Post by ozface on Dec 5, 2009 11:13:31 GMT -6
name.
Abrafo.
age.
immortal.
gender.
male.
race.
God of Death.
alliance.
Dark.
appearance.
Abrafo, like most of the gods, prefers his crow form above his human’s in most instances. His crow form in faster, heavier, more adept at fighting, and easier to manage than his human one. However, human eyes rarely grace this form, and can really only be described as a large crow, jet black, with a beak that is bright gold save for the tribal-esque patterns in silver wrapping around it, shimmering with an erethral quality. His human form, however, is slightly more interesting to the humans who with to read about him. Often, he is depicted in heavy black robes, faceless. This is only because many humans do not often meet the god and know that he is what he is, unlike some of his other siblings, and they don’t really know what to put down for his legendary appearance.
In reality, however, Abrafo’s human form is as real as can be, and he does not mind it for when he is forced to wander among the earthlings. He stands at a fairly tall six foot and two inches, mostly because looming over people is far more convenient than looking up at them and looking commanding. His skin is nearly ivory in color, an unhealthy looking alabaster than nearly glows against his black hair. His hair is on the other side of the extremes, as dark as it gets without being a hole in space. It hangs fairly long, sometimes lank and greasy if he’s been wandering the streets long enough for it to get disgusting. His eyes are electric blue, unnerving, like they’re trying to bore holes into your soul. His beaky nose and thin lips are no surprise, considering he does spend most of his time as a bird. His heavy square jaw is always cleanshaven, one of the few things he bothers keeping up with. His clothes often seem a little ragged, worn underneath the grandeur of the cut and cloth. He rarely blinks and moves less than that, and often perches like a gargoyle on top of buildings to watch more often than thought. His veins are sparse and not visible, something people only notice when he pulls off the gloves or rolls up his sleeves.
personality.
You know how gods tend to personify the things that they control? How it’s kind of a rule?
That would explain why Abrafo is such a cold-blooded, heartless, emotionless bastard, wouldn’t it?
Every other god has something that makes them tick. Something that they can get worked up into a passion about, something that gives them personality and animation. Amour has love, Paix has peace, Lei has war, and the things that they govern work then into a passion, and the contradiction of those things. However, death is in its definition a complete loss of animation – things tend not to leap about and shout and have fun and get mad when dead. It’s common knowledge. It is not a contradiction or agreement to anything, is it not a blessing or a curse. It is a complete absence of anything, including reason or rhyme, explanation, or selectivity. If picks off everything and everybody. It has no heart, soul, or passion to it. It is the world’s most lamented truth and at the same time the most irreversible. It’s why it is so feared universally. But where does that leave Abrafo?
Exactly.
Abrafo is truly about as soulless as a living being with a brain gets. A piece of evidence for this is his utter lack of any sort of rise in him, whether it be happy or sad. Abrafo feels things, sure. He is often amused by the quarrels of his siblings or annoyed by the stupidity of the humans he deals with. He knows emotion. He is friends with it. Its just that when he does feel, often rare, it’s a minute twinge, simply another card added to his hand in situations with more affected humans. Abrafo doesn’t get worked up over anything. Ever. Hell, that man could win the lottery or get his foot caught in a paper shredder and noting would happen but him let the lightest of grins flicker across his face or a furrowed brow, and it’s not just acting.
Because Abrafo is never really in a passion, he doesn’t really hate anybody. Sure, he doesn’t really like anybody either, but he’s not so inclined as, say, Lei to go off on you, because, as mentioned before, he doesn’t get mad. His moderate, quiet, old -fashioned way of speaking is one of the easiest ways to tell what he thinks of you. The softer he gets, the more contractions he uses, the more he’s relaxed around you. Mildly fond. When he reverts to a very nineteenth century dialect, begins spitting his constanants, gets that silver edge in his voice, you know you’ve annoyed him. It’s a fine line to cross, so be safe and just don’t do it.
Abrafo, because he prefers his crow form most of the time when wandering the earth, is pretty unnerving company, because he never really learned how to fake human fidgeting or blinking. Breathing, yeah, but that’s only because his sense of smell is one of his favorites, one he has to inhale for. He has a tendency to look too long or stare too hard and freak people out, which often leads to questions which leads to answers which leads to bribes. His statue impression is pretty creepy, too – if you ever the rising and falling of his chest, you night think that he was some masterwork of Lucifer.
Abrafo view his job much more lightly than the other gods and humans do. Humans either romanticize it or call him evil, terrible, the man to fear, if they’re not but getting themselves into messes. Gods ignore him, mostly, because he’s a bit of a creeper in the back. He meddles with plans. If they didn’t have to regain a chokehold every few year, they’re jobs would be a hell of a lot easier. He hates them. That’s why he’s done it! He simply views it as his job, his assignment e has to complete. As a result, Abrafo talks about mortality and such freely and almost lightly, another thing that kind of freaks people out.
Now, just because he doesn’t fuck about with mortal affairs as a mortal, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t treat humans like marionettes tied to his fingers from his perch as a god. Like Lei, Abrafo is quite fond of his little fuckery games, and that often means using humans as puppets to prove a point and playing them like a piano. Abrafo doesn’t mind having a little fun in the workplace, after all. So yes you can blame him for a few of the nastier rebellions or deaths in the past, but he says even without his interference, the souls would end in his hands anyway. What’s a little death and destruction in the process?
Just because Abrafo is the lord of Death, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like living things. Abrafo has friends and enemies on the ground just as the other gods do. He is actually fond of their love, their passions, their faults, their will to live life to the fullest before life fully lives them. He is jealous of the ability to always have a true purpose in life, that they have life. As results, Abrafo sometimes gets too fond of the human buddies he has. He likes the physical aspect of figuring that out, too – veins and blood and heartbeats fascinate him, and he could watch them all day – so yeah, be weirded out when he grabs your hand and starts staring at your wrists, but don’t be scared, he’s not going to slit them – all he wants to do is watch.
abilities and disabilities.
+ SHAPESHIFTING. Abrafo can switch from his crow from to his human from at will, and it causes no detriment to his health. However, he is limited to those two forms, and he cannot change his physical appearance in either.
+ NECROMANCY. Obviously, as God of Death, he does have the power to reunite the soul with the body. It does, however, exhaust him, and as he does not believe that souls should be ripped from his realm, rarely uses it.
+ COLLECTION OF SOULS. If Abrafo wills it, he can separate the soul from the body. However, it is quite difficult for him to take a soul before their time, and he avoids it, because it does weaken him.
+ HEALING. Abrafo, does, occasionally, fly off the handle and hurt somebody he does not wish to harm. He can mend wounds with touch. While it has no adverse effects on him, he’s poor at healing up after the scars, so you may end up with some nice slashes across the face.
ozzie.
Ice.
Ice was coating everything, the world. It’s harsh glare and tempest-tossed glint, the one that reminds me of the glare that gets in a desperate human’s eyes, the one they get when they’re hungry and they’re tired and they need satisfaction, that of the homeless and the poor. It’s a glint I know well. They all lose it in the end, though. But they fight. It’s that glint that makes them fight, fight back, last longer than I ever expected them to. Of course, the other side to that is recklessness, irresponsibility, a lack of reasoning. That’s youth. But the old ones that’ve still got that fight, that’s rare. I admire it. I admire them.
But the ones that’ve given up, there’s no pleasure to be taken in that. There’s no pleasure in collecting that soul. You touch them and I see only despair, only darkness, only sadness. Will to die is nothing to be proud of. That’s copping out, taking the easiest way to the abyss, and suicides are shit. Why do you think I’ve left so many of them alive? Whiny little teenagers do not know pain. They don’t know how cruel and dark the world can get and they go and try to coax me there anyway. Not happening, pretties. See you in forty years.
I wrap my hands around the banister of the castle, watching the human muscles play under the skin and said organ near adhere itself to the cold, sticking to the freezing iron. The human body is a fascinating thing. So many weaknesses, so many different ways you can break it, and still they dominate. Not without the help of us, of course, but still. I’m amazed at how well they’ve done – we know that they were not completed for such domination, ever. It’s the truth – we didn’t expect the hominids to last long at all.
I stare up at the detailed, delicate city of the Fonce castle’s roof, studying the shadow’s images.
Look at them now.
So innovative. So easily manipulated. I love them. Highly suggestible creatures, a human is. More than once I’ve reeled them close with only a few charming words. Amour adores them, of course. I think that is only because of the lovemaking involved, the heat and the passion that he can stir up, but it is still amusing to watch the chaos. Chaos, Eris, only means more souls. And I am fond of the idea of more souls.
The heels of these battered boots, appearing almost new from afar, click loudly as I walk across the stone halls of the castle, cutting through the silence I so painstakingly created. Shame I can’t always keep everything quiet. It’s nice when my peace is not ripped to shreds by worthless spoken words. Things can just as easily be written, be whispered. Os made a mistake by refining the vocal cords. Humans only waste them.
A mess is what they are. A lovely mess.
I wrap my hands tightly around the handles of the doors, shoving them open with a careful employment of effort.
“You asked for my presence, King?”
Perhaps I should have selected more regal clothing than the burlap I am wearing now.
Fickle things they are too, humans.
Abrafo.
age.
immortal.
gender.
male.
race.
God of Death.
alliance.
Dark.
appearance.
Abrafo, like most of the gods, prefers his crow form above his human’s in most instances. His crow form in faster, heavier, more adept at fighting, and easier to manage than his human one. However, human eyes rarely grace this form, and can really only be described as a large crow, jet black, with a beak that is bright gold save for the tribal-esque patterns in silver wrapping around it, shimmering with an erethral quality. His human form, however, is slightly more interesting to the humans who with to read about him. Often, he is depicted in heavy black robes, faceless. This is only because many humans do not often meet the god and know that he is what he is, unlike some of his other siblings, and they don’t really know what to put down for his legendary appearance.
In reality, however, Abrafo’s human form is as real as can be, and he does not mind it for when he is forced to wander among the earthlings. He stands at a fairly tall six foot and two inches, mostly because looming over people is far more convenient than looking up at them and looking commanding. His skin is nearly ivory in color, an unhealthy looking alabaster than nearly glows against his black hair. His hair is on the other side of the extremes, as dark as it gets without being a hole in space. It hangs fairly long, sometimes lank and greasy if he’s been wandering the streets long enough for it to get disgusting. His eyes are electric blue, unnerving, like they’re trying to bore holes into your soul. His beaky nose and thin lips are no surprise, considering he does spend most of his time as a bird. His heavy square jaw is always cleanshaven, one of the few things he bothers keeping up with. His clothes often seem a little ragged, worn underneath the grandeur of the cut and cloth. He rarely blinks and moves less than that, and often perches like a gargoyle on top of buildings to watch more often than thought. His veins are sparse and not visible, something people only notice when he pulls off the gloves or rolls up his sleeves.
personality.
You know how gods tend to personify the things that they control? How it’s kind of a rule?
That would explain why Abrafo is such a cold-blooded, heartless, emotionless bastard, wouldn’t it?
Every other god has something that makes them tick. Something that they can get worked up into a passion about, something that gives them personality and animation. Amour has love, Paix has peace, Lei has war, and the things that they govern work then into a passion, and the contradiction of those things. However, death is in its definition a complete loss of animation – things tend not to leap about and shout and have fun and get mad when dead. It’s common knowledge. It is not a contradiction or agreement to anything, is it not a blessing or a curse. It is a complete absence of anything, including reason or rhyme, explanation, or selectivity. If picks off everything and everybody. It has no heart, soul, or passion to it. It is the world’s most lamented truth and at the same time the most irreversible. It’s why it is so feared universally. But where does that leave Abrafo?
Exactly.
Abrafo is truly about as soulless as a living being with a brain gets. A piece of evidence for this is his utter lack of any sort of rise in him, whether it be happy or sad. Abrafo feels things, sure. He is often amused by the quarrels of his siblings or annoyed by the stupidity of the humans he deals with. He knows emotion. He is friends with it. Its just that when he does feel, often rare, it’s a minute twinge, simply another card added to his hand in situations with more affected humans. Abrafo doesn’t get worked up over anything. Ever. Hell, that man could win the lottery or get his foot caught in a paper shredder and noting would happen but him let the lightest of grins flicker across his face or a furrowed brow, and it’s not just acting.
Because Abrafo is never really in a passion, he doesn’t really hate anybody. Sure, he doesn’t really like anybody either, but he’s not so inclined as, say, Lei to go off on you, because, as mentioned before, he doesn’t get mad. His moderate, quiet, old -fashioned way of speaking is one of the easiest ways to tell what he thinks of you. The softer he gets, the more contractions he uses, the more he’s relaxed around you. Mildly fond. When he reverts to a very nineteenth century dialect, begins spitting his constanants, gets that silver edge in his voice, you know you’ve annoyed him. It’s a fine line to cross, so be safe and just don’t do it.
Abrafo, because he prefers his crow form most of the time when wandering the earth, is pretty unnerving company, because he never really learned how to fake human fidgeting or blinking. Breathing, yeah, but that’s only because his sense of smell is one of his favorites, one he has to inhale for. He has a tendency to look too long or stare too hard and freak people out, which often leads to questions which leads to answers which leads to bribes. His statue impression is pretty creepy, too – if you ever the rising and falling of his chest, you night think that he was some masterwork of Lucifer.
Abrafo view his job much more lightly than the other gods and humans do. Humans either romanticize it or call him evil, terrible, the man to fear, if they’re not but getting themselves into messes. Gods ignore him, mostly, because he’s a bit of a creeper in the back. He meddles with plans. If they didn’t have to regain a chokehold every few year, they’re jobs would be a hell of a lot easier. He hates them. That’s why he’s done it! He simply views it as his job, his assignment e has to complete. As a result, Abrafo talks about mortality and such freely and almost lightly, another thing that kind of freaks people out.
Now, just because he doesn’t fuck about with mortal affairs as a mortal, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t treat humans like marionettes tied to his fingers from his perch as a god. Like Lei, Abrafo is quite fond of his little fuckery games, and that often means using humans as puppets to prove a point and playing them like a piano. Abrafo doesn’t mind having a little fun in the workplace, after all. So yes you can blame him for a few of the nastier rebellions or deaths in the past, but he says even without his interference, the souls would end in his hands anyway. What’s a little death and destruction in the process?
Just because Abrafo is the lord of Death, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like living things. Abrafo has friends and enemies on the ground just as the other gods do. He is actually fond of their love, their passions, their faults, their will to live life to the fullest before life fully lives them. He is jealous of the ability to always have a true purpose in life, that they have life. As results, Abrafo sometimes gets too fond of the human buddies he has. He likes the physical aspect of figuring that out, too – veins and blood and heartbeats fascinate him, and he could watch them all day – so yeah, be weirded out when he grabs your hand and starts staring at your wrists, but don’t be scared, he’s not going to slit them – all he wants to do is watch.
abilities and disabilities.
+ SHAPESHIFTING. Abrafo can switch from his crow from to his human from at will, and it causes no detriment to his health. However, he is limited to those two forms, and he cannot change his physical appearance in either.
+ NECROMANCY. Obviously, as God of Death, he does have the power to reunite the soul with the body. It does, however, exhaust him, and as he does not believe that souls should be ripped from his realm, rarely uses it.
+ COLLECTION OF SOULS. If Abrafo wills it, he can separate the soul from the body. However, it is quite difficult for him to take a soul before their time, and he avoids it, because it does weaken him.
+ HEALING. Abrafo, does, occasionally, fly off the handle and hurt somebody he does not wish to harm. He can mend wounds with touch. While it has no adverse effects on him, he’s poor at healing up after the scars, so you may end up with some nice slashes across the face.
ozzie.
Ice.
Ice was coating everything, the world. It’s harsh glare and tempest-tossed glint, the one that reminds me of the glare that gets in a desperate human’s eyes, the one they get when they’re hungry and they’re tired and they need satisfaction, that of the homeless and the poor. It’s a glint I know well. They all lose it in the end, though. But they fight. It’s that glint that makes them fight, fight back, last longer than I ever expected them to. Of course, the other side to that is recklessness, irresponsibility, a lack of reasoning. That’s youth. But the old ones that’ve still got that fight, that’s rare. I admire it. I admire them.
But the ones that’ve given up, there’s no pleasure to be taken in that. There’s no pleasure in collecting that soul. You touch them and I see only despair, only darkness, only sadness. Will to die is nothing to be proud of. That’s copping out, taking the easiest way to the abyss, and suicides are shit. Why do you think I’ve left so many of them alive? Whiny little teenagers do not know pain. They don’t know how cruel and dark the world can get and they go and try to coax me there anyway. Not happening, pretties. See you in forty years.
I wrap my hands around the banister of the castle, watching the human muscles play under the skin and said organ near adhere itself to the cold, sticking to the freezing iron. The human body is a fascinating thing. So many weaknesses, so many different ways you can break it, and still they dominate. Not without the help of us, of course, but still. I’m amazed at how well they’ve done – we know that they were not completed for such domination, ever. It’s the truth – we didn’t expect the hominids to last long at all.
I stare up at the detailed, delicate city of the Fonce castle’s roof, studying the shadow’s images.
Look at them now.
So innovative. So easily manipulated. I love them. Highly suggestible creatures, a human is. More than once I’ve reeled them close with only a few charming words. Amour adores them, of course. I think that is only because of the lovemaking involved, the heat and the passion that he can stir up, but it is still amusing to watch the chaos. Chaos, Eris, only means more souls. And I am fond of the idea of more souls.
The heels of these battered boots, appearing almost new from afar, click loudly as I walk across the stone halls of the castle, cutting through the silence I so painstakingly created. Shame I can’t always keep everything quiet. It’s nice when my peace is not ripped to shreds by worthless spoken words. Things can just as easily be written, be whispered. Os made a mistake by refining the vocal cords. Humans only waste them.
A mess is what they are. A lovely mess.
I wrap my hands tightly around the handles of the doors, shoving them open with a careful employment of effort.
“You asked for my presence, King?”
Perhaps I should have selected more regal clothing than the burlap I am wearing now.
Fickle things they are too, humans.