Post by LiLi on May 30, 2008 12:43:52 GMT -5
** Not sure if this is in the right place. AND! I think I may need to edit his history.
R e a lname: Tristan Carey Gardner
N I c k n a m e: Tristy
A g e: Seventeen yearsyoung
B i r t h d a y: August Twenty-fourth[/size]
Appearance
Height : 5'8"
Weight: 128lbs.
Hair: His hair is an all over mess, layer upon layers of cropped hair; added onto the pile of disaster color. His hair is three shades, all of which clash and contrast, oddly enough, quite nicely. Blond takes the biggest portion of his head, stretch from the left side of his head to the right where Black comes into play; layered under the blond, the black pokes through. Nearing the bottom of his hair, a generous chunk of hair has been dyed a deep shade of hot pink.
Eye Color: Chocolate brown.
Eyes: Chocolate brown.
Skin Tone: He is fair skinned, with a healthy glow that emits from his body; especially when he smiles.
Body Details: Truly never growing out of his signature "baby-face", Aidan has a near flawless complexion despite the certain pallor of his skin. He has a natural, healthy glow about him that only magnifies his soft, childish features-but, when given the right circumstances, or when he chooses to smile, that youthful glow can shift to something more; alluring, giving way to the fact that he is not a young boy, but a young man of nineteen. His eyes are probably the one thing Aidan likes most about himself, and that is saying a lot. The color changes from time to time, depending on what color he decides to wear or whether he is in deep thought or not, but for the most part they stay a dull shade of chocolate brown. Subtle hues of honey are mingled within the liquidness of his eyes, and are more pronounced whenever he is in deep concentration.
His hair is his like his iPod, in a way his child. While he may have the best selection of clothes, he does not spend every ounce of his time on his outward appearance, ignoring the fact that two hours in the morning on clothes alone is less than normal, Aidan actually takes time with his hair and attempts to perfect the mess-most times succeeding. He appears to have a constant case of unruly bed-head, but at the same time, with a little love, attention and care, Aidan has made it look purposeful-even though most of the time it is not, and he quite literally just rolls out of whatever bed he happens to fall asleep in. The color of his hair only adds to the softness of his skin, a dark halo surrounding the porcelain skin of his face. The deep shades within his hair varies, especially under different lights-at times his hair can appear to be a deep chocolate, like his eyes, but under the right light the true color seeps through-an exquisite shade of ebony. Or, it used to. Currently his hair is a perfected disaster, consisting of three shades; black, blond and a deep shade of hot pink. His ebony hair has been taken over by threads of blond, which spill over the most part of his head. The hot pink has stolen a chunk of his black hues, tipping the edge of his layered hair and giving Aidan the edge that makes him, him and at the same time a Scene Clone.
Height with Aidan is an issue. He stands at a wonderful measure of 5'8", but he wishes he were shorter; and although he does not know exactly what his weight is he knows he is not too bulky and can't weigh that much all together. His medium build is slim and meant for acute speed and concentrated silence, a dangerous mixture, or it would be if he fought. Not an inch of muscle ripples along his body, which can leave him rather defenseless and an easy target. He is rather soft and pudgy, as he likes to say, and is comfortable where his body is at-although a little muscle wouldn't hurt. Aidan would work out, but he fears too much muscle. He is a little shocked on how he has kept his "figure", seeing as he eats nearly everything he can get his hands on. Then again, it isn't very often that his eyes spot food-having more important things to do other than stuffing his face. He has no piercings, other than his adored snake-bites and tongue piercing.
Picture:
Personality
Background:
It struck him when he was just a small thing, no older than four. It usually occurred around bedtime, ten minutes after his parents wished him sweet dreams and snuck out of his bedroom. His parents passed it off as just another common "Boogy Man" that their son was seeing, just another nightmare; nothing was wrong, and of that they convinced themselves. After all, they had checked the closet many times and they saw no man. It would get better as he got older they told themselves. But, the situation did not improve. The man in the closet, who Tristan later dubbed Brother, became an every day occurrence. By his sixth birthday Tristan was no longer afraid of Brother, instead befriending the man in his closet and having full on conversations with him. After a time he even encouraged Brother to leave the safety of the closet to meet his parents. His parents amused him, pretending to meet the much talked about Brother. After all, don't all six year olds have imaginary friends? Eight year olds, however, do not have imaginary friends.
Tristan did not understand the worried looks which passed over his parents face whenever they asked him how school was. School was great, whenever Brother went. Why, they asked. Because without Brother he had no friends. The other kids were mean, nasty really, and threw things at him. Some even pointed and laughed whenever he brought Brother with him. Maybe they thought Brother looked funny? Brother did seem out of place in the classroom, tall, gangly with a tattered hat and ripped coat; even the holes within the man's gloves had holes! Again, the worried looks would rise to his parents faces whenever he would explain or try to make sense of his foolish classmates; in his eyes they knew nothing. He had learned to look passed the grimy clothes and focus more on the person who Brother was; why couldn't they do the same? His parents sat him down after school one day and asked where Brother was. Tristan was confused. Brother was sitting right next to him. His mother looked at his father before his father spoke. They told him lies, that Brother was not real and did not exist. Could they not see him? Brother was directly in front of them! But, apparently, they did not. They kept repeating themselves, as if he were dumb and did not understand the words they spoke. Brother was not real. Brother did not exist. Brother was imaginary. He fought it, arguing that Brother was real. That brother did exist and that Brother was not imaginary. How could he be? He spoke. He laughed and he comforted Tristan during the night whenever he woke from a nightmare. How could that all just be in his head?
He was not to go to school the next day. His parents brought him to a man with glasses. He was a nice man, but he asked many questions and scribbled with his chubby hand on a pad of paper. His lips never smiled. Tristan asked Brother about it while the man talked to his parents next, but Brother did not know either. It was all very confusing; especially when his parents emerged. His mother was crying and his father would not speak. They took him home and in the following days he was given pills. He was to take them every morning at the same time. Tristan did as he was told, even though the pills made him feel funny. Within a day Brother was gone. He did not understand it, Brother just left. He couldn't find him anywhere. Tristan was devastated, his best friend, only friend, left without saying good bye. He no longer saw Brother, no longer talked to himself and his parents seemed happier without Brother. Things, in his parents eyes, were better. They could look passed the severe anxiety attacks. They could turn their heads to the mood swings and depression eating away at their son. After all, he was a teenager and where there is a teenager there is drama. It was normal, so long as he was not talking to something that was not there.
But, along with the typical teenager travels that certain rebellious and 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. Tristan, during one of his many depression bouts, flushed his pills. His father, over the years becoming more aggressive and hate-filled toward his son, locked Tristan within his room once he discovered what his son had done. His mother merely went through her days as if nothing was wrong; she even acted as if Tristan did not exist, choosing to ignore her sons pleading cries and pounding fists as he beat against his door. Seven days he suffered within his room. He was given no food. But he was not alone. Brother, after so many years, returned to him. Accompanying Brother was a woman. A kind woman who smelled so sweet and whose touch seemed to almost melt Tristan. When she held him, whispering it would all be okay, it truly seemed like everything would be as so. She called herself Mother, and took to singing to him as he cried in the corner of his room.
But, during this time of isolation his fragile mind broke. Overcome with despair, despite Mother's trying, Tristan retreated into himself and what seemed like Hell unleashed within his house. For Tristan it felt as though he simply fell asleep and had the sweetest of any dream he ever had; although he could not exactly remember what took place during his slumber. When he woke his door was ajar. Brother was gone, but Mother assured Tristan that Brother merely got tired of sitting in the room and left to stretch his legs. Mother, with her sweet smile, took Tristan and led him from the room. They found Brother standing within the kitchen, the bottom hem of his long tattered coat covered in blood; a dark pool which could be only one thing lay at his feet. Brother held a knife, which was also stained with what could only be blood, and Tristan knew, without looking at the body he knew lay on the floor, that Brother had killed his parents. He did not understand it, they could never see Brother, but in the end he ended up killing them?
Personality: Despite his age of nearly eighteen, Tristan is still very much a child. On his own, or surrounded by people he does not know all too well, Tristan will cling tight to the things that make him feel comfortable; be it his stuffed teddy Mr. Boo or talking to Mother or Brother, whom he now realizes that most people cannot see. He does not care much that people stare at him, if he talks to Brother or Mother while in the presence of others, because as long as he knows they are truly there all is well within the world of Tristan. The boy pouts, truly he does. When things do not go his way, which he often likes them too, then he will do as most young children do and cross his arms with a wobbling lower lip.
Tristan is a silent one, for the most part. He does not enjoying speaking with others, for the most part, but he does not enjoy being alone; even though when he is, he isn't really. The presence of other people calms him and distracts him from his thoughts, which tend to slip into the morbid section of depression. Too many people, however, will result in an over anxious Tristan who can, and will, have a severe panic attack which could lead to even worse things; like setting loose on the world Brother. Like those who usually have fragile state of mind, Tristan is acutely paranoid about most things; some common, some not so common. Fears terrorize him and due to this he hardly ever sleeps; he is also prone to nightmares, although Mother, for the most part, makes that all better.
Sarcasm and jokes are one of the mysteries that Tristan can not seem to figure out. He is more of the serious type, and in a way not fully. He has his own idea of funny, though most would frown upon his idea, or Brother's, with a frown. He finds pleasure and humor within the pain of others, and due to this most often he will listen to what Brother has to say and go along with one of his brilliant and genius plans to do something "fun". Trouble, then, is naturally drawn to Tristan; or Tristan to trouble. Either way, usually, the outcome is not a good one; for whoever gets to experience the "fun" with Tristan. Though he truly is not one for anger. Tristan doesn't quite understand anger or wrath, so instead of reacting with passion Tristan acts upon impulse; the rush of the moment.
This being said, Tristan, aside from Mother, Brother and Mr. Boo, does not have many connections to people. He has never truly had an attachment to living creatures like most people would. True, he would probably die if he were left alone, again, for more than an hour, without the presence of another living being, but he does not exactly feel for people; in that way. People live. People die. So long as he has someone around him, Tristan does not care. For a lack of better words, Tristan is uncaring. He does not know what it is to love or to even hate. Apart from fear and the suffocating feeling of depression and loneliness that sometimes grips him, the boy is without feeling.
TheFamily Hallucinations:
Mother: A kind woman with the softest of voices. She often appears when Tristan feels down, alone and stepped all over. She is his comfort, the thing all children find within a mother. Generally she creates a calm Tristan. A Tristan who is not so afraid of the world, who is bold and feels safe within the presence of others and who isn't afraid to smile now and then. The show of Mother, however, isn't very often.
Brother: A quiet man, really. He only speaks when it is worth speaking, and can appear to be good natured. But, truly, he is a reflection of Tristan's anger and fury; ruthless and cold blooded when triggered, Brother is the very definition of a murderer. He has a sort of blood-lust, and often attempts to persuade Tristan to do "fun" things; which Tristan knows isn't so fun, but bad. Sometimes, however, he cannot help himself because although some of the ideas are bad, truly awful, Tristan can't help but find small pleasure, and amusement, within them.
Tristan will also, at times, take on the personality of Brother or Mother; in a way, they take over him. During this time, Tristan will, mentally, disappear and he will remember nothing about what happened during the time of Mother or Brother "taking over". Parts of his memory are gaping black holes.
Likes~
o Androgyny
o Teddy bears
o Eyes
o[/color] Soft voices
o[/color] Lolly pops
o[/color] Dancing
o[/color] Music
Dislikes~
o[/color] Art
o[/color] Reading
o[/color] Mean people
o[/color] Loud voices
Other~
o[/color] He sleeps with a bear he has named Mr. Boo.
o[/color] The thought of sex befuddles him.
o[/color] He is often confused about many things.
o[/color] Jokes and sarcasm don't register within his head.
o[/color] The things most people would find disturbing, twisted and morally wrong he finds funny.
Habits: Tristan has a habit of giggling when he is nervous, even when things are not in the least bit funny.
[/size]Other Details[/color][/u]
Sample Rp:[/color] The music filled the air around him, calling him and drawing him farther from the world surrounding him. With his fingers flying over the white and black keys, playing with acute precision and grace, nothing existed. The room, the world itself, ceased to exist as it whirled out of his reach and vanished into itself. The music pouring from his fingers and piano combined was the only thing that could do that to him-pull him in and capture him to the point of forgetting just exactly where he was, or even what his name was. Breathing became something like a chore, it hurt when he didn't and he was annoyed over the fact that he actually forgot how and when to breath at some points. And yet that satisfied him, having something take his breath away or enrapture him to the point of nearly killing him.
Edward let slip a small sigh as the music calmed from it's grand climax, the notes slowly fading away to a quiet hum that buzzed within the air even after his fingers ceased to play. The sweet melody still seemed to play, haunting the quiet room as he unwillingly fell back into the waking world of reality. He shivered, his fingers itching to play the notes he still heard so clearly within his mind. But he resisted. How long had he been at it now? His brown eyes darted about the room and he winced, quickly averting his gaze from the clock. Six hours? No, that couldn't be right. But, then again, it could.
Another sigh escaped his lips as he shifted upon the stiff bench, casting his gaze out the foggy window streaked with gathered wetness. The gray clouds shouted more rain, the main reason why he had decided to spend the portion of his time within the music room with his beloved. His fingers tapped absently at the white keys as he stared out the window, feeling that odd and almost suffocating feeling that sometimes overwhelmed him. What it was he couldn't say. Loneliness? He bit at his lower lip, his lips growing more pouty as he shook his head-musing his unruly hair further.
Lonely? The thought made him almost laugh. And yet the feeling stayed; toying with him, almost. No. He was not lonely. Tired, perhaps, but not lonely. Edward let out a muffled whimper as he tore his eyes from the window and clouds, blocking the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain against the glass. Music. That was what he needed. The feeling that came with playing, the feeling of power and absolute control, was enchanting-not out of the norm, but still mesmerizing all the same. The ability to create something beautiful and moving, being able to change the pitch or direction at any given point was overwhelming.
The thought of once more making music with his beloved filled him, blinding him almost to the ill feeling inside-but his mind was against him. What did he have left to play? He was not feeling at all inspired to create, and playing pieces over and over again bored him. A small whimper worked it's way out of throat as he tapped the keys, willing something, anything, to pop into his head and drive away the insanity that threatened to take him.
Where You Got This Site/Who told you about this site:[/color] Warriors; The Four Clans
Requests:[/color] None…?
Application
R e a lname: Tristan Carey Gardner
N I c k n a m e: Tristy
A g e: Seventeen yearsyoung
B i r t h d a y: August Twenty-fourth[/size]
Appearance
Height : 5'8"
Weight: 128lbs.
Hair: His hair is an all over mess, layer upon layers of cropped hair; added onto the pile of disaster color. His hair is three shades, all of which clash and contrast, oddly enough, quite nicely. Blond takes the biggest portion of his head, stretch from the left side of his head to the right where Black comes into play; layered under the blond, the black pokes through. Nearing the bottom of his hair, a generous chunk of hair has been dyed a deep shade of hot pink.
Eye Color: Chocolate brown.
Eyes: Chocolate brown.
Skin Tone: He is fair skinned, with a healthy glow that emits from his body; especially when he smiles.
Body Details: Truly never growing out of his signature "baby-face", Aidan has a near flawless complexion despite the certain pallor of his skin. He has a natural, healthy glow about him that only magnifies his soft, childish features-but, when given the right circumstances, or when he chooses to smile, that youthful glow can shift to something more; alluring, giving way to the fact that he is not a young boy, but a young man of nineteen. His eyes are probably the one thing Aidan likes most about himself, and that is saying a lot. The color changes from time to time, depending on what color he decides to wear or whether he is in deep thought or not, but for the most part they stay a dull shade of chocolate brown. Subtle hues of honey are mingled within the liquidness of his eyes, and are more pronounced whenever he is in deep concentration.
His hair is his like his iPod, in a way his child. While he may have the best selection of clothes, he does not spend every ounce of his time on his outward appearance, ignoring the fact that two hours in the morning on clothes alone is less than normal, Aidan actually takes time with his hair and attempts to perfect the mess-most times succeeding. He appears to have a constant case of unruly bed-head, but at the same time, with a little love, attention and care, Aidan has made it look purposeful-even though most of the time it is not, and he quite literally just rolls out of whatever bed he happens to fall asleep in. The color of his hair only adds to the softness of his skin, a dark halo surrounding the porcelain skin of his face. The deep shades within his hair varies, especially under different lights-at times his hair can appear to be a deep chocolate, like his eyes, but under the right light the true color seeps through-an exquisite shade of ebony. Or, it used to. Currently his hair is a perfected disaster, consisting of three shades; black, blond and a deep shade of hot pink. His ebony hair has been taken over by threads of blond, which spill over the most part of his head. The hot pink has stolen a chunk of his black hues, tipping the edge of his layered hair and giving Aidan the edge that makes him, him and at the same time a Scene Clone.
Height with Aidan is an issue. He stands at a wonderful measure of 5'8", but he wishes he were shorter; and although he does not know exactly what his weight is he knows he is not too bulky and can't weigh that much all together. His medium build is slim and meant for acute speed and concentrated silence, a dangerous mixture, or it would be if he fought. Not an inch of muscle ripples along his body, which can leave him rather defenseless and an easy target. He is rather soft and pudgy, as he likes to say, and is comfortable where his body is at-although a little muscle wouldn't hurt. Aidan would work out, but he fears too much muscle. He is a little shocked on how he has kept his "figure", seeing as he eats nearly everything he can get his hands on. Then again, it isn't very often that his eyes spot food-having more important things to do other than stuffing his face. He has no piercings, other than his adored snake-bites and tongue piercing.
Picture:
Personality
Background:
It struck him when he was just a small thing, no older than four. It usually occurred around bedtime, ten minutes after his parents wished him sweet dreams and snuck out of his bedroom. His parents passed it off as just another common "Boogy Man" that their son was seeing, just another nightmare; nothing was wrong, and of that they convinced themselves. After all, they had checked the closet many times and they saw no man. It would get better as he got older they told themselves. But, the situation did not improve. The man in the closet, who Tristan later dubbed Brother, became an every day occurrence. By his sixth birthday Tristan was no longer afraid of Brother, instead befriending the man in his closet and having full on conversations with him. After a time he even encouraged Brother to leave the safety of the closet to meet his parents. His parents amused him, pretending to meet the much talked about Brother. After all, don't all six year olds have imaginary friends? Eight year olds, however, do not have imaginary friends.
Tristan did not understand the worried looks which passed over his parents face whenever they asked him how school was. School was great, whenever Brother went. Why, they asked. Because without Brother he had no friends. The other kids were mean, nasty really, and threw things at him. Some even pointed and laughed whenever he brought Brother with him. Maybe they thought Brother looked funny? Brother did seem out of place in the classroom, tall, gangly with a tattered hat and ripped coat; even the holes within the man's gloves had holes! Again, the worried looks would rise to his parents faces whenever he would explain or try to make sense of his foolish classmates; in his eyes they knew nothing. He had learned to look passed the grimy clothes and focus more on the person who Brother was; why couldn't they do the same? His parents sat him down after school one day and asked where Brother was. Tristan was confused. Brother was sitting right next to him. His mother looked at his father before his father spoke. They told him lies, that Brother was not real and did not exist. Could they not see him? Brother was directly in front of them! But, apparently, they did not. They kept repeating themselves, as if he were dumb and did not understand the words they spoke. Brother was not real. Brother did not exist. Brother was imaginary. He fought it, arguing that Brother was real. That brother did exist and that Brother was not imaginary. How could he be? He spoke. He laughed and he comforted Tristan during the night whenever he woke from a nightmare. How could that all just be in his head?
He was not to go to school the next day. His parents brought him to a man with glasses. He was a nice man, but he asked many questions and scribbled with his chubby hand on a pad of paper. His lips never smiled. Tristan asked Brother about it while the man talked to his parents next, but Brother did not know either. It was all very confusing; especially when his parents emerged. His mother was crying and his father would not speak. They took him home and in the following days he was given pills. He was to take them every morning at the same time. Tristan did as he was told, even though the pills made him feel funny. Within a day Brother was gone. He did not understand it, Brother just left. He couldn't find him anywhere. Tristan was devastated, his best friend, only friend, left without saying good bye. He no longer saw Brother, no longer talked to himself and his parents seemed happier without Brother. Things, in his parents eyes, were better. They could look passed the severe anxiety attacks. They could turn their heads to the mood swings and depression eating away at their son. After all, he was a teenager and where there is a teenager there is drama. It was normal, so long as he was not talking to something that was not there.
But, along with the typical teenager travels that certain rebellious and 'I don't give a fuck' attitude. Tristan, during one of his many depression bouts, flushed his pills. His father, over the years becoming more aggressive and hate-filled toward his son, locked Tristan within his room once he discovered what his son had done. His mother merely went through her days as if nothing was wrong; she even acted as if Tristan did not exist, choosing to ignore her sons pleading cries and pounding fists as he beat against his door. Seven days he suffered within his room. He was given no food. But he was not alone. Brother, after so many years, returned to him. Accompanying Brother was a woman. A kind woman who smelled so sweet and whose touch seemed to almost melt Tristan. When she held him, whispering it would all be okay, it truly seemed like everything would be as so. She called herself Mother, and took to singing to him as he cried in the corner of his room.
But, during this time of isolation his fragile mind broke. Overcome with despair, despite Mother's trying, Tristan retreated into himself and what seemed like Hell unleashed within his house. For Tristan it felt as though he simply fell asleep and had the sweetest of any dream he ever had; although he could not exactly remember what took place during his slumber. When he woke his door was ajar. Brother was gone, but Mother assured Tristan that Brother merely got tired of sitting in the room and left to stretch his legs. Mother, with her sweet smile, took Tristan and led him from the room. They found Brother standing within the kitchen, the bottom hem of his long tattered coat covered in blood; a dark pool which could be only one thing lay at his feet. Brother held a knife, which was also stained with what could only be blood, and Tristan knew, without looking at the body he knew lay on the floor, that Brother had killed his parents. He did not understand it, they could never see Brother, but in the end he ended up killing them?
Personality: Despite his age of nearly eighteen, Tristan is still very much a child. On his own, or surrounded by people he does not know all too well, Tristan will cling tight to the things that make him feel comfortable; be it his stuffed teddy Mr. Boo or talking to Mother or Brother, whom he now realizes that most people cannot see. He does not care much that people stare at him, if he talks to Brother or Mother while in the presence of others, because as long as he knows they are truly there all is well within the world of Tristan. The boy pouts, truly he does. When things do not go his way, which he often likes them too, then he will do as most young children do and cross his arms with a wobbling lower lip.
Tristan is a silent one, for the most part. He does not enjoying speaking with others, for the most part, but he does not enjoy being alone; even though when he is, he isn't really. The presence of other people calms him and distracts him from his thoughts, which tend to slip into the morbid section of depression. Too many people, however, will result in an over anxious Tristan who can, and will, have a severe panic attack which could lead to even worse things; like setting loose on the world Brother. Like those who usually have fragile state of mind, Tristan is acutely paranoid about most things; some common, some not so common. Fears terrorize him and due to this he hardly ever sleeps; he is also prone to nightmares, although Mother, for the most part, makes that all better.
Sarcasm and jokes are one of the mysteries that Tristan can not seem to figure out. He is more of the serious type, and in a way not fully. He has his own idea of funny, though most would frown upon his idea, or Brother's, with a frown. He finds pleasure and humor within the pain of others, and due to this most often he will listen to what Brother has to say and go along with one of his brilliant and genius plans to do something "fun". Trouble, then, is naturally drawn to Tristan; or Tristan to trouble. Either way, usually, the outcome is not a good one; for whoever gets to experience the "fun" with Tristan. Though he truly is not one for anger. Tristan doesn't quite understand anger or wrath, so instead of reacting with passion Tristan acts upon impulse; the rush of the moment.
This being said, Tristan, aside from Mother, Brother and Mr. Boo, does not have many connections to people. He has never truly had an attachment to living creatures like most people would. True, he would probably die if he were left alone, again, for more than an hour, without the presence of another living being, but he does not exactly feel for people; in that way. People live. People die. So long as he has someone around him, Tristan does not care. For a lack of better words, Tristan is uncaring. He does not know what it is to love or to even hate. Apart from fear and the suffocating feeling of depression and loneliness that sometimes grips him, the boy is without feeling.
The
Mother: A kind woman with the softest of voices. She often appears when Tristan feels down, alone and stepped all over. She is his comfort, the thing all children find within a mother. Generally she creates a calm Tristan. A Tristan who is not so afraid of the world, who is bold and feels safe within the presence of others and who isn't afraid to smile now and then. The show of Mother, however, isn't very often.
Brother: A quiet man, really. He only speaks when it is worth speaking, and can appear to be good natured. But, truly, he is a reflection of Tristan's anger and fury; ruthless and cold blooded when triggered, Brother is the very definition of a murderer. He has a sort of blood-lust, and often attempts to persuade Tristan to do "fun" things; which Tristan knows isn't so fun, but bad. Sometimes, however, he cannot help himself because although some of the ideas are bad, truly awful, Tristan can't help but find small pleasure, and amusement, within them.
Tristan will also, at times, take on the personality of Brother or Mother; in a way, they take over him. During this time, Tristan will, mentally, disappear and he will remember nothing about what happened during the time of Mother or Brother "taking over". Parts of his memory are gaping black holes.
Likes~
o Androgyny
o Teddy bears
o Eyes
o[/color] Soft voices
o[/color] Lolly pops
o[/color] Dancing
o[/color] Music
Dislikes~
o[/color] Art
o[/color] Reading
o[/color] Mean people
o[/color] Loud voices
Other~
o[/color] He sleeps with a bear he has named Mr. Boo.
o[/color] The thought of sex befuddles him.
o[/color] He is often confused about many things.
o[/color] Jokes and sarcasm don't register within his head.
o[/color] The things most people would find disturbing, twisted and morally wrong he finds funny.
Habits: Tristan has a habit of giggling when he is nervous, even when things are not in the least bit funny.
[/size]Other Details[/color][/u]
Sample Rp:[/color] The music filled the air around him, calling him and drawing him farther from the world surrounding him. With his fingers flying over the white and black keys, playing with acute precision and grace, nothing existed. The room, the world itself, ceased to exist as it whirled out of his reach and vanished into itself. The music pouring from his fingers and piano combined was the only thing that could do that to him-pull him in and capture him to the point of forgetting just exactly where he was, or even what his name was. Breathing became something like a chore, it hurt when he didn't and he was annoyed over the fact that he actually forgot how and when to breath at some points. And yet that satisfied him, having something take his breath away or enrapture him to the point of nearly killing him.
Edward let slip a small sigh as the music calmed from it's grand climax, the notes slowly fading away to a quiet hum that buzzed within the air even after his fingers ceased to play. The sweet melody still seemed to play, haunting the quiet room as he unwillingly fell back into the waking world of reality. He shivered, his fingers itching to play the notes he still heard so clearly within his mind. But he resisted. How long had he been at it now? His brown eyes darted about the room and he winced, quickly averting his gaze from the clock. Six hours? No, that couldn't be right. But, then again, it could.
Another sigh escaped his lips as he shifted upon the stiff bench, casting his gaze out the foggy window streaked with gathered wetness. The gray clouds shouted more rain, the main reason why he had decided to spend the portion of his time within the music room with his beloved. His fingers tapped absently at the white keys as he stared out the window, feeling that odd and almost suffocating feeling that sometimes overwhelmed him. What it was he couldn't say. Loneliness? He bit at his lower lip, his lips growing more pouty as he shook his head-musing his unruly hair further.
Lonely? The thought made him almost laugh. And yet the feeling stayed; toying with him, almost. No. He was not lonely. Tired, perhaps, but not lonely. Edward let out a muffled whimper as he tore his eyes from the window and clouds, blocking the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain against the glass. Music. That was what he needed. The feeling that came with playing, the feeling of power and absolute control, was enchanting-not out of the norm, but still mesmerizing all the same. The ability to create something beautiful and moving, being able to change the pitch or direction at any given point was overwhelming.
The thought of once more making music with his beloved filled him, blinding him almost to the ill feeling inside-but his mind was against him. What did he have left to play? He was not feeling at all inspired to create, and playing pieces over and over again bored him. A small whimper worked it's way out of throat as he tapped the keys, willing something, anything, to pop into his head and drive away the insanity that threatened to take him.
Where You Got This Site/Who told you about this site:[/color] Warriors; The Four Clans
Requests:[/color] None…?
