Post by Aiden. on May 28, 2006 22:18:38 GMT -5
name.
Aiden Jacobs.
age.
Sixteen.
gender.
Male.
appearance.
Aiden is a tall, lanky guy. Even though he’s sixteen and 5’7”, he only weighs about 105, give or take a few pounds. His eyes are a grey green, although the dominant colour is grey, and are often rimmed in thick lines of black eyeliner. His hair is naturally dark brown, but he’s dyed it black, and has let it grow, and has cut it, so that it goes into a side sweep over his right eye instead of his left, because he’s left handed. He usually dresses in girls black denim jeans and a tight black band tee shirt, with his black and red chuck taylor all stars hi-tops. He dresses in all black, not because he’s goth, but because he’s a night owl, and doesn’t like to be seen when he’s prowling the streets during the night. Despite being a night owl, he usually sleeps only two or three hours during the day, from 12:00 pm to 3:00 pm, and then he’s up and out again, until he crashes at his run down apartment the next day.
personality.
Aiden is a person you don’t really want to mess with. He’s quiet, but he can fight pretty well. Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t let relationships or crushes get in the way of what he has to do, because he’s a hard worker. A theif, but a hard worker, nonetheless. He’s got a charming sense about him, which makes the people he plans to pick pocket from, or has already pick pocketed from, have no realization that he’s stolen from them until they find something missing. But they realize it could have happened anywhere, and don’t always remember him, because he’s gone in a flash. To his friends, he’s loyal, and has no problem with helping them out, unless they rip him off. Then he get’s pissed. His trust is hard to fully gain, but once you get it, it’s easily lost. Keep that in mind. Aiden can put on a wonderful act that could make the most suspicious person not suspect a thing, which is why he is almost the perfect definition of a pick pocket.
family.
Mother - dead.
Father - deserted the family.
rp sample.
[ ooc. this is from mansonville, with a post as packman. =D ]
A long string of carbon dioxide filtered through the air as the male sighed, his long strides continuing slowly as he made his way to the gates of the cemetery, a wry smirk crossing his labrums. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t easily amused and that he had to find entertainment elsewhere, besides Pandora’s. Actually, there was no real entertainment at Pandora’s.. save the occasional drunken brawl that he liked to encourage instead of stop. But, if he didn’t, he’d be fired, so, in all, he lost his entertainment. And it wasn’t like the fights went on every day, which, if they did, it wasn’t like he would care. He’d grab a bottle of Grey Goose and watch. It was funny to see the staggering drunkards trying to fight each other. Yes, you could say that he was kind of a trouble maker, if you wanted. Just don’t let him hear you say it.
Packman’s bored sigh wouldn’t have been heard. Oh no. He was way to cautious, way to paranoid, to even think about letting himself be heard by another human being. His digits ran through, or, more so over, his tresses of dark brown hair, pushing his glasses up further onto his nose. Oh, how he loathed those glasses.. but he hated contacts even more. So either way, he couldn’t win. Which pissed him off. As to say that Packman was in a bad mood, you’d be quite wrong. He was actually in one of his more.. upbeat moods, if you could call it that. As I said, he was way to cautious to be heard, and so, as he approached the wrought iron gate of the cemetery and pushed it open to hear the groaning creak of the rusty metal, he cursed himself. But regained his posture, and slipped through. There was no way that he was entirely alone in this cemetery – he knew that much. The dead surrounded him, and he knew that there had to be live around this city somewhere. Although.. that wasn’t why he’d moved here. Oh no.
No, of course that wasn’t why he’d moved here to Mansonville. Not because of the name. Not because of the so called ‘high population’. Not even for the wonderful job he’d obtained as a bartender at Pandora’s. He’d moved here for his own purposes, those of which would remain hidden until he decided to reveal them. And to whom, he really had no idea.
Packman’s pillars came to a stop as he found he’d been wandering aimlessly, lost in his thoughts. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his baggy, black denim jeans, casting a glance around with his hazel hued mirrors. Oh, how glorious cemeteries could be. Tombstones, with the people they described buried underneath, cracked and falling apart filled the cemetery. A gnarled oak tree that seemed to be moving with the shadows the moon cast upon it. The rats scurrying away as they saw Packman’s almost nonexistent shadow waltz over the ground behind him, stalking him it seemed. The shadows that crept through the cemetery gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. Why, you may be asking? Because Packman loved cemeteries. Everything about them. From the creaking, wrought iron gates, straight down to the people buried underneath the ground. No one could ask him why he felt that way about it, because he’d never give them a straight answer. Much to cautious. Much to paranoid.
The smirk continued to twist Packman’s labrums as he let out a yawn, which was neither loud, nor silent. His chuck taylor hi-top clad feet moved him through the cemetery, on a small path that wound between burial plots, both new, and old, and took him to see the tombstones that he wished. Which were the old, of course. He knew nothing, and cared nothing, of the new tombstones. Nor for the old. But.. he was into reading the tombstones to figure out the person buried underneath it. Woe, how strange was he?
...very.
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cia or theives?.
The Theives, of course!
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