Post by Prince Harlan of Menor on Dec 14, 2011 18:54:45 GMT -6
"I'll tear you down, I'll make you bleed eternally.
Can't help myself from hurting you
when it's hurting me."
[/b][/size]AT FIRST GLANCE
you never know what lies beneath.[/right]
Full Name: prince harlan of menor
Alias: astuto
Occupation: being amazing, skankaroos.
Gender: macho man
Age: 19
DELVE A LITTLE DEEPER
but you still only graze the outer skin.
but you still only graze the outer skin.
Skin Tone: Perhaps a bit darker than the rest of his noble kin, Harlan was doubtlessly out in the sun more during his time away from the palace.
Eyes: cerulean
Hair: shit brown
Height: 5'7''
Build: reminiscent of a boxer, Harlan's constitution is somewhat short and stocky with muscle that is streamlined.
Style: The future of Menor is no less sketchy than the aura, and history, of it's upcoming inheritor. The prince carries himself with all the aristocratics and regal narcissism that a royal who had never known the meaning of the words "no" or " inferior" could be tolerated for...and then some. Though apart from particular events and banquets Harlan is usually dressed down from his echelon, something people credit with his time spent away from the throne and another brick on the back of his controversy, never caring much for jewels or satin or prestigious robes. A shirt or jacket made of fine materials and simple trousers are sufficient for him (along with his crown which is consistently a striking oddity). People know who he is. And if not, they are quick to receive the idea.
TAKE A LOOK INTO THE PAST
and you might find something useful.
and you might find something useful.
Father: King Whatever of Menor
Mother: Queen Kathryn of Menor
Other: Three younger
History: As the first born child of the royals of menor, a great responsibility rested on Harlan's shoulders from the time he was conceived. He was nurtured and groomed, unfairly beyond his siblings, to be the very personification of wisdom and leadership. The socialization with nobles, idealism, politics and warfare was an everyday extremity. He sat at his father's right side, was the frontline recipient of all the "talks" and was accompanied by only the best of tutors. And yet, even then, there were those who felt luridly uneasy about their futures.
His parents and caregivers were worried about how long it took for young Harlan to begin talking. Though even after he learned, he didn't say much. Always quiet, always watchful, and always mean. Wooden bird cages, spherical, had hung from the ceiling in his nursery. For long periods of time he would sit on the floor, staring up at them, or attempting to devise a way to reach them on his own. He was three years old when a caregiver brought one down and placed it in his hands. He stared at it for a few moments, enraptured. Then, before she could have even suspected it, he crushed it in his hands with striking ferocity.
He was never the brightest student. In fact...gravel couldn't have been much duller. His father went through four tutors in math and science. And, after so much failure, it became twice as difficult for the teachers because Harlan simply didn't care to learn it. But where he lacked in book smarts, he made up for in another area of intelligence. The child was a tactician, so much so that at 11 years old he was congraduated as the mastermind of a plot that captured of a band of outlaws whom had been a thorn in the side of the monarchy for years.
This gained the attention of the army commander. And when the young prince's birthday wish was to spend three days with him at the training center, he was receptive. As it turns out, the time spent there was much more than three days. The commander became like a father to the ignorant, witty prince over time, finding a degree of endearment in the boy's snarky attitude.
Despite his horrid performance in his studies, and his tendency to be an ass, the boy had been on his way to becoming a decent leader. No one could've foreseen what would happen when he turned 13. A slave girl had been sent to wake him, only to find that he was not there. For years no one had seen no hair nor sign of him - lost without a trace. The kingdom was in a social uproar. People were hanged who shouldn't have been, guards, soldiers and spies prowling through every town. Someone had reported finding a body of a young boy around his age in the wilderness two years after he went missing, but the animals had chewed it up beyond recognition (and they were likely only after the reward). After a while, the search was called off, people satisfied that the dead body had indeed been Prince Harlan, and the mystery of why he'd left or if he'd been abducted went on unsolved. But then, five and a half years later, the prince showed up just as suddenly as he'd disappeared. He claimed he had been kidnapped and taken to a far off land before he escaped. The rest of the time he'd spent trying to get home. But still, he was incredibly secretive about the experience, and passed over opportunities to speak on it. A celebration was to be held in his honor, but the unease about the Pennicle Son was dense and widespread. Something about him seemed...devilish. An ingredient of his presence made one's hair stand on end. But, beyond that, could a boy who had spent so much of his childhood in unregulated hands possibly be fit to be king?
STILL DO NOT JUDGE
for you will never walk their shoes.
for you will never walk their shoes.
Fears: Being hit from behind, water, having his secrets discovered, dying by fire, losing his special sword, not being adequate or taken seriously because of his injury.
Mental Stability: sane, though not everyone would agree.
Strength: His charm, analogical prowess and skills in hand to hand combat.
Weakness: A divided heart, cannot swim, his left leg (he's walked with a limp ever since his return), lack of empathy, ruthlessness, arrogance, knowledge of the studies.
General Persona: A troubling category this is. In part because no one really knows. What is lucid since his return is this: Harlan is condescending and pretentious; it is difficult to tell what is going on between his ears more times than not. It seems his friendliness would be more appropriately labeled as patience, his kindness more the implementing of aristocratic social norms, but who really knows.
But in truth, for the omniscient, Harlan is a very torn individual. He is proud of who he is, has always aspired to be king and to rule justly. But corruption has a way with potency, as bloodlust is an illusive enemy. A bit of his self esteem was shattered when his leg was injured beyond repair while out on his "adventures". He feels inadequate, weak, and paranoid. Since returning, Harlan has had little to do with anyone. Shuts himself in his room, reading out of some titleless book he brought home with him, practicing swordplay, or riding off into the countryside alone. One would think he would be able to realize that this behavior only adds to his controversy. But if he does realize it, it isn't clear. He is usually tolerant of people though has his days where he is snappy and intimidatingly challenging, finding pleasure in battling with words as if to appease some boredom. Harlan could convince you a squirrel was a rabbit if he set his mind to it, even as you watch it scurry up a tree. But unfortunately, as entertaining and possibly advantageous as such an attribute might seem to those ignorant of his situation, it is a flaw.
THE TRUTH SHINES THROUGH
to reveal what is behind the mask.
to reveal what is behind the mask.
Alias: Hazzy
Gender: chickorita
Other Toons: None yet
Where You Found Us: proboards support
Sample:
Black Nikes moved down the sidewalk in an unnatural rhythm. Hands jammed in his coat pockets, shades hiding his bloodshot eyes, head down. The drug dealer had been in France no longer than a year and already he wished for nothing like he did to blow it off the f*cking globe. Set fire to Paris first though, watch all the artsy students and prostitutes run like the worthless heaps of decaying matter that they were. Perhaps killing half of them would be satisfactory; I mean, how many thousands of people could you murder before all the blood and the screaming began to look the same? If so, he'd let what was left of them watch as he set himself on fire. Broadcast it all over the world...especially Chicago, Illinois.
No...scratch that.
Drake frowned, staring at the ground as it passed him by about a foot ahead of his toes. He needed some pussy. And some...stitches. He rolled his shoulder, the bandage tugging at his wound felt oddly nice. His mind tried to venture back to that night but he immediately halted its progression. Drake's depression was deleterious enough as it were. He'd managed to rake those coals out of it's flame quickly enough to keep it from feeding it much. It cost him the skin on his hands...And he certainly wasn't going to allow them to fall back in now. So...pussy....yes....he needed to find him a nice, pampered house cat somewhere nearby. There was a cafe down the street that had served as a honeyhole for him before. Perhaps he'd go fishing.
No sooner did he finish the thought did he nearly find himself face diving into the concrete. He stumbled, catching himself with a palm to the wall. "What the hell is this? A picnic plaza? People walk here, get off the fucking sidewalk with your scrap toaster shit." Or whatever it was the parked cadillac ass was holding while he squatted there on the sidewalk. An old camera? Drake was a bit harsh at times...all the time...But even he wouldn't have snapped so bad over simply bumping into someone (his fault, even), had it not been for his injury. It was cantankerous enough without help. And a spike of pain shot down his spine as a result of the collision. Had he actually fallen down he would've been tempted to reach for his 45.[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote][/size]
