Post by Blaine Anderson on Oct 5, 2011 22:39:09 GMT -5
「Blaine」
"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what."
|Darren Criss|
Blaine DEZMARK Andrien
full name: Blaine Dezmark Andrien[/font]
nick name: Blaine
age: 20
birthday: July 23rd
ethnicity: American/Italian/Greek
sexuality: Bi-Sexual
occupation: Acrobat
cannon: N/A
height: 5'9
weight: 120
hair: Blaine has short, naturally curly, dark brown -almost black- hair.
eyes: He has the darkest, warmest brown eyes.
build: Blaine is on the shorter side for a guy, and is very lean and fit. He doesn't have the bulk that most of the other circus folk do, but he is nicely toned.
tattoos/scars/distinguishing features: N/A
anything else: N/A
likes:
Working Out
Art
Reading
Writing
Music
Flexability
Comics
Birds
Water
Storms
Men
Children
dislikes:
Homophobes
Snakes
Spiders
Mustaches
Injuries
Bad Performers
Bad Crowds
quirks/habits:
Hums or whistles when he gets nervous.
Blushes at just about anything.
When standing, puts one foot over the other when motionless.
weaknesses: 5+
strengths: 5+
fears:
Blaine fears he will never be accepted, even in the Circus.
He fears he will never be able to perform again.
secrets:
He has a younger sister, Karson.
He has never kissed a guy, or girl.
Has never had a boyfriend, or girlfriend.
goals:
To become the best acrobat of all time.
To be able to leave the circus and start a life, and have three kids.
key traits:
Athletic: description of trait
Courageous:
Flexible:
Virtuoso:
mother: Melissa Andrien, 40, Hair Dresser
father: Unknown
siblings: Karson Drozvelle, 16, Fire Dancer
other: N/A
pets: Skye, Spider Monkey
history:
at least two good paragraphs
name: Spider Monkey (Or Ryder)
age: 16
experience: Nearly 7 years
discovery: Der, I know both Rainy/E.lephant, and Toffee :DDD
other characters: Lysander, Karson, and Sylar.
Hazel orbs gazed blankly at the wall, void of all life and emotion. The owner, a young, lean man, slouched in his chair, a bottle of Absolute Vodka held loosely in his calloused hands. Honey brown locks fell in front of his eyes, once darker pale skin now sickly pale and his shirt tossed to the side in a clump of dirty clothes. To everyone who knew him, this was not typical behavior -- he was a neat freak, had OCD, and was not a drunkard.
Drawing out a sigh, Luca fell from his chair, to the joint littered floor. His dorm smelled of alcohol, drugs, smoke, and axe -- a terrible combination, aside from the axe. Face first against the plush floor, clad in nothing but silky black boxers, the dips in his hips more prominent than ever before. He was malnourished, and hadn't fed for days, much less actually eaten solid food.
Nothing seemed right in his life anymore, nothing. He'd hurt Lara, Tori, and god knows who else. It seemed like that's all he ever did -- hurt people; if his mother saw him -- oh lord, if his mother saw him... he didn't want to know what would happen. At the same time though, his mother didn't, and he hoped she never would, understand.
Lifting the Absolute to his bruised lips, Luca drank long and hard. Bruises covered his body. Some were soft brown with hints of purple and black, and the others nearly all black with orange, brown, red, green, purple, and blue. Some were small and easily ignored -- others covered large areas of his bordy and hurt more than anything. A nasty bruise was forming on his left peck, already the size of a football; his face was clean and untouched, save for his lips and a few minor cuts. Burns graced the tops of his arms and upper thighs, and newly forming scars were slashed against his stomach and the small of his back.
He felt as bad as he looked, and looked as bad as he felt; perhaps that's why he did what he did next. Crawling into the kitchen, Luca clutched a knife from the counter and gave a firm tug, the knife holder, which had no less than fifteen knives, came clattering to the ground. Knives clashed to the ground, laying around him dangerously. It was then that he noticed the knife lodged in his upper leg, blood squirting from a gap between his flesh and the blade; he decided that was the blade he would use.
Pulling the blade from his muscle, Luca didn't feel a thing. Pulling the blade to his left wrist, Luca let it glide against his skin, slicing i open. Over and over he slit the pale skin of his wrists, watching the blood flow freely from his arms. He still didn't feel anything. Hazel pools darkened to a dull amber and glazed over with a foggy haze. His shoulders slumped and he slid to the ground, shoulders hitting the ground; knives pushed away from his neck and face, though he wished he'd killed himself now. He wished he'd taken the knife and had slit his neck instead.
Drawing out a sigh, Luca fell from his chair, to the joint littered floor. His dorm smelled of alcohol, drugs, smoke, and axe -- a terrible combination, aside from the axe. Face first against the plush floor, clad in nothing but silky black boxers, the dips in his hips more prominent than ever before. He was malnourished, and hadn't fed for days, much less actually eaten solid food.
Nothing seemed right in his life anymore, nothing. He'd hurt Lara, Tori, and god knows who else. It seemed like that's all he ever did -- hurt people; if his mother saw him -- oh lord, if his mother saw him... he didn't want to know what would happen. At the same time though, his mother didn't, and he hoped she never would, understand.
Lifting the Absolute to his bruised lips, Luca drank long and hard. Bruises covered his body. Some were soft brown with hints of purple and black, and the others nearly all black with orange, brown, red, green, purple, and blue. Some were small and easily ignored -- others covered large areas of his bordy and hurt more than anything. A nasty bruise was forming on his left peck, already the size of a football; his face was clean and untouched, save for his lips and a few minor cuts. Burns graced the tops of his arms and upper thighs, and newly forming scars were slashed against his stomach and the small of his back.
He felt as bad as he looked, and looked as bad as he felt; perhaps that's why he did what he did next. Crawling into the kitchen, Luca clutched a knife from the counter and gave a firm tug, the knife holder, which had no less than fifteen knives, came clattering to the ground. Knives clashed to the ground, laying around him dangerously. It was then that he noticed the knife lodged in his upper leg, blood squirting from a gap between his flesh and the blade; he decided that was the blade he would use.
Pulling the blade from his muscle, Luca didn't feel a thing. Pulling the blade to his left wrist, Luca let it glide against his skin, slicing i open. Over and over he slit the pale skin of his wrists, watching the blood flow freely from his arms. He still didn't feel anything. Hazel pools darkened to a dull amber and glazed over with a foggy haze. His shoulders slumped and he slid to the ground, shoulders hitting the ground; knives pushed away from his neck and face, though he wished he'd killed himself now. He wished he'd taken the knife and had slit his neck instead.
