Post by Masquerade on May 6, 2006 15:26:34 GMT 12
[Name >> Theodore "Mask" Allorque
[Age >> 17
[Gender >> Male
[Tribe >> Wharf Rats
[Rank >> Hunter
[Nationality >> American//French-Canadian Legal citizen of both the US and Canada due to separated parents
[Politics >> "'No politics, no morals, no regrets.' Live as you must, and do what needs to be done to live as you want to."
[Romantic orientation >> Bisexual
[Appearance >> He could, on a purely physical level, be viewed as attractive. At an even 6 feet in height, with a lean, willowy build and a handsome face, he seems rather blessed in that department. His hair, which was once a fiery irish red (inherited directly from his mothers side) has darkened over the years to auburn; it was originally cut short to his chin - a rough hack job performed with a dull knife not long after he set out on his own - but it has grown out to his shoulders now, still as uneven as ever. Theo's eyes are his fathers legacy; brilliant green, and touched with a corona of copper around the pupil. 'Life on the wild side' hasn't left him untouched, however, and he's accumulated his fair share of scars, both from fighting with others and generic accidents resulting from digging through junk bare-handed.
The clothes on his back are the pretty much the same as when he first arrived in New Pork; old jeans, a once white t-shirt (now turned a rather interesting shade of greenish-gray), and a beige canvas jacket that he's managed to keep with him throughout everything.
[Attitude >> He seems to be a rather optimistic fellow, always in high spirits and with a pleasant smile on his lips. Always smiling, never frowning. He enjoys being around others, always in the thick of a conversation but never really participating until he's addressed directly. However, once engaged in a conversation, its rather hard to stop him from expressing his opinions on any particular subject. On some level his actions and attitudes could be viewed as that of a helpless romantic, but on closer inspection they can be determined as having a far more down to earth purpose.
He wants his own way in everything, although he's no where stupid enough to let that be common knowledge. His urge to do what he wishes and not be interfered with could be interpreted as being power-hungry, but in truth the only people he wishes to have dominion over are 'me, myself, and I'. The catastrophe of the Black Plague and the loss of his family and friends has affected him drastically, giving him a strong urge to be affiliated with something resembling a family, if only so he can glean some sort of comfort from the proximity of others. At times he can act cold, other times disturbingly cheerful, but he is rarely, if ever, depressed or 'down in the dumps' (not to say these moods do not occur - he is a rather emotionally unstable young man - he just doesn't let them show). This instability aggrivates him to no end, and as a result he's quite at odds with himself on an emotional level. While outwardly confident - almost cocky at times - he's really quite unsure of many of his own behaviors (sub-conciously, he suspects himself to be going mad).
[Notable History >>
It's getting harder for him to remember all the details, but he can still recall the look on his mothers face when she saw the news. New York, where her estranged husband lived, was dying.
They'd been waiting in a bus terminal somewhere near the Great Lakes, hoping to cross the border before nightfall so they didn't have to sleep on seats which always wound up having upholstry that smelled like old sweat, booze, and piss. Now it seemed that this act of terrorism was going to indefinitely delay their ride home.
That night his mother spent her time huddled by the large televisions usually reserved for showing bus arrival and departure times, now displaying the latest news from the affected cities. Theodore spent his time playing solitare on the terminal floor, contemplated his fathers health as he methodically set down and picked up cards.
His dad had always been the rebellious one; always the artist and the writer, more of a friend than a parent. Too immature for his mother, was what it all boiled down to. Their latest visit had been one of his mothers many last-ditch efforts to get him to grow up and be a responsible husband. Like all of her previous attempts, it had failed.
So now, according to the TV, the proverbial fecal matter had hit the fan. People were dying, dropping dead all over the place, and no one could get in or out of the city to help. Huh. Sounded like dad wasn't going to be growing up now.
The following weeks were spent in a daze, mostly with Theo trying to simultainously comfort his histerical mother and keep her from being a threat to herself. His mother never had been the most stable of individuals, and the sudden, violent shock of loosing her husband proved to be the straw that broke the horses back.
It took three months, three hellish months spent in a grotty apartment, skipping school to make sure his mother didn't hang herself, before he started hearing of it. The reports were few and far between at first, but as the weeks passed they appeared with greater regularity and length. There were people, mostly children according to the Army, who had been sneaking back into the city through the fences. Rumors of half-baked groups of these youths running in packs, living in the ruins of the once great metropoli.
His curiousity perked, the idea of these 'feral children' intrigued him. Still, he stuck with things for a while yet. That is, until Margaret's total nervous breakdown. With her placed in psychiatric care for her own saftey, Theodore was left in the care of his grandfather, a slovenly drunk who spent too much time in an inebriated haze to keep track of his whereabouts.
Enter Mask, thumbing his way down the highways and side roads with only a small knapsack and a knife on his belt. He lost the bag on the fence, although he didn't much care. All that'd been in it were a couple of granola bars, a waterbottle, and a picture of his parents. In the first few days, he missed the granola bars the most.
What has become of his mother is a mystery to him, and one he isn't particularly interested in solving. Whether she finally managed to kill herself, or if shes rotting away in some asylum, he doesn't care. She was dead to him long before he left home.
Ohsnap, more stuff will go here k?!
[Reputation >> A 'decent sort', but highly unpredictable. A schemer and an observer. Always smiling.
[Notable Items >> A tin of laminated playing cards and a belt knife (blade being single edged, just under ten centimeters, and folding into the hilt). Wide banded silver ring on a string of blackened twine (sometimes worn around neck, sometimes hidden out of sight).
[Age >> 17
[Gender >> Male
[Tribe >> Wharf Rats
[Rank >> Hunter
[Nationality >> American//French-Canadian Legal citizen of both the US and Canada due to separated parents
[Politics >> "'No politics, no morals, no regrets.' Live as you must, and do what needs to be done to live as you want to."
[Romantic orientation >> Bisexual
[Appearance >> He could, on a purely physical level, be viewed as attractive. At an even 6 feet in height, with a lean, willowy build and a handsome face, he seems rather blessed in that department. His hair, which was once a fiery irish red (inherited directly from his mothers side) has darkened over the years to auburn; it was originally cut short to his chin - a rough hack job performed with a dull knife not long after he set out on his own - but it has grown out to his shoulders now, still as uneven as ever. Theo's eyes are his fathers legacy; brilliant green, and touched with a corona of copper around the pupil. 'Life on the wild side' hasn't left him untouched, however, and he's accumulated his fair share of scars, both from fighting with others and generic accidents resulting from digging through junk bare-handed.
The clothes on his back are the pretty much the same as when he first arrived in New Pork; old jeans, a once white t-shirt (now turned a rather interesting shade of greenish-gray), and a beige canvas jacket that he's managed to keep with him throughout everything.
[Attitude >> He seems to be a rather optimistic fellow, always in high spirits and with a pleasant smile on his lips. Always smiling, never frowning. He enjoys being around others, always in the thick of a conversation but never really participating until he's addressed directly. However, once engaged in a conversation, its rather hard to stop him from expressing his opinions on any particular subject. On some level his actions and attitudes could be viewed as that of a helpless romantic, but on closer inspection they can be determined as having a far more down to earth purpose.
He wants his own way in everything, although he's no where stupid enough to let that be common knowledge. His urge to do what he wishes and not be interfered with could be interpreted as being power-hungry, but in truth the only people he wishes to have dominion over are 'me, myself, and I'. The catastrophe of the Black Plague and the loss of his family and friends has affected him drastically, giving him a strong urge to be affiliated with something resembling a family, if only so he can glean some sort of comfort from the proximity of others. At times he can act cold, other times disturbingly cheerful, but he is rarely, if ever, depressed or 'down in the dumps' (not to say these moods do not occur - he is a rather emotionally unstable young man - he just doesn't let them show). This instability aggrivates him to no end, and as a result he's quite at odds with himself on an emotional level. While outwardly confident - almost cocky at times - he's really quite unsure of many of his own behaviors (sub-conciously, he suspects himself to be going mad).
[Notable History >>
It's getting harder for him to remember all the details, but he can still recall the look on his mothers face when she saw the news. New York, where her estranged husband lived, was dying.
They'd been waiting in a bus terminal somewhere near the Great Lakes, hoping to cross the border before nightfall so they didn't have to sleep on seats which always wound up having upholstry that smelled like old sweat, booze, and piss. Now it seemed that this act of terrorism was going to indefinitely delay their ride home.
That night his mother spent her time huddled by the large televisions usually reserved for showing bus arrival and departure times, now displaying the latest news from the affected cities. Theodore spent his time playing solitare on the terminal floor, contemplated his fathers health as he methodically set down and picked up cards.
His dad had always been the rebellious one; always the artist and the writer, more of a friend than a parent. Too immature for his mother, was what it all boiled down to. Their latest visit had been one of his mothers many last-ditch efforts to get him to grow up and be a responsible husband. Like all of her previous attempts, it had failed.
So now, according to the TV, the proverbial fecal matter had hit the fan. People were dying, dropping dead all over the place, and no one could get in or out of the city to help. Huh. Sounded like dad wasn't going to be growing up now.
The following weeks were spent in a daze, mostly with Theo trying to simultainously comfort his histerical mother and keep her from being a threat to herself. His mother never had been the most stable of individuals, and the sudden, violent shock of loosing her husband proved to be the straw that broke the horses back.
It took three months, three hellish months spent in a grotty apartment, skipping school to make sure his mother didn't hang herself, before he started hearing of it. The reports were few and far between at first, but as the weeks passed they appeared with greater regularity and length. There were people, mostly children according to the Army, who had been sneaking back into the city through the fences. Rumors of half-baked groups of these youths running in packs, living in the ruins of the once great metropoli.
His curiousity perked, the idea of these 'feral children' intrigued him. Still, he stuck with things for a while yet. That is, until Margaret's total nervous breakdown. With her placed in psychiatric care for her own saftey, Theodore was left in the care of his grandfather, a slovenly drunk who spent too much time in an inebriated haze to keep track of his whereabouts.
Enter Mask, thumbing his way down the highways and side roads with only a small knapsack and a knife on his belt. He lost the bag on the fence, although he didn't much care. All that'd been in it were a couple of granola bars, a waterbottle, and a picture of his parents. In the first few days, he missed the granola bars the most.
What has become of his mother is a mystery to him, and one he isn't particularly interested in solving. Whether she finally managed to kill herself, or if shes rotting away in some asylum, he doesn't care. She was dead to him long before he left home.
Ohsnap, more stuff will go here k?!
[Reputation >> A 'decent sort', but highly unpredictable. A schemer and an observer. Always smiling.
[Notable Items >> A tin of laminated playing cards and a belt knife (blade being single edged, just under ten centimeters, and folding into the hilt). Wide banded silver ring on a string of blackened twine (sometimes worn around neck, sometimes hidden out of sight).
