- Joined
- Jan 5, 2012
- Messages
- 1,253
- Reaction score
- 93
Constantine.
.
They raised me well. Up high, set on a pedestal, given cigarettes in a silver plated tin at thirteen. Sip of whisky to chase the cough. Good parents. Sent to me tutors, cut my hair right, and showed me the ropes: how to spend, where to spend it, and the distinct smell of a credit chit.
Could tell you a bad investment off smell alone. Has an acrid bit to it. Clipped at the ends, bitten nails, hands dug into pockets. Well-kempt, all smiles and suave. Hasn't worked a day in his life. You can tell from the coat. It's aristocratic in style, little more than a mockery of character. You've seen it, know what I mean. Posh has a certain vibe, and a pinstripe coat and satin ties fell out of taste before they hit the stage.
I lived that vibe. Weaned on the teat of fashion, brought into drama and stage, culture. When I hit the ground running, I was given a choice. Academy or acting. Refine the voice that favored my mother in her ailing years and writhe beneath the limelight, or buckle down under my father's coat of arms. Rank and file, grunt through the labor. Small wonder I took to being a dandy.
Sung opera through my youth. Shy of a man until the stress cracked me. Saw my first pair under my chauffeur's watch. Down the road, an old fashioned estate, caught up with the green blood crawling in my veins. Strung me along the way experience was wont. The fits started around then. Hysterics. Screaming my throat raw. Shaking and trembling.
Couldn't show it on stage, and it drove me to alcoholism. Ruined my voice. Told me I took to the bottle too keenly. Had a shine for the way it lit my throat, burned on the way down, and gurgled up in my voice like gravel on duracrete. In my prime, they called it a tragedy. Found me in a suite with glass crushed into my palm, blood smeared from brow to collar, immobile. Wouldn't speak for days, not until my father caned the first gasp out of me.
Putting his head through the window was all the answer he needed. Shipped me off to Ziost without a word. Brought me to some old dogs, codgers with more gusto than their wiry joints belied. It was a soldier's life for me. Into the barracks, the barn. Instilled discipline. Command. Raised me into the man my father was: a right gentleman.
Bit blasé, but it did the trick. All velvet and gold, insignia etched to my breast, respect wormed into my skull. The Band bought me next. Said I had a knack, a gift, and it was theirs to command. All the better. I danced for them, to such music as ever they dared to play, and they saw to me. Called me brother. Gifted privilege after privilege, exemption, exception.
Distinct, aloft, I'm held to a standard that suits me, like a moth to a flame.
NAME: Constantine
AGE: 30's
SPECIES: Human
FACTION: Imperial Legion
RANK: Commander
HEIGHT: 6'2
WEIGHT: 185lbs.
HAIR COLOR: Dark
EYE COLOR: Gray
STRENGTH:
██████████
DEXTERITY:
██████████
STAMINA:
██████████
INTELLIGENCE:
██████████
WISDOM:
██████████
CHARISMA:
██████████
AGE: 30's
SPECIES: Human
FACTION: Imperial Legion
RANK: Commander
HEIGHT: 6'2
WEIGHT: 185lbs.
HAIR COLOR: Dark
EYE COLOR: Gray
STRENGTH:
██████████
DEXTERITY:
██████████
STAMINA:
██████████
INTELLIGENCE:
██████████
WISDOM:
██████████
CHARISMA:
██████████
Could tell you a bad investment off smell alone. Has an acrid bit to it. Clipped at the ends, bitten nails, hands dug into pockets. Well-kempt, all smiles and suave. Hasn't worked a day in his life. You can tell from the coat. It's aristocratic in style, little more than a mockery of character. You've seen it, know what I mean. Posh has a certain vibe, and a pinstripe coat and satin ties fell out of taste before they hit the stage.
I lived that vibe. Weaned on the teat of fashion, brought into drama and stage, culture. When I hit the ground running, I was given a choice. Academy or acting. Refine the voice that favored my mother in her ailing years and writhe beneath the limelight, or buckle down under my father's coat of arms. Rank and file, grunt through the labor. Small wonder I took to being a dandy.
Sung opera through my youth. Shy of a man until the stress cracked me. Saw my first pair under my chauffeur's watch. Down the road, an old fashioned estate, caught up with the green blood crawling in my veins. Strung me along the way experience was wont. The fits started around then. Hysterics. Screaming my throat raw. Shaking and trembling.
Couldn't show it on stage, and it drove me to alcoholism. Ruined my voice. Told me I took to the bottle too keenly. Had a shine for the way it lit my throat, burned on the way down, and gurgled up in my voice like gravel on duracrete. In my prime, they called it a tragedy. Found me in a suite with glass crushed into my palm, blood smeared from brow to collar, immobile. Wouldn't speak for days, not until my father caned the first gasp out of me.
Putting his head through the window was all the answer he needed. Shipped me off to Ziost without a word. Brought me to some old dogs, codgers with more gusto than their wiry joints belied. It was a soldier's life for me. Into the barracks, the barn. Instilled discipline. Command. Raised me into the man my father was: a right gentleman.
Bit blasé, but it did the trick. All velvet and gold, insignia etched to my breast, respect wormed into my skull. The Band bought me next. Said I had a knack, a gift, and it was theirs to command. All the better. I danced for them, to such music as ever they dared to play, and they saw to me. Called me brother. Gifted privilege after privilege, exemption, exception.
Distinct, aloft, I'm held to a standard that suits me, like a moth to a flame.
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