Post by Ian Parker on May 5, 2013 22:26:43 GMT -8
* IAN ZANE PARKER !
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Help me make the most
Of freedom and of pleasure
Nothing ever lasts forever[/center]
full name: Ian Zane Parker
nicknames: Ian's a pretty short name, requiring no real nicknames. That said, "Hey you" seems to be popular around his home town, but what do you expect?
date of birth: 11th May, 1984
date of change: ONLY FILL OUT IF VAMPIRE!
hometown: Mystic Falls, Virginia
species: Seldarine
abilities: Dexterity
Intelligence
Constitution
Charisma
Ambidexterity
Two Weapon Fighting
Arcane Knowledge
Cunning
Nondetection (able to avoid psychic and magical divination)
Displacement (The subject appears to be about 2 feet away from its true location)
Comprehend Languages (Able to understand the spoken words of creatures or read otherwise incomprehensible written messages. In either case, they must touch the creature or the writing. The ability to read does not necessarily impart insight into the material, merely its literal meaning. This enables them to understand or read an unknown language, not speak or write it.)
Member of one of the Founding Families (will come into play later)
height: 5'10
weight: 170
hair: Dark Brown
eyes: Blue
play by: Jonathan Rhys-Meyers
likes: Cheesy action movies with little to no plot
Blondes
Being outdoors
Sports
Grunge music
Vintage t-shirts
Alcohol
dislikes:
Birds – no he doesn't want to talk about it
flowers – he is allergic to most varieties
electric cars
cats
straight laced people
not winning
sweet tea
strengths:
His family's wealth offers him a life of ease as long as he follows orders
Physically fit and trained in various forms of self-defence
Often underestimated
Determined
Pursuasive
Cool headed under pressure
weaknesses:
Women – they tend to get him in lots of trouble
He is a bit brash and impulsive at times which can get him into sticky situations
Questionable moral code
Doesn’t do well alone
He can be quick to anger
He tends to misread people and social situations
Has a few crippling phobias
fears: Small spaces and water
As odd as it sounds, failure. Failure of what exactly? Not proving himself mostly. Not making something interesting of his life. The inability to prove to those sneering highschool guys from years back he's more than what they thought of him. So many things.
secrets: When most people ask, he'll tell you he's a Linguistics Professor at a local university. Which is true... in a way. Ian does indeed do that but it's not really what he's interested in, he'd much rather do his part in running the local Crime Syndicate.
personality: Ian is a person of convenience -- and by that I don't just mean that he'll usually have whatever you need to get the party started at a reasonable price. While on the one hand he seems to be weighed down by a clear cut set of morals, he tends to pick and choose which ones to stick to depending on his mood, and more often than not he uses those morals to keep the people he cares about on the right track, rather than himself.
He's never been that great at listening to himself. If something seems like a good idea but the morals are questionable, it is far easier for him to talk himself into doing it and find ways to justify his actions, than to actually say no. It's a destructive way to think, if only because he usually ends up regretting his actions a lot if and when things go wrong. The regret is never enough to get him to change his pattern of behaviour at all.
If anything, this says a lot about the people he considers himself close to -- that he holds them to the standards that he can't really be bothered reaching. While half-satisfied with his life as it is right now, he wants more for his friends (and if they have already achieved more, he would like them to retain it) and he feels disappointed if they fail to meet his ideals, although he almost always fails to mention the pedestal he places his friends on. Ian has a distaste for sharing his thoughts, or much at all about himself, for that matter; being personal with people tends to make him uncomfortable, and it is something he only tends to do under duress.
mother: Sandy
father: Aron
siblings: Krista, Olivia (twin)
other family:
other important people: The Kirklands, The Atwoods
history: His childhood was fairly uneventful, full of normal child hijinks and scuffles after his younger sister was born and caused all sorts of headaches in his life as little sisters are likely to do. The Parker's were very wealthy and their children did not lack for much materialistically. His mother stayed home while his father ran the family business. Things had been running smoothly for several years, but at some point in his high school years, the market took a turn and the business was in trouble.
Ian watched as his mother fretted herself day and night about how they were going to make it through this time and his father's temper became shorter as time stretched on. Their family was holding on by a thread. It was shortly before his graduation from high school that the business seemed to pick back up with an intriguing fervor. Things were starting to look up for the Parker family, at least financially. His father seemed more stressed and distant than he ever had before. There was more talk of Ian learning the business so that he could take over one day. Any talk from Ian of not wanting to enter into the business was met with hostility.
It wasn't until many years and tears later that Ian understood where his father's frustrations were coming from. He had left the office, late like he had for the past several months since graduating from college and entering into the business, when he realized that he had left his phone in his father's office. As he neared his father's office, he heard terrible screams and opened the door to find his father being ripped to shreds before his eyes by some invisible thing.
No one believed his reports, it was written off as post traumatic stress or some such nonsense. He was not crazy, he knew that his father had not been attacked by an animal, at least not an ordinary animal, like the reports claimed. How the animal supposedly got into an upper level office unseen was never answered, but no one seemed to doubt the story.
your name: Again with the questions?
age: 25
experience: Almost 10 years
who you play: Damon, Nick
how to contact you: Carrier Pigeon
how you found us: I'm psychic like that
role play sample: Word processors were the invention of the devil. Or at least some very cruel and incredibly bored demon. He was sure of it. Just the way the cursor would endlessly blink against the pure white backdrop of an untouched page was like a taunt. Every pulse of invisible words that had yet to be typed was a little stab in the gut, screaming that he really didn't have that much talent to work with. If it hadn't been for a few skull-cracking visions and some drunken thesaurus surfing he would have still been a nobody toiling away the days replacing ink cartridges at the local Kinko's for eight-fifty an hour.
Well, technically he was still a nobody. It wasn't like Supernatural had ever climbed the best seller lists, but the series had a pretty devout cult status and following. He had a number-one fan. That had to count for something. Even if Becky was just a little psychotic. And hopelessly in love with Sam.
He rolled his eyes again for the thought of how many countless hours he had been forced to spend listening to her mindless rambling about how Sam Winchester was the perfect man. Never mind that whole thing about chugging demon blood like he was the guest of honour at an all-night keg party to fuel his Darth Vader impersonation. Apparently things like that didn't matter when a guy resembled, what was the description she had used? Beefcake? Beefcake and a whole lot of hunk of something or other. "Good riddance," he mumbled under his breath as he rubbed the space between his eyebrows where the tension was focused. Maybe he didn't have a ridiculously tall and muscular body like Gigantar and his "Prophet of the Lord" gig didn't amount to much when he was on the downloading end of a whole lot of nothing, but what he did have was his best friend Jack Daniels and the comfort of knowing that he would never have to look at another picture of Becky's cat or deal with reading her disturbing ideas on slash fiction. A rogue shiver ran the length of his spine.
The cursor before him continued to blink away, just daring him to start commanding it to type something. Anything. But every word vanished from his mind leaving him as much of a blank slate as the digital page going unused. "Damn."
Chuck was the first one to admit when he was going nowhere fast so he played a few hands of solitaire in hopes of receiving some spark of divine revelation. When that didn't happen he decided to answer a few emails, pay Mistress Magda another cyber visit, and watched the wads of paper that he had used to play waste-basket ball bounce off of the rim to roll across the floor. He picked up a couple of empty glass liquor bottles littering the area around his desk after knocking them over with a noisy clattering, scratched at his three-day-old beard and thought about shaving it, made another foray to Mistress Magda's instead, burnt himself a pot of macaroni and cheese even though he swore that he had followed the directions exactly, and then he proceeded to dance around his living room with a broomstick to the tune of Foreigner's "Hot Blooded" before remembering that he had left the curtains open. His next door neighbour was getting an eyeful of him jumping around like a madman in his boxers and dingy night robe instead of pruning her rose bushes as she had set out to do that afternoon. One timid wave and embarrassed laugh later, Chuck had wandered back into the kitchen in search of a not-entirely-filthy glass among the dishes going undone. He glanced at the clock and shrugged his shoulders, deciding that it had to be five o'clock somewhere while he poured a cool glass of whiskey.
It was a funny thing really, writer's block. There had been so many times when he had woke from some insane dream, compelled to write it all down before he could forget what he had seen. The words would flow through him almost of their own accord, and he would sit at his computer for days clacking away at the weathered keyboard like a man possessed, unable to stop. While he was drowning in the turbulent pools of description and quotation that were his own creation, all he could think about was how much he wanted it to stop. He wanted to be able to sleep and function like a normal person that didn't have their head permanently stuck in the clouds. But then when that little flare of madness would leave him, whatever it was, all he desired was to have it back for a few precious moments. He would beg and plead and swear to himself that he would never take it for granted again. Words were somewhat of a passion for him, and yet it seemed that they had a very love, hate relationship with one another.
William Stafford had once said that "There is no such thing as writer's block for writers whose standards are low enough." That may have been true enough. Perhaps when Chuck had silenced his inner critic and given up on far-fetched dreams about breathing life into the next great classic that could change the world, accepting the attempts as futile and instead choosing to simply regurgitate language onto a page in a fashion that he hoped resembled a story, maybe then he had been able to make more progress. Unfortunately however, Mr. Stafford had never read Bugs or Red Sky at Morning. If he had been subjected to that kind of bad writing surely the man would have changed his opinion. As Richard Brinsley Sheridan would have argued, "You write with ease, to show your breeding, but easy writing's curst hard reading."
"Should have done another pass," he grumbled, taking another gulp of his drink. Chuck treasured the warmth coursing down his throat to burn in the pit of his stomach. Until the whiskey collided with his blackened macaroni. The combination of the two may not have been the best decision that he had ever made and a wicked case of indigestion was sure to brew because of it. "I mean really," he complained to the floating fish of his computer monitor's screen-saver. "The Michael sword was in a castle on top of a hill made up of forty-two dogs? What was that about?"
Chuck and the Winchester brothers had been through a lot together over the years, even if they hadn't been aware of that for most of the time. He had been there for every punch, kick, practical joke, gunshot wound and possession if only figuratively. He had been there for the death of their father as well as that of Bobby Singer whom was arguably more of a paternal staple than John had been. He had been there for the opening of the hell gate, Lilith, Jo and Ellen, the exiles to hell, angels and time travelling, the horsemen and Lucifer. And even the damn Leviathans, irritating pains in the ass that they were. And that was where he was left. Where could they go from there? How were they supposed to top thanklessly saving the world from the bumps in the night? Obviously living life as civilians was out of the question. No one really left the hunter life alive. And love interests just begged to be slaughtered or caught up in the creepy somehow. No, they were doomed to just be Sam and Dean, petulantly bickering and sacrificing for one another until the bitter end. And the Prophet Chuck would be there, waiting in the wings to chronicle it all. He was a cruel, cruel, capricious God indeed.
Eventually his vision grew hazy from the alcohol, his eyes weary, and his body heavy. He couldn't resist the comfort of the couch for a stupor-induced nap that bordered on becoming comatose. Dean was there, and Sam too amidst the flashes of blinding white light that snared behind his eyelids. The voices of the angels whispered at his ear in a cacophony of excitement. Chuck sat bolt upright from a dead sleep with a deep breath of shock. He wiped away the swath of drool clinging to his cheek and turned a crazed look on the hibernating computer. His fever was back in full force and the writer's block pulverized into oblivion.
