Post by Alistair on Dec 13, 2009 2:37:28 GMT -5
THE BASICS
FULL NAME: Alistair Ethan Blake
PET NAMES: N/A
AGE: 23
BIRTH DATE: February 29
BIRTH PLACE: Idola, Tephroiite District
HEIGHT: 5'11"
WEIGHT: 139 lbs.
GENDER: Male
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Straight
MARITAL STATUS: Single
OCCUPATION: Writer/Journalist
FEALTY: State (?)
OUT OF CHARACTER: Alistair
WAYS OF CONTACT: PM
EMAIL: N/A
· · · · · · · · · · · · ·
HISTORY:
Alistair Blake was the only child born into a middle-class family in Idola; his father was a semi-successful inventor, and his mother, a midwife and poet. Always curious, with a quick wit and matching intelligence, he was a prime candidate to carry on his father's legacy, yet despite both his father's insistence and his own aptitude for it, young Alistair took little interest in the elaborate designs of steam machinery and clockwork in favor of his mother's favorite pastime: writing.
By the age of 17, Alistair had written two novels, one of which was over 30 chapters long. His repertoire only grew with him, and soon his books and poems were being read all across Elysia. Wanting to capitalize on the young prodigy, countless printing presses and newspapers sent him invitations to come work and by age 21, Alistair was off to the capital to live the life he had always dreamed of.
Proud as she was of her son's talent, Alistair's mother fell ill soon after he left, and died not six months later. Now 23, Alistair has just recently received the news of her passing, due to the ineffectiveness of the mail service and his own busy schedule. He now resents himself for it, thinking himself somehow at least partially responsible for her death. Alistair's father, once a fervently genius man, has also driven himself into a depression, his once constantly bustling workshop now lifeless and dusty.
Normally, Alistair is a bright and driven individual, highly intelligent with a wit to match. He is as comfortable with a pen as with a wrench, and while he has devoted his life to writing, he still finds time now and again to tinker with a clock or two. His curiosity remains, and perhaps even flourishes through his journalism, but it tends to get him into trouble sometimes; he has a tendency to pry where he might be best not to, and has a bad habit of staring.
ROLE PLAY SAMPLE:
The sky beyond Idola's roofscape was bleak and lifeless, a light snow blowing in near-horizontally in the fierce wind. Collar pulled up to his ears, Alistair trudged down the boulevard towards his destination. Why had it taken so long for news of his mother's death to reach him? If only it had gotten to him sooner, he could have helped... but how? He was no doctor, and his father had undoubtedly found the most capable of them in the city to heal her. Alistair only hoped that she hadn't suffered too much.
Making his way down a few lesser trafficked paths, Alistair soon found himself standing before the portal to the place where it all began. Just as he was about to knock, the door creaked open, revealing a disheveled man ravaged by sleep-deprivation and alcohol. Alistair nodded.
"Father."
The man's eyes widened, probably the first time in months.
"Alistair? We- I thought you were dead! What in the Hells happened?"
Alistair's blank expression remained blank.
"Lazy post.. and I've been busy. Can I come in? It's damn cold out here."
His father nodded quickly and stepped out of doorway, ushering his son into the building. After closing the door, he headed off toward the kitchen, speaking as he went.
"Coffee? Tea? Anything..? Scotch?"
Alistair shook his head before realizing that his father couldn't see him and called out a 'no'. Taking a moment to shake out the cold, he looked around at the place where he was born and raised. Nothing much had changed, save the amount of dust that had collected on the surfaces. At the sound of footsteps, he turned to see his father returning with a bottle of brandy and two glasses, setting himself down in a chair at the dining room table. Alistair headed over and resigned himself to the seat across from the drunkard, sighing deeply at returning memories.
"So how's the capital? Economy's not gone to shit yet, izzit?"
His father poured himself a glass of brandy and set the decanter next to Alistair's still empty glass.
"No, business is fine. Condominium is comfortable enough, and my writing is coming along."
"That's good."
Emptying his glass's contents, the man-shell seated across from Alistair poured himself another and, deciding that it might help, Alistair poured himself one as well. Taking a large gulp, he let the drink fill his mouth with its flavor and scent before swallowing, the mild burn a refreshing sensation in contrast to the weather outside.
"So why'd you come back? Must've seen the date on the letters."
Alistair set his now-empty glass down and fixed his eyes on his father, eyebrow cocked in mild irritation.
"For, I might argue, a better reason than why you look like shit. Is it so wrong for me to want to visit my only living relative? That and I want to pick up some things."
With this he stood up, walking over to a bookcase and scanning its contents. He pulled a small, hand-bound paperback and flipped through it before stashing it in the breast pocket of his coat, and then walked back to the table.
"Y-yeah. Sure. Go ahead and take what you feel you need. I'm not using it anyway."
His father, now three glasses in, hiccuped lightly before placing his glass in the middle of the table near the brandy, calling it quits at least temporarily. Alistair's eyebrow twitched slightly at the old man; whatever pain he was going through obviously had had a far more physical effect on his father than he and he almost pitied him, save for the fact that Alistair had not once seen his father less than ecstatic about life before now. His father was barely the man he knew, none of his spark, none of his energy. The sight of him made Alistair feel guilty, and he knew that the less time he spent here the better. With that thought, he turned abruptly towards the door.
"I, uhh.. have to go now. Wasn't able to take much time off of work, and it's a pretty long trip."
His father's eyes widened again and he went to argue, but decided against it.
"Err, yeah. Safe trip n' all. Sure you don't want something for the road?"
He got up hastily and rushed to the kitchen again, followed by the clinking of glasses and bottles.
"Here, this'll do you."
He tossed Alistair something, and Alistair looked down at a screw-top hip flask, it's contents strangely heavy considering his father's condition. The body of the container looked to be stainless steel, with a large brass inlay in the middle shaped like a pair of interlocking cogs. Knowing better than to argue, with his stomach agreeing, Alistair placed the flask in his pocket.
"Thanks, dad. Take care of yourself, alright?"
"Yeah. Sure. You too."
Alistair nodded before turning to the door and pulling his collar back up as far as it would go. Somehow, he knew that this would be the last time he saw this place, but he also knew that there was nothing left for him here now. Biting wind greeted him as he opened the door, and he stepped out into the evening with a stifled sigh. The night was settling in, bringing with it less wind, but more snow. As the sun set, the bleak sky only turned bleaker, and Alistair set off at a brisk pace towards the train station. Hopefully the train wouldn't be too long after he arrived; he had an idea for a new book.
FULL NAME: Alistair Ethan Blake
PET NAMES: N/A
AGE: 23
BIRTH DATE: February 29
BIRTH PLACE: Idola, Tephroiite District
HEIGHT: 5'11"
WEIGHT: 139 lbs.
GENDER: Male
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Straight
MARITAL STATUS: Single
OCCUPATION: Writer/Journalist
FEALTY: State (?)
OUT OF CHARACTER: Alistair
WAYS OF CONTACT: PM
EMAIL: N/A
· · · · · · · · · · · · ·
HISTORY:
Alistair Blake was the only child born into a middle-class family in Idola; his father was a semi-successful inventor, and his mother, a midwife and poet. Always curious, with a quick wit and matching intelligence, he was a prime candidate to carry on his father's legacy, yet despite both his father's insistence and his own aptitude for it, young Alistair took little interest in the elaborate designs of steam machinery and clockwork in favor of his mother's favorite pastime: writing.
By the age of 17, Alistair had written two novels, one of which was over 30 chapters long. His repertoire only grew with him, and soon his books and poems were being read all across Elysia. Wanting to capitalize on the young prodigy, countless printing presses and newspapers sent him invitations to come work and by age 21, Alistair was off to the capital to live the life he had always dreamed of.
Proud as she was of her son's talent, Alistair's mother fell ill soon after he left, and died not six months later. Now 23, Alistair has just recently received the news of her passing, due to the ineffectiveness of the mail service and his own busy schedule. He now resents himself for it, thinking himself somehow at least partially responsible for her death. Alistair's father, once a fervently genius man, has also driven himself into a depression, his once constantly bustling workshop now lifeless and dusty.
Normally, Alistair is a bright and driven individual, highly intelligent with a wit to match. He is as comfortable with a pen as with a wrench, and while he has devoted his life to writing, he still finds time now and again to tinker with a clock or two. His curiosity remains, and perhaps even flourishes through his journalism, but it tends to get him into trouble sometimes; he has a tendency to pry where he might be best not to, and has a bad habit of staring.
ROLE PLAY SAMPLE:
The sky beyond Idola's roofscape was bleak and lifeless, a light snow blowing in near-horizontally in the fierce wind. Collar pulled up to his ears, Alistair trudged down the boulevard towards his destination. Why had it taken so long for news of his mother's death to reach him? If only it had gotten to him sooner, he could have helped... but how? He was no doctor, and his father had undoubtedly found the most capable of them in the city to heal her. Alistair only hoped that she hadn't suffered too much.
Making his way down a few lesser trafficked paths, Alistair soon found himself standing before the portal to the place where it all began. Just as he was about to knock, the door creaked open, revealing a disheveled man ravaged by sleep-deprivation and alcohol. Alistair nodded.
"Father."
The man's eyes widened, probably the first time in months.
"Alistair? We- I thought you were dead! What in the Hells happened?"
Alistair's blank expression remained blank.
"Lazy post.. and I've been busy. Can I come in? It's damn cold out here."
His father nodded quickly and stepped out of doorway, ushering his son into the building. After closing the door, he headed off toward the kitchen, speaking as he went.
"Coffee? Tea? Anything..? Scotch?"
Alistair shook his head before realizing that his father couldn't see him and called out a 'no'. Taking a moment to shake out the cold, he looked around at the place where he was born and raised. Nothing much had changed, save the amount of dust that had collected on the surfaces. At the sound of footsteps, he turned to see his father returning with a bottle of brandy and two glasses, setting himself down in a chair at the dining room table. Alistair headed over and resigned himself to the seat across from the drunkard, sighing deeply at returning memories.
"So how's the capital? Economy's not gone to shit yet, izzit?"
His father poured himself a glass of brandy and set the decanter next to Alistair's still empty glass.
"No, business is fine. Condominium is comfortable enough, and my writing is coming along."
"That's good."
Emptying his glass's contents, the man-shell seated across from Alistair poured himself another and, deciding that it might help, Alistair poured himself one as well. Taking a large gulp, he let the drink fill his mouth with its flavor and scent before swallowing, the mild burn a refreshing sensation in contrast to the weather outside.
"So why'd you come back? Must've seen the date on the letters."
Alistair set his now-empty glass down and fixed his eyes on his father, eyebrow cocked in mild irritation.
"For, I might argue, a better reason than why you look like shit. Is it so wrong for me to want to visit my only living relative? That and I want to pick up some things."
With this he stood up, walking over to a bookcase and scanning its contents. He pulled a small, hand-bound paperback and flipped through it before stashing it in the breast pocket of his coat, and then walked back to the table.
"Y-yeah. Sure. Go ahead and take what you feel you need. I'm not using it anyway."
His father, now three glasses in, hiccuped lightly before placing his glass in the middle of the table near the brandy, calling it quits at least temporarily. Alistair's eyebrow twitched slightly at the old man; whatever pain he was going through obviously had had a far more physical effect on his father than he and he almost pitied him, save for the fact that Alistair had not once seen his father less than ecstatic about life before now. His father was barely the man he knew, none of his spark, none of his energy. The sight of him made Alistair feel guilty, and he knew that the less time he spent here the better. With that thought, he turned abruptly towards the door.
"I, uhh.. have to go now. Wasn't able to take much time off of work, and it's a pretty long trip."
His father's eyes widened again and he went to argue, but decided against it.
"Err, yeah. Safe trip n' all. Sure you don't want something for the road?"
He got up hastily and rushed to the kitchen again, followed by the clinking of glasses and bottles.
"Here, this'll do you."
He tossed Alistair something, and Alistair looked down at a screw-top hip flask, it's contents strangely heavy considering his father's condition. The body of the container looked to be stainless steel, with a large brass inlay in the middle shaped like a pair of interlocking cogs. Knowing better than to argue, with his stomach agreeing, Alistair placed the flask in his pocket.
"Thanks, dad. Take care of yourself, alright?"
"Yeah. Sure. You too."
Alistair nodded before turning to the door and pulling his collar back up as far as it would go. Somehow, he knew that this would be the last time he saw this place, but he also knew that there was nothing left for him here now. Biting wind greeted him as he opened the door, and he stepped out into the evening with a stifled sigh. The night was settling in, bringing with it less wind, but more snow. As the sun set, the bleak sky only turned bleaker, and Alistair set off at a brisk pace towards the train station. Hopefully the train wouldn't be too long after he arrived; he had an idea for a new book.