colors. Nothing flashy or ostentatious, he prefers to keep things simple, one does not need to wear gold to the grocery store. However, if a high-class occasion does arise, he'll be sure to dress to the occasion. Usually clad in slacks and a dress shirt, Larren will up the score with fitted suits and slick penny loafers.
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Music
Art
Wine
Books
Disertations
Footnotes
War
Game Theory
Aluminium
Paper
Cassette Tapes
Records
Honey on toast
Latin
Research
Adrenaline
Caffeine
Rachmaninoff
Dostoevesky
Photographs
Journals
Theology
History
Charts
Evolution
Tragedy
Empty courtesies
- - - - loathes,
United Nations
Wax
Bubble gum
Lemonade
Beer
Marmite
Chits
Blondes
Towels
Unsoundness
Cold weather
Needles
New situations
English
Contact lenses
German
Accidents
Prisons
Rumor mongers
Fireworks
Commoners
Coffins
Broken bones
Sutures
Non-nuclear proliferation treaty
Paying
Gasoline
Broken promises
Adulterers
- - - - strengths,
Keeping Promises
Trust
Truth
Empathetic
Hand to hand combat
Persuasion
Magic Tricks
Chess
Memorization
Capacity to learn
- - - - weaknesses,
Pretty young things
Germs
Giving up
Possibly too strict
Conversation skills
Introverted
Large crowds
Ignoring Demons
- - - - dreams,
World peace
End of the world
Expansion of Heaven
Death to evil
Forever quiet
- - - - fears,
Risk of losing
Humans succumbing to more evil
Growing attached to someone
Microwaves
Pens
Fake hair
- - - - overall personality,
Step One:
There remains something elegant and sinister about Mr. Raines. Perhaps this part of his persona stems from the fact he is very introverted. Never taking a liking to large crowds or being introduced to anyone, Lorne is a self proclaimed hermit of sorts. Not to be confused with a full fledged hermit. There came a time in his life that he no longer wished to associate himself along side the 'outside world'. So, you'll most likely find him roaming alone contemplating whether or not the world is actually a place worth staying at. The answer to that? He's still trying to figure it out, think of it as existentialism.
Step Two:
A small downfall, depending on your point of view, is his ability to be easily provoked into warfare; both mental and physical. The former you won't notice as much than the latter. His moves are subtle, impenetrable, and dripping of prowess. He has spent his entire life fighting evil...having expected anything short of cunning was ridiculous. As far as physical fighting goes, he uses his height to his advantage. Standing at a towering 6'3, broad shoulders, and lithe build, it's almost impossible for him not to hold his ground against any outside source that deserved a beating. Though, more often than not, he'll take a great load of their hits until they're tired, and he's only slightly sore. It works out for them both. The other releases his or her anger, and Lorne doesn't have to lift a finger in the process; he kicks them in the kneecaps. Quite simple.
Step Three:
Being raised in a home created by the clouds he had learned that acting childish is the most absurd thing someone can do. Whining and bitching? Pft. No thank you. He acts with poise and grace, if something does not go his way, he manipulates until it does. Can you blame him though? Desire is at it's strongest when paired with him, not fulfilling his wants could lead to a deadly collapse of self-actualization. A risk he was not wiling to make. So armed with charm and a liking toward power, he seeks to make a name for himself aside from being tied to his host. Acting calm was never his thing, being a rake didn't appeal..so measures needed to be taken. Music created an outlet for this, and having done that for a long time, he has established quite the private career, aside from his name being widely known, it's used in separate conversations than the names of his religious followers.
Step Four:
A blood cold, morose, and bitter angel who's heart and compassion were beaten black and blue, who's religious wickedness knew no bounds, and who's seductive charm preyed on men and women; gender was of no moral value-- a rebellious angel just inside God's reach. Whether it's the calculating look in his eye or the manipulative nature in his aura, Lorne is not someone to be trifled with. He's prone to out lashing against his fellow Angels more than the average . It's as if he holds a grudge against the skies in general; perhaps just the dead in attendance.
Step Five:
He does his best to appear..friendly in some aspects when around his fellow wing beaters They take this as approval from the cruel adult. Hell, who wouldn't want to be in good compliance with him? It gave you security, and no threat of being hurt by incoming demons. However, if you belonged to one of the other alliances..well..there was no telling how long you'd be held in his good graces. A violent Angel he was! And if you ever managed to catch Raines smiling, you'd note that it didn't reach his eyes..smiling was not something he fully approved of in all his high and mighty ideals.
Step Six:
Lorne is not a hero. He is not a tortured man who is really a good guy on the inside. Let's not kid ourselves here. Shrewd, cunning, ambitious - that's more like it. His decisions and actions are fueled most prominently by his own interests -religious security, if you will. He does not trust easily, but when he does, it's genuine. If someone betrays that trust, God help them. Raines does not enjoy being toyed with, and those who make that mistake only make it once. He can also be rather selfish and self centered at times; unlike most people, however, he knows it. Additionally, it must be said that he has a very - er, healthy ego. He loves to lord his intellect and wit over others, in, of course, the most Holier Than Thou manner.
Step Seven:
He places his trust most heavily in logic and firmly believes that trite things such as love - and emotions in general - are damn impractical and inconvenient. Not to say that he doesn't love - he does. Just in his own way. That doesn't stop him from disliking the feeling, however. He doesn't understand love very well, never having been overly acquainted with it, and as it is not something one can puzzle out with a pencil and paper, he is content to scoff at the emotion instead.
Step Eight:
The term bastard tends to come to mind immediately when someone thinks of him. It's really not quite that easy to classify the man, though. To the public he is a typical Archangel. He loathes demons, no surprise there. Lorne tends to be seen as cold and without emotion. His tone is even and calm, verging on bored when he speaks. Eyes go from neutral to cruel but never to warm; that anyone has ever seemed to notice. Manner of speech and even gestures make it very difficult for him to ever pretend to be anything other than the aristocratic man that he is, not that he would ever want to try to pass for something lower than what he is naturally. Patience is, in fact, at it's calmest and longest with those Lorne has decided to make his victims. He can take months mentally torturing a person. While very adept at a hands on approach, he prefers a mind games. He wants them to know that he is hurting them. He wants it to be very real, no chance of running away from it.
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Her ambition to win was a lust never quenched, but it grew more inflamed and madder by enjoyment. By practice. The air was thick with sexual tension, movements were quick, quick, slow, seemingly unrehearsed and natural. Skin on skin, bodies moving all the way through to finger tips; waves of heat passing in the air. The auditorium flamed in all its reality like a mountain pierced with holes and lit by an internal fire. The seats stretched long and deep with its back polished columns and gleaming floors in which were reflected the gold, the lights and the passion...The whirlwind of the tango billowed the outfit like that of a whirling dervish, and in the speed of evolution, the nets of diamonds and the strands of gold elongated themselves in serpentine flashes like lightning, and little gloved hands placed delicately on the epaulets of her partner looked like white camellias in vases of solid gold.
The tango was a direct expression of something that poets have often tried to state in words: the belief that a fight may be a celebration. It held the passion, aggression, and sensuality that lived within the best of us. The mood was dark and sultry, the air was damp and raw, their forms were wet and slick. The music hung sluggishly above the bodies as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the notes came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to noise when out shined. In a wild dissolving bliss, he spun her roughly; hands sliding up her body as she fell to the stage floor; legs sprawled in awkwardness, but the heave of her chest and longing in those eyes showed the lie of it all.
Raking a hand through her hair, the curls spilling over lithe fingers while she stood, Celeste blew out a puff of air. "It could be better." Because that was all there was to it. No matter how hard they pressed their bodies together, or whispered sweet nothing in each other's ears, the emotions weren't there. They danced like separate entities. And in this day and age, the trained eye would note faster than a simple onlooker. Bending down, she rubbed at her ankles before shooting the male a glare. "I'm blaming this on you Dante." She informed him while she began to pace. There remained only so much she could do until the blame fell on him for not being able to match the ferocity Cessy brought to the table.
He looked at her in a dull manner, straightening his shirt. "Do as you please Princess, but you picked me." The dark haired young man reminded her. At the gesture of dismissal from the woman, he stalked off stage, leaving her to generate anger and hedonism alone. No one dared push as hard as she. No partner had lived up to expectations that she solely met. Perhaps she was picky, perhaps she had her father's OCD more than she thought. However, whatever it was, she didn't dare speak such aggravations out loud; jinx herself? No thank you ma'am. Reaching, she hit the button on the cd player and listened patiently while music once more filled the empty void.
She danced in a theory that had no inconveniences; she had darkness and lights at her disposal, and wherever she alighted found comments of plenty and looks of seduction. Those ideas were indulged till a day like this, and the progress of happiness faltered. A few miss-steps taught her the fallacies of imagination. The stage was dusty, the air was sultry, her legs were sluggish. She longed for the time of dinner that she could eat and rest. The school was crowded, her opinions neglected, and nothing remained but what she listened to in haste, and press on in a quest of better entertainment. She found that at night a more commodious auditorium was suited for releasing her frustrations. The costume she wore cut barely above her thigh; gold and red beading at the edges of silk; quite the number. It was made to dance in. The music made for two. Danced by one. Across the stage.
The tango was a direct expression of something that poets have often tried to state in words: the belief that a fight may be a celebration. It held the passion, aggression, and sensuality that lived within the best of us. The mood was dark and sultry, the air was damp and raw, their forms were wet and slick. The music hung sluggishly above the bodies as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the notes came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to noise when out shined. In a wild dissolving bliss, he spun her roughly; hands sliding up her body as she fell to the stage floor; legs sprawled in awkwardness, but the heave of her chest and longing in those eyes showed the lie of it all.
Raking a hand through her hair, the curls spilling over lithe fingers while she stood, Celeste blew out a puff of air. "It could be better." Because that was all there was to it. No matter how hard they pressed their bodies together, or whispered sweet nothing in each other's ears, the emotions weren't there. They danced like separate entities. And in this day and age, the trained eye would note faster than a simple onlooker. Bending down, she rubbed at her ankles before shooting the male a glare. "I'm blaming this on you Dante." She informed him while she began to pace. There remained only so much she could do until the blame fell on him for not being able to match the ferocity Cessy brought to the table.
He looked at her in a dull manner, straightening his shirt. "Do as you please Princess, but you picked me." The dark haired young man reminded her. At the gesture of dismissal from the woman, he stalked off stage, leaving her to generate anger and hedonism alone. No one dared push as hard as she. No partner had lived up to expectations that she solely met. Perhaps she was picky, perhaps she had her father's OCD more than she thought. However, whatever it was, she didn't dare speak such aggravations out loud; jinx herself? No thank you ma'am. Reaching, she hit the button on the cd player and listened patiently while music once more filled the empty void.
She danced in a theory that had no inconveniences; she had darkness and lights at her disposal, and wherever she alighted found comments of plenty and looks of seduction. Those ideas were indulged till a day like this, and the progress of happiness faltered. A few miss-steps taught her the fallacies of imagination. The stage was dusty, the air was sultry, her legs were sluggish. She longed for the time of dinner that she could eat and rest. The school was crowded, her opinions neglected, and nothing remained but what she listened to in haste, and press on in a quest of better entertainment. She found that at night a more commodious auditorium was suited for releasing her frustrations. The costume she wore cut barely above her thigh; gold and red beading at the edges of silk; quite the number. It was made to dance in. The music made for two. Danced by one. Across the stage.
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THIS TEMPLATE WAS MADE BY THATSNOTMYNAME ! @ CAUTION ,
AND THE LYRICS ARE FROM OWL CITY'S THE TECHNICOLOR PHASE
AND THE LYRICS ARE FROM OWL CITY'S THE TECHNICOLOR PHASE
