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Steam Name: Giles
Steam ID: Having trouble retrieving, been ages since I've ran any HL2 based engines and have forgotten commands.
Notable Recommendations (This can be anyone from an admin to someone who's known for good RP.): I'd hate for this to come across as rude, but I don't believe recommendations from other players would show my competence or the level at which I am fluent in writing. I believe in having a complete unbiased opinion for any application.
Character Name: Garret Jackson
Character Age: Typically not one to share in person, unless to people with close relations with himself, though from his appearance one could make his age around the mid-fifties mark.
Gender: Male.
Character's Appetite (Whether or not they actively seek human flesh.):
"Hunger? Appetite? What's the real difference between these two feelings, is it the different chemicals being released into our minds? Or are they just fancy words for the same thing? You see, I have an unfortunate mutation, well others like to put a pretty bow on it and call it a curse. It's simply a birth defect, something that plagues my daily life, and has twisted my personality into something dark in order to cope with life. You don't think I curse my parent's name for passing this mutation onto me? I do it daily, but I haven't lived over forty years with this disease and not learned something about it, and myself. You see the thing with my mutation is that I require a constant protein from the flesh of our species in order to survive, my body ceased it's production at an early age. The more of these proteins are ingested, the longer you are able to function, but the worse your body deteriorates without it. I've found a diet of your flesh at a certain time every day is able to sustain. Now I don't mutilate random people in the dark and just rip off a piece of their skin till the next time. No I like to keep my substance alive and kicking as I slowly feed off their meat and flesh for weeks, and you my friend, were in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Blood Attribute (You can make up your own, just be sure to specifically detail how it's going to work.):
Burning/Boiling - Blood that has an incredibly high temperature. Renders the holder of this blood to be unable to feel heat, and projects an area of heat around themselves if their powers are not being concealed (Optional).
"I'm sure by this moment in time you are aware of the subspecies of mutation whom I belong. I would absolutely love to share the specific mutation this defect gene has so graciously bestowed onto me, but I am what our people like to call 'A shower, not a talker.' Well I do like talking, so perhaps I am a bit of both. I like watching the fear and suspense in your eyes as I show you my defect, not knowing what I may do to you, and what may happen to you as a result of it. But enough talking."
An arm breaks forth from it's presumed ritual of lying still beside the body awaiting it's response, it rises to the point where the fore-arm of itself lies mere inches above the dirty encrusted half naked form of a man laying strapped to a cold frigid metal gurney. Another hand breaks free from the same state and places itself onto the stained chest of the man; the index nail of said hand is sharp and refined just for this purpose. With a quick flick of the wrist the nail tears a small yet defined cut into the man's flesh. Blood would begin to draw up from the broken tissue and allow the force of gravity to pull it down the man's chest and to trickle to the gurney.
That same nail snaps upwards to the adjacent fore-arm of it's masters, another quick snap of the wrist and the defect man's skin is broken. Blood slowly begins to drip out from the tear in the flesh and feel the effects of gravity once more as the blood falls directly into the wound of the dirt encrusted recluse. Within mere seconds of the bloods being presented into each other a stream of smoke would begin to pile upwards and desperately looking for a place to go. The man's wound begins to boil rapidly and cause the skin beneath and around it to seer and turn into a dark reddish patch of burns. After another set of seconds the mixed blood starts to turn into a bubbly mixture and boil over top of the flesh tear itself. Boils of pus form rapidly before the mixture of blood suddenly cools down and congeals into a hard substance. The wound of the man strapped down has burnt and fused together into a disgusting appeal of charred skin, pus boils, and congealed blood.
"You see the cause of my problem now don't you? Please don't squirm so much, you are interrupting my speech and that is just plain rude. I haven't interrupted you yet. Those proteins that I so desperately need from your flesh acts as a foreign agent and coats the tissue around each of my veins, making it so that my own blood doesn't boil through my body and kill me. This is simply a case of survival of the strongest, I am stronger then you in the sense that I am not living in the streets, and your case is that you are simply a lower species on the food chain of man, and someone stronger requires you to sacrifice yourself slowly for a better cause."
Backstory (Optional):
"I can see that look in your eye, who am I? How did I wind up down this path? Or are you simply wishing you weren't in that alley? That is rude, don't think that. You were in that alley for a reason, you are allowing me to live, I would treat that as a honor. If you weren't bound up, I would let you bow down to me, it's a very fetching thing to see. I suppose I should tell you my story as we'll be spending a lot of hours and weeks together before I move onto another."
"You've seen that I am not normal, though I wish I was so that I wouldn't have to hide myself down here, and outsource my job to others to bring me flesh like you. I wish that more anything, but that will never be, so in the mean time I am forced to survive by any means necessary. How old do you guess I am? Sixty? Now that is just offensive, I am not that old, you shouldn't have said that. I am in my fifties."
"Where was I born, you ask? I can't recall exactly nor to who I was born too. You saw what happens when my blood mixes with yours, it's not a very pretty sight. Let's just say the doctor that was required to cut me out from my womb wasn't as skilled as he was sober. My form was cut just a tiny itsy bit, but enough to cause my blood to burn through my placenta, and into the lining of my mother's uterus. It was a miracle that drunk even managed to get me out before her uterus melted into a sac of pus, and spread to her blood stream. Yes that is a true story, don't give me that look."
"What did I do after that? My father called me an abomination and wanted nothing of me, can you blame him? Who wants a child with a birth defect like that, and you thought Fetal Alcohol Syndrome was bad. I was put up for adoption, passed around from family to family, no one really wanted me because I was mentally damaged from killing my mother in child birth. Though they never told me what from, who is really going to believe that? I didn't find out till later on. You know what that can do to a young child when it is told that every day? It's really horrible. Enough about that though, I grew up and eventually the proteins in my body began to break down when I was around fourteen and this tragic mutation of mine came to life and I had to learn all about it and how to survive. Okay now don't say that, I didn't just give you proof my birth story was false."
"I was premature by about a month, and those proteins needed to protect my body don't develop till the last week of the third trimester. I was put in one of those vacuum sealed pods that preemies are put in till my body was fully developed. It's entirely plausible. So because of that, it is true. Oh what did I do after that? Oh I just floated around and what not till I figured out the perfect way to survive, which is this exact process. I've been doing it for about twenty years now. Yes I am satisfied with my life, what sort of question is that to ask someone?"
"I would really love to hear your actual voice though, your grunts are very hard to understand. Then why did I do it? Well you wouldn't stop screaming, so I put a tube between your lips and spread my blood around them to fuse them shut. Just remember if you vomit into it, that is what you are getting mixed in with your next meal."
RP Situation (Should involve blood type, length is up to you.):
A hand rises and places itself against a Polaroid photograph that hangs from a grimy yellow string, one long and sharp nail scratches against it.
"This man, I want him. He'll do just fine." A course and discreetly older voice beckons from the owner of the hand.
"You know the drill, creep. Our goods first, then you get your man, provided nothing weird happens up top." A younger but just as strict voice speaks from a few feet of the older man.
"Yes, yes, I know the drill. Don't have to remind me three times, just one moment."
The previous hand traces away from it's presence near the photograph and begins to make it's way towards a bag hanging off the rusted shelf that someone once used for a garage. With a quick drop of the hand, it deposits itself into the bag and begins to dig around inside of it, as if searching or something or perhaps placing something inside it.
"We don't have all day, man." Speaks the younger voice.
"Yes, yes, now a fourth time."
The hand then snap out from the bag and grasp itself around the strap hanging it from the shelf. It then turns to face the younger man, holding out the bag for him. The younger man wastes no time in snatching the bag off the older man and pulling it to himself as his own hand slides into it to count the merchandise.
"I've left you a little present in there too, Bobby." A slight howl of laughter rises from the older man.
"Name's not Bobby, told you this before. Oh what in the hell is this, is this a?"
His hand rises from the bag and holds up a small fleshly looking object as he leans in to peer at it. He'd the recoil and toss it in the general direction of the older man.
"It's a god damn ear, you are fucking creepy. It's all here, let's get out of here guys." Beckons the younger man once more.
A group of three men would then depart from the underground room, holding a sack of something metallic and numerous. A hand of the older man rises again and taps itself against the Polaroid of the dark alley.
"Soon, my friend. I'll have you here with me."
The photograph shows a man laying in a gutter, covered in garbage and cardboard boxes, he'd be dirty and look mongrel.
"Soon."
Steam ID: Having trouble retrieving, been ages since I've ran any HL2 based engines and have forgotten commands.
Notable Recommendations (This can be anyone from an admin to someone who's known for good RP.): I'd hate for this to come across as rude, but I don't believe recommendations from other players would show my competence or the level at which I am fluent in writing. I believe in having a complete unbiased opinion for any application.
Character Name: Garret Jackson
Character Age: Typically not one to share in person, unless to people with close relations with himself, though from his appearance one could make his age around the mid-fifties mark.
Gender: Male.
Character's Appetite (Whether or not they actively seek human flesh.):
"Hunger? Appetite? What's the real difference between these two feelings, is it the different chemicals being released into our minds? Or are they just fancy words for the same thing? You see, I have an unfortunate mutation, well others like to put a pretty bow on it and call it a curse. It's simply a birth defect, something that plagues my daily life, and has twisted my personality into something dark in order to cope with life. You don't think I curse my parent's name for passing this mutation onto me? I do it daily, but I haven't lived over forty years with this disease and not learned something about it, and myself. You see the thing with my mutation is that I require a constant protein from the flesh of our species in order to survive, my body ceased it's production at an early age. The more of these proteins are ingested, the longer you are able to function, but the worse your body deteriorates without it. I've found a diet of your flesh at a certain time every day is able to sustain. Now I don't mutilate random people in the dark and just rip off a piece of their skin till the next time. No I like to keep my substance alive and kicking as I slowly feed off their meat and flesh for weeks, and you my friend, were in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Blood Attribute (You can make up your own, just be sure to specifically detail how it's going to work.):
Burning/Boiling - Blood that has an incredibly high temperature. Renders the holder of this blood to be unable to feel heat, and projects an area of heat around themselves if their powers are not being concealed (Optional).
"I'm sure by this moment in time you are aware of the subspecies of mutation whom I belong. I would absolutely love to share the specific mutation this defect gene has so graciously bestowed onto me, but I am what our people like to call 'A shower, not a talker.' Well I do like talking, so perhaps I am a bit of both. I like watching the fear and suspense in your eyes as I show you my defect, not knowing what I may do to you, and what may happen to you as a result of it. But enough talking."
An arm breaks forth from it's presumed ritual of lying still beside the body awaiting it's response, it rises to the point where the fore-arm of itself lies mere inches above the dirty encrusted half naked form of a man laying strapped to a cold frigid metal gurney. Another hand breaks free from the same state and places itself onto the stained chest of the man; the index nail of said hand is sharp and refined just for this purpose. With a quick flick of the wrist the nail tears a small yet defined cut into the man's flesh. Blood would begin to draw up from the broken tissue and allow the force of gravity to pull it down the man's chest and to trickle to the gurney.
That same nail snaps upwards to the adjacent fore-arm of it's masters, another quick snap of the wrist and the defect man's skin is broken. Blood slowly begins to drip out from the tear in the flesh and feel the effects of gravity once more as the blood falls directly into the wound of the dirt encrusted recluse. Within mere seconds of the bloods being presented into each other a stream of smoke would begin to pile upwards and desperately looking for a place to go. The man's wound begins to boil rapidly and cause the skin beneath and around it to seer and turn into a dark reddish patch of burns. After another set of seconds the mixed blood starts to turn into a bubbly mixture and boil over top of the flesh tear itself. Boils of pus form rapidly before the mixture of blood suddenly cools down and congeals into a hard substance. The wound of the man strapped down has burnt and fused together into a disgusting appeal of charred skin, pus boils, and congealed blood.
"You see the cause of my problem now don't you? Please don't squirm so much, you are interrupting my speech and that is just plain rude. I haven't interrupted you yet. Those proteins that I so desperately need from your flesh acts as a foreign agent and coats the tissue around each of my veins, making it so that my own blood doesn't boil through my body and kill me. This is simply a case of survival of the strongest, I am stronger then you in the sense that I am not living in the streets, and your case is that you are simply a lower species on the food chain of man, and someone stronger requires you to sacrifice yourself slowly for a better cause."
Backstory (Optional):
"I can see that look in your eye, who am I? How did I wind up down this path? Or are you simply wishing you weren't in that alley? That is rude, don't think that. You were in that alley for a reason, you are allowing me to live, I would treat that as a honor. If you weren't bound up, I would let you bow down to me, it's a very fetching thing to see. I suppose I should tell you my story as we'll be spending a lot of hours and weeks together before I move onto another."
"You've seen that I am not normal, though I wish I was so that I wouldn't have to hide myself down here, and outsource my job to others to bring me flesh like you. I wish that more anything, but that will never be, so in the mean time I am forced to survive by any means necessary. How old do you guess I am? Sixty? Now that is just offensive, I am not that old, you shouldn't have said that. I am in my fifties."
"Where was I born, you ask? I can't recall exactly nor to who I was born too. You saw what happens when my blood mixes with yours, it's not a very pretty sight. Let's just say the doctor that was required to cut me out from my womb wasn't as skilled as he was sober. My form was cut just a tiny itsy bit, but enough to cause my blood to burn through my placenta, and into the lining of my mother's uterus. It was a miracle that drunk even managed to get me out before her uterus melted into a sac of pus, and spread to her blood stream. Yes that is a true story, don't give me that look."
"What did I do after that? My father called me an abomination and wanted nothing of me, can you blame him? Who wants a child with a birth defect like that, and you thought Fetal Alcohol Syndrome was bad. I was put up for adoption, passed around from family to family, no one really wanted me because I was mentally damaged from killing my mother in child birth. Though they never told me what from, who is really going to believe that? I didn't find out till later on. You know what that can do to a young child when it is told that every day? It's really horrible. Enough about that though, I grew up and eventually the proteins in my body began to break down when I was around fourteen and this tragic mutation of mine came to life and I had to learn all about it and how to survive. Okay now don't say that, I didn't just give you proof my birth story was false."
"I was premature by about a month, and those proteins needed to protect my body don't develop till the last week of the third trimester. I was put in one of those vacuum sealed pods that preemies are put in till my body was fully developed. It's entirely plausible. So because of that, it is true. Oh what did I do after that? Oh I just floated around and what not till I figured out the perfect way to survive, which is this exact process. I've been doing it for about twenty years now. Yes I am satisfied with my life, what sort of question is that to ask someone?"
"I would really love to hear your actual voice though, your grunts are very hard to understand. Then why did I do it? Well you wouldn't stop screaming, so I put a tube between your lips and spread my blood around them to fuse them shut. Just remember if you vomit into it, that is what you are getting mixed in with your next meal."
RP Situation (Should involve blood type, length is up to you.):
A hand rises and places itself against a Polaroid photograph that hangs from a grimy yellow string, one long and sharp nail scratches against it.
"This man, I want him. He'll do just fine." A course and discreetly older voice beckons from the owner of the hand.
"You know the drill, creep. Our goods first, then you get your man, provided nothing weird happens up top." A younger but just as strict voice speaks from a few feet of the older man.
"Yes, yes, I know the drill. Don't have to remind me three times, just one moment."
The previous hand traces away from it's presence near the photograph and begins to make it's way towards a bag hanging off the rusted shelf that someone once used for a garage. With a quick drop of the hand, it deposits itself into the bag and begins to dig around inside of it, as if searching or something or perhaps placing something inside it.
"We don't have all day, man." Speaks the younger voice.
"Yes, yes, now a fourth time."
The hand then snap out from the bag and grasp itself around the strap hanging it from the shelf. It then turns to face the younger man, holding out the bag for him. The younger man wastes no time in snatching the bag off the older man and pulling it to himself as his own hand slides into it to count the merchandise.
"I've left you a little present in there too, Bobby." A slight howl of laughter rises from the older man.
"Name's not Bobby, told you this before. Oh what in the hell is this, is this a?"
His hand rises from the bag and holds up a small fleshly looking object as he leans in to peer at it. He'd the recoil and toss it in the general direction of the older man.
"It's a god damn ear, you are fucking creepy. It's all here, let's get out of here guys." Beckons the younger man once more.
A group of three men would then depart from the underground room, holding a sack of something metallic and numerous. A hand of the older man rises again and taps itself against the Polaroid of the dark alley.
"Soon, my friend. I'll have you here with me."
The photograph shows a man laying in a gutter, covered in garbage and cardboard boxes, he'd be dirty and look mongrel.
"Soon."
