Post by ciaran callaghan on May 27, 2015 21:25:59 GMT -5
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[attr="class","appbg"]
[attr="class","appn"]ciaran callaghan
[attr="class","appc"]age 25
[attr="class","appc"]group commoner
[attr="class","appc"]sex male
[attr="class","appc"]occupation sergeant
[attr="class","appp"]
⌈ a better life for you, my son, ⌋ your father says, old and tired and weak even as he smiles and tells you that your new uniform is sharp.[break][break]
(you have never owned something so new in all of your eighteen years and you are so, so terrified.)[break][break]
you are the last of his three sons but the only one who sits at his sickbed now-- you, dutiful, loyal ciaran, the best of his sons. but, the traitorous voice at the back of your head whispers, who will care for him now? the guilt gnaws at you no matter what you do. [break][break]
as a child you dreamed that perhaps your oldest brother would show up someday in one of those fancy magician cars, that he would come and sweep up the pieces of a man whose heart he unknowingly broke the day he was born; but you are not a child anymore-- no, not you. the only semblance of childhood that clings to your gaunt cheeks and downcast eyes are in your hands, but you don't believe you can make a life out of your war gods and fallen angels built of stolen paper and ink, or the strange, lonesome face that haunts your dreams and hangs on your walls. [break][break]
your father holds your hand like he knows you are afraid, afraid to leave and afraid to die.[break][break]
(if only he knew that you would live to be twenty-five and hard-eyed, bathed in the blood of monsters you never even dreamed of.)[break][break]
eventually, he drifts to sleep again, and you wonder if he was ever so fragile when you were a boy. you take a good, long look; this may be the last time you ever see him, after all. there is a comfortable silence, here, in this moment-- you were never much for words, but you let two more slip from your mouth. [break][break]
[attr="class","appi"]
⌈ a better life for you, my son, ⌋ your father says, old and tired and weak even as he smiles and tells you that your new uniform is sharp.[break][break]
(you have never owned something so new in all of your eighteen years and you are so, so terrified.)[break][break]
you are the last of his three sons but the only one who sits at his sickbed now-- you, dutiful, loyal ciaran, the best of his sons. but, the traitorous voice at the back of your head whispers, who will care for him now? the guilt gnaws at you no matter what you do. [break][break]
as a child you dreamed that perhaps your oldest brother would show up someday in one of those fancy magician cars, that he would come and sweep up the pieces of a man whose heart he unknowingly broke the day he was born; but you are not a child anymore-- no, not you. the only semblance of childhood that clings to your gaunt cheeks and downcast eyes are in your hands, but you don't believe you can make a life out of your war gods and fallen angels built of stolen paper and ink, or the strange, lonesome face that haunts your dreams and hangs on your walls. [break][break]
your father holds your hand like he knows you are afraid, afraid to leave and afraid to die.[break][break]
(if only he knew that you would live to be twenty-five and hard-eyed, bathed in the blood of monsters you never even dreamed of.)[break][break]
eventually, he drifts to sleep again, and you wonder if he was ever so fragile when you were a boy. you take a good, long look; this may be the last time you ever see him, after all. there is a comfortable silence, here, in this moment-- you were never much for words, but you let two more slip from your mouth. [break][break]
⌈ goodbye, father. ⌋
[attr="class","appd"]
your most loyal companion is the ever classic sword, a smooth merging of black and silver metal shaped into a sabre-- reflective of the utilitarian grace with which you wield it. for all your fears of death and destruction, you have since been thrown into the thick of it, leaping into the fray among djinni and monsters alike with your flaming blade. some are surprised by the strength and agility of your tall, thin frame; to that, you simply laugh and ask, how do you think i'm still alive?[break][break]
you keep your form clean and simple in its elegance. your distaste for frills and flash are not unfounded; you've seen more than your share of cocky rookies torn in two by a beast fighting to win, not to impress a lady.
[attr="class","apph2"]
your most loyal companion is the ever classic sword, a smooth merging of black and silver metal shaped into a sabre-- reflective of the utilitarian grace with which you wield it. for all your fears of death and destruction, you have since been thrown into the thick of it, leaping into the fray among djinni and monsters alike with your flaming blade. some are surprised by the strength and agility of your tall, thin frame; to that, you simply laugh and ask, how do you think i'm still alive?[break][break]
you keep your form clean and simple in its elegance. your distaste for frills and flash are not unfounded; you've seen more than your share of cocky rookies torn in two by a beast fighting to win, not to impress a lady.
[attr="class","appf"]
played by: rook [break]
face claim: [b]ten count,[/b] [i]riku kurose[/i] - ciaran callaghan
[attr="class","apph2"]
played by: rook [break]
face claim: [b]ten count,[/b] [i]riku kurose[/i] - ciaran callaghan
