Post by Xanthe on Sept 29, 2012 15:05:38 GMT -5
Name: Xanthe Atros
Sex: Male
Age: 28
Birth date: September 9th
Height: 5'11"
Appearance:
Like any other business man, Xanthe sports a serious expression that is quite often accompanied by an even more serious pair of eyebrows. He is above average in height, with a strong physique for a man who pushes paper all day. His hair tends to darken, when he allows it to grow, but when trimmed to a proper length, it shines a gentle obsidian. His eyes are a strange honey-brown, which can be difficult to see on the rare occasions that he hide them behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.
Player question: This is a question about the character for you to fill out as yourself, the player.
1) Tell us a bit about how you see the character: What makes him/her tick? Why does he/she get out of bed in the morning? Why does he/she act the way he/she does?
Xanthe lives a life where he is constantly at war with himself. As a child, he was raised within a strict, proper household by a father who held him to the highest of standards. Those standards may not have been based on moral obligation, but were heavily influence by proper society. He was constantly corrected on his behavior and reminded of his duty to act as a responsible, male adult. During his younger years, Linneus was brought to the Teahouse. The two took an immediate liking to one another, and developed a bond that would go deeper than that of mere friendship. It would be easy to say that Linneus was the most important person in Xanthe's life for a long period of time. But his obligations took him away to boarding school, where he was again forced to uphold standards that had been set upon him since birth.
After his father's death, Xanthe took control of the Teahouse. He was also married to a young woman named Yvette. The bond that he shared with Linneus had grown dangerously deep- to a point where that war within him never stopped raging. Every day for him is a struggle, where he balances living the life he is forced to live, with the life he wants to live just out of reach. Linneus is salt on an open wound that he is incapable of dressing himself. This forces him to be cold and, at times, cruel to the one he loves the most.
Character Questions: These are questions to fill out in your role as the character. Think of them as brief RP samples.
1) What makes you tick? What makes you look forward to getting out of bed in the morning?
The chair that Xanthe had been leaning in creaked, as he shifted his weight forward to set a pair of elbows atop his desk. Papers were piled up high, awaiting attention from the man above them. A pair of glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose and, almost instantaneously, were pushed right back into their place. One could practically feel the irritation behind them. With a creased brow, he took in a breath, and let it out slowly.
"Understand, that while I may be here to provide services to you..." He would pause, to pull those glasses free and fold them together carefully. "... I am not here to make friends. If you are looking for company and idle chatter, I can provide you with a myriad of options among my staff. If not, the door is behind you." Plucking up a small stack of those papers, the chair was abruptly turned so that its back would face the front door of his office. "Argent will show you out."
2) Tell us a little about your past. (REMEMBER: keep this vague or easy to retcon! You can even find creative ways to avoid answering this question…)
For a moment, the man seemed unwillingly, in the way a dog was unwilling to unclamp his jaw after landing a good, solid bite. Idly, his eyes would wander, wander out the window that lay to the right of his office chair. The gardens were in full bloom, as they always were that time of the year. Just below, he could see a docile figure plucking and trimming away at the roses that were beginning to bud. Pink hair that was nearly the same shade of the petals that fell to the grass beneath him. He could still smell the aroma, of times long ago, when he'd found himself pushed into a patch of fresh flowers. Laughter... so much laughter. And for a moment, his hardened jaw loosened, and his eyes softened.
But as quickly as it surfaced, it was gone, and the man sat up tall again in the confines of that chair. "I am my Father's son." He stated, quite bluntly. "This teahouse was his, and now it is mine. As is all that resides within."
3) What do you love about your job?
A dark, thick brow jolted up in response to that one. Was that a joke? Fingertips rose to meet one another, as his hands splayed and pressed palms. One might assume he was praying for the answer, if not for the deadpan expression that hung on his face. Those fingertips drummed together, once, twice, and three times, before he spoke. "...The tea." He said. After all, it was, and had been, a teahouse for quite some time. There was an empty cup upon his desk, with a small vase tucked to its side sporting one of those freshly plucked roses from the outside gardens.
4) What do you HATE about your job?
"The clients." There was no hesitation in his voice. No idle thoughts or scowls to scare away the questions. In that moment, his shoulders had stiffened, his spine straightened, and his brows furrowed to an impressive crease in his brow. Fingers that had been loosely twined were clasped tight enough that his knuckles turned white. But he offered no more than that. The answer hung in the air as a heavy weight that would fall upon the inhabitants shoulders. And the look upon his face was one fit to kill. Not enraged or bewildered, but a quiet, smoldering anger. An anger that he carried with him, the same as those glasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt.
5) You get the chance to do whatever you want for a whole day. Tell us about it: Where do you go? What do you do? Who do you do it with?
"I am always here." And he was. At every given chance, he would grace the Teahouse with his presence. Not for the clients sake, and not for the business. It was his bread and butter, that much was true, but it was beyond that. It was, in fact, a sanctuary. A place that held what little he considered precious. A place that held all of his memories, behind every door. In the kitchen, he could smell the familiar waft of tea brewing. Outside, the garden provided him a chance to escape on the gentle breeze that carried through it. Inside, he saw pillows and blankets with pieces of paper scattered over top them. Most of all, he saw a pair of beautiful blue eyes that would light up any room as soon as they landed on him.
For a moment, he could feel something in his chest. Something that swelled into warmth and deflated to an awful ache that was far too prevalent. The Teahouse was everything to him, once. Now, it still was... but it was tainted with a pain that was bore between two lost souls that might never find one another again. "...Though." He offered, his voice low, as though he were afraid to speak the words he spoke. "If given the chance... I would go back."
6) What is your biggest dream? How about your biggest fear?
Any consideration or interest that he'd been feigning up to this point was gone. The glasses he had removed were pulled free as his eyes rose, not to the one questioning him, but to just beyond their frame.
"If you'll excuse me... I'm buried, as you can see." The papers he'd left unattended to were now his number one priority. The mere mention of 'dreams' and 'fears' rubbed him the wrong way. What was the point, in thinking over such foolish things? Dreams were for children, who were naive enough to believe that wishing and wanting were all it took to obtain that of which one most desired. Fears only accompanied the loss of those precious wants. He'd learned long ago not to invest in such notions. The sound of the door opening would emphasize his end in the discussion. "Please, Argent, escort out guest out."
Sex: Male
Age: 28
Birth date: September 9th
Height: 5'11"
Appearance:
Like any other business man, Xanthe sports a serious expression that is quite often accompanied by an even more serious pair of eyebrows. He is above average in height, with a strong physique for a man who pushes paper all day. His hair tends to darken, when he allows it to grow, but when trimmed to a proper length, it shines a gentle obsidian. His eyes are a strange honey-brown, which can be difficult to see on the rare occasions that he hide them behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.
Player question: This is a question about the character for you to fill out as yourself, the player.
1) Tell us a bit about how you see the character: What makes him/her tick? Why does he/she get out of bed in the morning? Why does he/she act the way he/she does?
Xanthe lives a life where he is constantly at war with himself. As a child, he was raised within a strict, proper household by a father who held him to the highest of standards. Those standards may not have been based on moral obligation, but were heavily influence by proper society. He was constantly corrected on his behavior and reminded of his duty to act as a responsible, male adult. During his younger years, Linneus was brought to the Teahouse. The two took an immediate liking to one another, and developed a bond that would go deeper than that of mere friendship. It would be easy to say that Linneus was the most important person in Xanthe's life for a long period of time. But his obligations took him away to boarding school, where he was again forced to uphold standards that had been set upon him since birth.
After his father's death, Xanthe took control of the Teahouse. He was also married to a young woman named Yvette. The bond that he shared with Linneus had grown dangerously deep- to a point where that war within him never stopped raging. Every day for him is a struggle, where he balances living the life he is forced to live, with the life he wants to live just out of reach. Linneus is salt on an open wound that he is incapable of dressing himself. This forces him to be cold and, at times, cruel to the one he loves the most.
Character Questions: These are questions to fill out in your role as the character. Think of them as brief RP samples.
1) What makes you tick? What makes you look forward to getting out of bed in the morning?
The chair that Xanthe had been leaning in creaked, as he shifted his weight forward to set a pair of elbows atop his desk. Papers were piled up high, awaiting attention from the man above them. A pair of glasses slid slightly down the bridge of his nose and, almost instantaneously, were pushed right back into their place. One could practically feel the irritation behind them. With a creased brow, he took in a breath, and let it out slowly.
"Understand, that while I may be here to provide services to you..." He would pause, to pull those glasses free and fold them together carefully. "... I am not here to make friends. If you are looking for company and idle chatter, I can provide you with a myriad of options among my staff. If not, the door is behind you." Plucking up a small stack of those papers, the chair was abruptly turned so that its back would face the front door of his office. "Argent will show you out."
2) Tell us a little about your past. (REMEMBER: keep this vague or easy to retcon! You can even find creative ways to avoid answering this question…)
For a moment, the man seemed unwillingly, in the way a dog was unwilling to unclamp his jaw after landing a good, solid bite. Idly, his eyes would wander, wander out the window that lay to the right of his office chair. The gardens were in full bloom, as they always were that time of the year. Just below, he could see a docile figure plucking and trimming away at the roses that were beginning to bud. Pink hair that was nearly the same shade of the petals that fell to the grass beneath him. He could still smell the aroma, of times long ago, when he'd found himself pushed into a patch of fresh flowers. Laughter... so much laughter. And for a moment, his hardened jaw loosened, and his eyes softened.
But as quickly as it surfaced, it was gone, and the man sat up tall again in the confines of that chair. "I am my Father's son." He stated, quite bluntly. "This teahouse was his, and now it is mine. As is all that resides within."
3) What do you love about your job?
A dark, thick brow jolted up in response to that one. Was that a joke? Fingertips rose to meet one another, as his hands splayed and pressed palms. One might assume he was praying for the answer, if not for the deadpan expression that hung on his face. Those fingertips drummed together, once, twice, and three times, before he spoke. "...The tea." He said. After all, it was, and had been, a teahouse for quite some time. There was an empty cup upon his desk, with a small vase tucked to its side sporting one of those freshly plucked roses from the outside gardens.
4) What do you HATE about your job?
"The clients." There was no hesitation in his voice. No idle thoughts or scowls to scare away the questions. In that moment, his shoulders had stiffened, his spine straightened, and his brows furrowed to an impressive crease in his brow. Fingers that had been loosely twined were clasped tight enough that his knuckles turned white. But he offered no more than that. The answer hung in the air as a heavy weight that would fall upon the inhabitants shoulders. And the look upon his face was one fit to kill. Not enraged or bewildered, but a quiet, smoldering anger. An anger that he carried with him, the same as those glasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt.
5) You get the chance to do whatever you want for a whole day. Tell us about it: Where do you go? What do you do? Who do you do it with?
"I am always here." And he was. At every given chance, he would grace the Teahouse with his presence. Not for the clients sake, and not for the business. It was his bread and butter, that much was true, but it was beyond that. It was, in fact, a sanctuary. A place that held what little he considered precious. A place that held all of his memories, behind every door. In the kitchen, he could smell the familiar waft of tea brewing. Outside, the garden provided him a chance to escape on the gentle breeze that carried through it. Inside, he saw pillows and blankets with pieces of paper scattered over top them. Most of all, he saw a pair of beautiful blue eyes that would light up any room as soon as they landed on him.
For a moment, he could feel something in his chest. Something that swelled into warmth and deflated to an awful ache that was far too prevalent. The Teahouse was everything to him, once. Now, it still was... but it was tainted with a pain that was bore between two lost souls that might never find one another again. "...Though." He offered, his voice low, as though he were afraid to speak the words he spoke. "If given the chance... I would go back."
6) What is your biggest dream? How about your biggest fear?
Any consideration or interest that he'd been feigning up to this point was gone. The glasses he had removed were pulled free as his eyes rose, not to the one questioning him, but to just beyond their frame.
"If you'll excuse me... I'm buried, as you can see." The papers he'd left unattended to were now his number one priority. The mere mention of 'dreams' and 'fears' rubbed him the wrong way. What was the point, in thinking over such foolish things? Dreams were for children, who were naive enough to believe that wishing and wanting were all it took to obtain that of which one most desired. Fears only accompanied the loss of those precious wants. He'd learned long ago not to invest in such notions. The sound of the door opening would emphasize his end in the discussion. "Please, Argent, escort out guest out."