RPer LF 1x1 or groups. -IPC- Gender/orientation irrelevant

[Ffaux Pas]

SpaceWelcome!

This is my umpteenth search thread in the Barton OOC. All of which have been a little too long, both in page count and amount to read. I'm certain that this will be no exception.



Table of Contents

Space1. Welcome post/ToC
Space2. About me
Space3. What I demand
Space4. Will do/Wont do
Space5. Am/Was/Have Been involved in (Includes character profiles)
Space6. RP samples




Now is the point when you proceed to the next post.

[Ffaux Pas]

-Now for a little more about me-


SpaceFfaux Pas is:

• Employed.
  
• Fond of role-playing but often can't stand general writing. This is because he enjoys the interaction with other people. RPing is co-operative and allows for wrenches to be thrown into the works. Some of the most fun comes in surprises. Dealing with the unexpected is a great catalyst for creativity. So he won't claim to be working on a novel, doesn't don't write fan fiction. Writing is not his life, just a hobby.
  
• In EST. The time zone. And has been working mostly days recently. Semi-regular schedule, whut!
  
• Sometimes a grammar nazi, but is working on that.

SpaceOne more thing to note:

• I love OOC interaction as well as in character. I like to get to know the people I'm RPing with, to a degree, as people. The reason for this, or at least the excuse I'm offering, is that I sometimes come across as an arrogant and snarky b*****d.
  
  • This is not really my intention.
  
  

Space-So talk to me OOC. I don't want you to hate me.


SpaceStill here? Great.

Space-I'm also a hypocrite; like everyone, I make mistakes, but I try to avoid it. This brings me to my next topic--

[Ffaux Pas]

-What I Request From You, As an RPer-

(This is fairly straight forward and ought to be common sense)

• I don't expect perfection. We all make mistakes, but I'd prefer you spell check your posts before you click submit.
  
  
• You should also have a sense of humour. Simple enough, right?
  
  
• I am of the opinion that 'literate' is abused and sadly twisted on this site.
  I won't go into my lecture on the subject. I do not demand any specific status (Lit, Adv, E from RP partners, so long as they're legitimately making an effort to do their best or improve. I understand casual RP, for the fun of it. I understand that it shouldn't feel like work, but once you're at the level where you can write well (I'm not talking brilliant - have them on the edges of their seats and swooning with every post - but well enough to make your posts a joy to read and respond to) it should no longer seem like work. I'm not saying that my posts will always, or possibly even ever, be breath-takingly enthralling, but this is where my hypocrisy comes in. Humour me.
  
  
• Length is my next big gripe. Writing ten paragraphs a post doesn't instantly make you advanced.
  Or even a literate RPer. If you can write that much and hold my interest- great. PM me. But it's not a requirement.
  
  And if you're going to go on for thousands of words about the moonlight or the grime between cobblestones, please don't bother.

[Ffaux Pas]

-What Ffaux will or will not RP-

Will do:

I may RP anything.

What I mean is simply this; I have no squicks. Nothing phases me, nothing creeps or freaks me out. There are plenty of things I probably won't be interested in RPing; not because it's too crazy for me, but because it just doesn't interest me. Still, I'm always open to being convinced.

So now I will tell you that I'm craving - I'll also tell you I wrote this thread like 3 years ago so these may have changed. Wonder what I'm craving now.

As stated above, this is out dated. My current cravings are undecided, but these probably still appeal to some degree.

• Robin Hood et al.
  
  
• Something with Highwaymen, a la Plunkett and Macleane.
  
  
• Something with con artists, thinking something like the show Hustle. Short cons or long.
  
  
• I've been reading Irvine Welsh. If you know what that means, you know what I want. Drugs, filth, grittiness, and discontent Scottish people.
  
  
• Something Roman - I would like a character who is either a Roman who's worked his way up in rome and is sent to keep peace or govern one of the outlying parts of the empire... Britain or Spain would probably be easiest. Or the inverse, he could be a Brit or a Spaniard who's been raised under Roman rule and advanced wherever he was born, only to be sent to Rome. Either a dignitary, ambassador, soldier, whatever. I just think the culture shock would be fun to play around with.
  
  
• Would also be interested in something 1920's. A bootlegger could be fun.
  
  
• Tallships, Age of Sail, Naval battles, Etc.
  
  
• RP set during WWII, perhaps focusing on the holocaust. I know it's done a lot anymore, but not by me.
  
  
• An excuse to play something/someone based on an Irish rebel song. Think Sean South, James Connolly, Roddy McCorely, Robert Emmet, Bobby Sands, Roger Casement, Henry Joy, Teeling, Tandy, Tone, Orr, Pearse, Plunkett, I could go on all day. or based on the Easter rising of 1916, rebellion of 1798, or some other era in Irish history that would allow for Irish Rebels/republicans.

SpaceStrange, perhaps, but there you have it.

-As some of the above implies, yes, I do canon RPs. I'm hesitant to mix canon chars and OCs however, since I find that such pairings are complete Sue fodder.
Again, convince me.

-I know too many canons to list them all. If your RP is from something specific, run it by me. I may be familiar and, perhaps, even interested.


-When it comes to sexual orientation, if it's important to the RP that my character be straight/gay/turquoise, I'll RP him/her that way. I've no problem with that, since RP is a big happy-funtime-game of make believe and s**t.

Space--On that note, I don't care whether you're male or female. It's not important.



The things I am almost certainly not interested in:

Space* Anything animal, anthro, or furry.
Space* Vampires or werewolves. (Or even a combination of the two. Surprise)
Space* Angels/demons/dragons/elves/etc. (More Sue fodder. They can be worked into RPs and done well, I just don't see it often)
Space* Mansion/forest/etc shite
Space* slave and Master. (Notice the capitalization. As a sometime member of the D/s subculture, anything relating to BDSM on this site really irks me.)
Space* School RPs, except maybe college. Maybe. (I'm out of HS, those days are past. I don't need to relive them and really just don't see the appeal in it.)
Space* Band. At least not 'real people' band RPs.
Space* Pure romance. (It's not a genre. Deal with it I also don't cyber. This may come as a surprise. If I want smut I go out and find it IRL. Seriously. I don't need to write it on teh intarwebz)
Space* Elemental or generic fantasy RPs.
Space* Just about any other cliché over done concept.


SpaceI'm also not familiar with Naruto, Inuyasha, Sailor moon, FMA, Avatar, etc. So don't waste your time asking. If it's not one of those, it's possible I will know it.
SpaceOr it might be one of the Etceteras. You'll have to check and see.


|+|I neglected to list rules, because I'm trusting you all to be practical and mind the TOS. I try to be optomistic occasionally.|+|

[Ffaux Pas]

-Currently involved in 0 Gaian group RPs -

Just a few character profiles, chosen at random. The rest are in the journal linked at the end of this post.


American Old West - Goldrush-Gunslinging-Etc.

John E. Stanley

The Basics
Name :: John E(ldon) Stanley
But call me :: Johnny
Gender :: Male
Age :: Twenty-one
Title/Rank/Position/Profession :: Private (Deserter)


Appearance/Possessions
Appearance :: Standing about five foot ten, John is of reasonably average height and a similar build. His legs are strong from the sheer amount of riding he did in the army, and he is otherwise fit due to his training and hard work during his youth. He's not really what you'd call muscular, however. Lean would be the best assessment. His hair is fair; a very faintly reddish blond- lighter in the warmer months when the sun bleaches it and simultaneously darkens his complexion. This contrast, to his dismay, makes him a little conspicuous, which is why it's generally cropped short and under a hat. His moustache and beard, when he sports one, are full and a shade darker than his hair. His other features are fairly plain. His eyes are blue, his nose straight, and his jaw line defined, but this is no more than most passably attractive young men are graced with, so he's modest about his appearance.
Style of dress :: Since leaving the Army, under illegal circumstances, Johnny has done his best to blend in. He shed his uniform for breeches, boots, and a standard wardrobe. His army issued Colt Peacemaker and 1872 model Cavalry Saber however, traveled with him. A hat, to replace that he'd worn during his service, was a rather important purchase. It was wide with a curled and bound brim and dipped; front and back.
Always carrying/Meaningful to me :: Despite not being overly zealous about religion, John wears a pendant which was given to him by his mother when he left to join the army. And though he'd probably prefer the story of Saint Martin of Tours, he's settled for St. George as a patron, since it pleased his mother to believe the small disc of silver protected him. Everything else has been or would be abandoned for the sake of remaining out of the army's grasp.
Otherwise of note :: His hands are calloused from work while growing up and from frequent riding. He generally speaks softly and respectfully, preferring not to draw attention to himself, and smiles infrequently.

You Ought to Know
History :: Born the son of ranchers in an area already already predominantly rid of Indians, Johnny had what he considered a relatively dull youth. His days were spent working in fields; minding and harvesting the crops they grew to feed themselves, or managing the livestock with his father. They didn't have much of it, admittedly, but it ensured that he learned to handle horses and cattle from a young age. --Not that he plans to need these skills again, after he strikes it rich.

...But we're getting ahead of ourselves now. Let's jump back slightly less than two years. At the age of nineteen the dreary monotony of farm life finally became too much for the eager and ambitious young man. He'd heard stories of the west... further west than his home, that is, from soldiers passing through on their way to the Indian territories. Now when you're nineteen, tales of fighting the savage natives just sound glorious and exciting. It's enough to make a boy want to enlist; which is just what Johnny did. But by the time you're twenty one and have been in the army a year and a half, and have served as cavalry during some of the skirmishes, it becomes far more real. The stories of scalpings and raids are more terrible when you've seen it all first hand. And perhaps he began to lose his nerve. Perhaps he just discovered that soldiering didn't agree with him. Whatever the case, Johnny realized that he didn't want to be part of anymore killing. Especially when it could be himself who'd fall next.

So the boy who'd enjoyed stories of the brave soldiers began to listen to the stories of the civilians once more. And this time they brought tales of gold to his ears, and thoughts and dreams of wealth to mind. He waited as long as he dared, hoping for an opportunity to present itself, and one day it did. While out on a scouting mission, one he'd had the foresight to bring his civilian clothes on, he made a dash for the west, leaving his post at Fort Laramie in the dust. It'd be a couple hours before anyone would notice he was missing, and even longer before they'd realized that some of his things were gone as well. And he's still hoping they'll never catch up with him. The army is not very forgiving of deserters after all.

Personality :: Johnny, despite his flight to Oregon, is a brave young man. It takes some amount of courage to join the army in the first place, and to spend more than a year fighting for or defending your country, but killing and danger gets to most everyone eventually. And Johnny turned out to have less of a stomach for it than some. In short, he'll do what must be done, until a better opportunity presents himself. Unfortunately as in the recent scenario, sometimes the danger is greater than the one he's fleeing. Thus you might say he's a little rash, which would be accurate, but he's convinced that he's making the right choice for himself, which is what's important to him.

Due to this outlaw status and distinct (in his mind) appearance, he's a little twitchy around Indians and avoids soldiers, fearing that one or the other will recognize him. It's a little paranoid, admittedly, but it's this personality that's going to keep him alive and out of the Army's grasp.

As stated previously, he is quiet and reserved, preferring not to draw attention to himself. He is also optimistic, which is why the tales of gold went to his head. Call it gold lust, call it greed, you wouldn't be wrong in either case, but the driving force behind his part in the gold rush is the unyielding belief that he will strike it rich. ...Doesn't everyone who goes west?

And this is how his decisions are made. Tending to take what he's told at face value and act on it, sometimes at the peril of his own hide.
Hobbies/Special talents or abilities :: Riding and making quick (though sometimes flawed) decisions or judgments are probably the closest to above averagely talents. His hobbies include day dreaming, looking over his shoulder at every sound, and -one day soon- mining.
He has no urge to gamble and little use for drink, though both are subject to change, depending on his future success.
Quirks/Flaws :: Most of them are described in his personality. Johnny is naive, impulsive, and a little paranoid. He was never a very good shot, to his disgrace as a soldier, but he's planning succeed at gold hunting. And while he's optimistic, he's also easily disappointed.

I feel strongly about/My dreams and goals :: Gold! And getting away from the violence of the army. His dreams change on a whim. From being a career soldier when he was a boy, to mining now that he's a little more than a boy. It's hard to say what John Stanley will be doing with himself two years from now. But if you asked him he'd guarantee you that he'll be living in luxury, thanks to his inevitable gold discovery.
I love :: Johnny hasn't seen many available women who weren't whores recently. At the moment he's most in love with his own skin, hoping to stay one step ahead of the firing squad at any cost.
Anything additional :: (Likes, dislikes, etc)

Five words to describe me :: Naive, impulsive, nervous, optimistic, individualistic

Played by :: Ffaux Pas

My character

Name || Kenneth Douglas MacCrimmon
But they call me || Kenneth to most, by preference; Mackie to 'friends', and Kenny to his Father.
Age || Twenty-eight

Appearance || Being, for appearance's sake, a cop, Kenneth attempts to maintain and convey a clean-cut and refined image. The most typical first impression he gives, would be that of a man- dedicated to his work. If he ever seems distracted, or unavailable, it's guaranteed that he'll use some new case as an alibi. He's also been known to come in with dark circles under his eyes, after a particularly 'long night', yet he always has paperwork or some new discovery with which to explain it away.
MacCrimmon's hair is red and cropped fairly short. He is of average height and his looks are nothing outstanding, though he might almost pull off a rugged charm, if not for the facade he'd been hiding behind.
His build has changed, however. Once a fairly fit and healthy officer; Kenneth has begun losing weight, albeit slowly. Others have taken notice, of course, and the curiosity that's been aroused, requires him to work out more often and, occasionally, to force himself to eat, in order to counter the effects of his recently altered lifestyle.
He has a few minor scars from brawls outside of work, and the occasional scuffle, or chase, when bringing in criminals.
He's also considering a tattoo.

History || Kenny MacCrimmon was born in Perth, Scotland twenty-eight years ago, in mid May; three days after his mother's birthday. She'd always said he was the best birthday gift a woman could ask for. --And, oh, she'd be proud of him now, alright- Detective MacCrimmon, indeed. He'd always been glad that his parents had never found out what he'd gotten himself into.

His father, Michael, had been working with The National Trust, restoring and preserving old buildings. He'd also been doing work individually on the side, specializing in lime and granite as building materials. It wasn't a chance career either, but one of convenience. Hell, Perth was grey, Kenneth remembered that much, a 'city of stone'. -But that wasn't accurate anymore either, was it? In the late Nineties, when the UK government and the Scottish Executive had re-examined the definition of a city, Perth had been omitted from the approved list. Once 'The Fair City', it came to be known as a former city; "The Perfect Centre".
But this hardly made any difference to Kenneth. He'd been dragged away, shortly after his mother's death, in the mid-nineties.
'Mum' had developed lung cancer and faded away slowly, painfully, over two years time. No treatments had helped for long. His father, an avid smoker, blamed himself. His poor wife had never smoked a day in her life, but had spent twenty years with him.

And, within a few months of her passing, Kenneth's father had accepted a job in the United States, the first he could find. It seemed he'd been unable to cope with his wife's death and was hoping to escape it by leaving Scotland.
Kenny'd never quite forgiven his father for taking him away from his home so suddenly, but at sixteen he'd had no choice in the matter. He'd been forced to leave his school, his friends, and even his first girlfriend. They'd only been seeing each other a few months, but leaving Colleen hurt more and anything else. Looking back now, he realized that he was young, still a child, but he'd been convinced, at the time, that the relationship was serious. They'd had difficulty even keeping in touch after the move. His father'd forbidden him from calling, quoting the exorbitant long distance bills as reason enough, but Kenneth suspected that his father simply didn't like the thought of contact with that place.

So, while he felt resentment toward his father, he imagined a similar sense of resentment in return. He began to believe, even to convince himself, that his father'd 'ruined his life' intentionally, that he didn't care that Kenny was unhappy. And the son began to rebel. His father'd never found quite as good a job as he'd had before, and the neighborhood they'd settled in was not the best. The flat was small and cramped- Kenneth was never comfortable inviting anyone over. Not that he'd have wanted his father to meet the sort of friends he'd acquired. Sure, he still pulled decent marks in school, seemed a good kid in appearances, but he'd begun to make connections with morally questionable individuals. It'd started with running errands for a small wage, with a cover as a delivery boy to make it all appear clean on the surface. But he was a smart lad, and people saw this. All sorts of people.

When he graduated from high school, his father gave him a thousand dollars for graduation, as much as he could spare after rent and bills, and Kenneth took the money, of course, and promptly moved out. A portion of the gift was used to pay his first month's rent. He'd chosen a place based on cost. The landlord hadn't demanded a security deposit, nor even a co-signer, but it was clear why. The place was shite. The faucets leaked, the paint was cracked and peeling, but it was his first place, he was on his own, and to Kenneth, it was heaven.

Eventually at twenty, despite it paralleling his father's wishes, Kenneth applied to a local college. His grades and test scores had been good enough to get him a few scholarships, and grants had covered the rest of his tuition. He held a part time job to supplement his under the table work, and made just enough to keep his place, but the original thrill of it all was wearing off. He never finished his business degree. After three years he dropped out. But, as stated, a few key individuals had taken notice of his smarts and resourcefulness. He'd managed a few drops that no one else had been willing to undertake and had avoided the law all this time. He'd never been charged, nor even suspected, for any of his illegal activities. So when it was jokingly stated that young MacCrimmon could walk into the police station and complete a job, right under the cops' noses, he began to think it sounded like quite the challenge, and not a bad idea. Of course he took 'job' literally, and graduated, once again, at the head of his class. This time it wasn't from high school, but from the city's police academy. His father was pleased.

He served five years as a uniformed officer before his promotion to detective. He'd often excelled and distinguished himself, and not once had anyone suspected him of corruption. His reports had always been flawless, he made arrests like any other officer, but his loyalty was always to his real employers. Besides, they paid better for the information.

Personality || MacCrimmon has, it would seem; through dedication, graduated from the rank of 'uniformed officer' to that of detective. The important distinction, in his mind, would be the level and quantity of information one receives post promotion. To himself, he refers to the men in uniform, the beat walkers and such, as 'uninformed' officers. A play on words.
Kenneth is smart, but he is stubborn. He's refused to acknowledge forgiving his father, all this time, despite realizing that he'd actually had his son's interests in mind. It was just too hard for Kenneth to accept and admit. His pride refused to allow it.
He's tricky and quick on his feet; always having an explanation and the words and ability to talk himself out of most any situation.
At first he was only loyal to himself, but he's come to trust the men he works for, and learned to deceive, outsmart, and manipulate the cops down at the precinct.

He may seem difficult to approach at times, often giving off a cold, or distant, air. It's easier to fool people if you don't let them get close. If you don't let them ask questions. He avoids serious relationships for this reason.
Now Mackie was always calm and cool, but something's begun to try his resolve. But his peers at the division haven't noticed, and aren't likely too, as long as he can maintain the front he's held for the past ten years, but occasionally things are trying.

He's known to have a short temper, but is rarely unnecessarily rough, though he was suspended once, for a month, for fighting, -nae beating, a fellow officer for a few off colour comments. One thing that really gets his goat is stereotyping. He's always quick to point out that he's not a Mick, since that stereotype about cops earns endless jokes from countless ignorant Americans who only see his red hair and hear his name. Because, in truth, he is a citizen now and his accent is fairly faint, though his brogue becomes more distinct when he's tired, not thinking about it, or feeling strong emotion. Angry or drunk for example.

Also of note || More recently Mackie's taken to drug use. It is this which has caused the weight loss and nervousness. It's the one thing that could cost him his job, any day, more surely than anything else they might discover. He could attempt to talk his way out of his dealings in organized crime, saying he's working undercover. He could escape arrest, but he couldn't talk his way out of a drug test or, even less, explain the results.

It started small, he's smoked the occasional joint since coming to the states, and has experiment with other things, but sometime in the past year he began acquiring harder gear, having test dosed a few times, early on (similar to being a royal taster, he was chosen to ensure that the bricks weren't cut with anything hazardous).
It's easy enough to get a hold of, though he tries to hide his usage from everyone. He takes what he can get, whatever opportunity presents itself, and he's found he's addicted. He dreads the day when he lets his contacts down, when it becomes impossible to keep his cover at the department, but it's too late to just walk away from it.

In five words, I am || Resourceful, proud, sly, deceitful, addicted

Quote:

Hangin' on to the good times.

ii SW3AR iiT CAM3 0FF A C3R3AL B0X
Robin E. Maynard

BUT THiiS CAM3 FR0M MY LAB3L
Rob, Rem, Monte, Paul

TH3Y PUSH3D MY FAC3 iiNT0 TH3 CAK3 3V3RY TiiM3
Twenty-two

STAND UP vs. SiiT D0WN
Male

&& ii SWiiNG WiiTH TH3
Dolls only. Sorry, gentlemen.

J33BUS! PMS MUCH?
You know, you'd learn a lot more if you stopped asking so many questions- just sat back and got to know a person. But since I get the impression that you're not going to give up, I'll humor you. You'd better be damn grateful though; talking about this stuff is bad for business. I'm slick. You have to be if you're going to be successful in this line of work. And yes, I do call it work. I've got to get up every morning-- gotta get out there and earn my way, just like you. You might not approve of my methods; citing the fact that I'm scamming good people out of their money, but the fact of the matter is, they're too gullible to pick up on it and I prefer it that way.

But wait, I don't think we've been properly introduced-- I'm Robin... Yeah, sort of like Robin Hood, except I don't steal from the rich and give to the poor. No, no I'll take money from anyone fool enough to risk it, and I can be pretty darn encouraging when I want to be. Of course you know what Barnum said 'There's a sucker born every minute'. So many marks, so little time. I'm not such a bad guy though, really. I'm big on teamwork, you know. I couldn't pull off the tricks alone. Any good tosser needs his shills and decoys. People to work the crowds, make winning look easy, mislead the marks, and maybe out bet them if they happen to choose correctly. There's even been the rare occasion that a mark has won, but a quick pick-pocketing always solves that. --Teamwork, see?

...Say, can I interest you in a game of skill? Or a game of chance, if that sits better with you.

In addition to being good with my hands, I have a quick, smooth, tongue. I can talk myself into or out of most any situation or any bed. A lady's-man, if you will, I prefer to keep my appearance neat. You will find that I am always well groomed (at least before going out into public), with my shoes polished to a high shine. But I can't claim that it's only to attract the fairer sex. No, if you want anyone to take you seriously, to throw their money away in a game of Find the Lady, you've got to look respectable.

I know how it's beginning to sound, but I am not without morals. I just have my own code. We all do. Honestly, I have a few good friends I'd do almost anything for. I'd do quite a lot for the others too, I suppose, if it ever came up. I don't know how much of that is mutual, but I couldn't get much out of cheating them anyway.

One thing I won't do? Change my hair. (It used to be longer, actually, but wouldn't you know it, I looked a lot like one of those guys on the corner selling watches, or a carny with the slicked back hair and moustache. So of course I cut it.) Now, sure, Jay's had the look longer, but it suits me better, wouldn't you say? -Smirk- Come on, man, you look like a boot camp washout.


MY S0B ST0RY
My past? You really should have asked this one first. I imagine you'll learn just about as much about my personality here.

Life was easy as a kid; for the first fourteen years anyway. I grew up in Chicago, went to school like any other kid, had parents who worked every day, the usual. But it wasn't a usual sort of work. My father was a conman, you see, and my mother an accomplice. Think big time. You've seen The Sting, right? With Newman and Redford? We're talking that kind of scale. He'd scam anyone if it'd prove profitable. He never had friends, only accomplices. No one and nothing was sacred, even his 'partners in crime'. I guess he ******** one too many of them over, in the long run, because they tell me that's what finally caught up with him. Someone he planned to cheat was tipped off, turned the tables, and sent my father in for life instead.

I was angry at first. I'd liked my father. He'd taught me all sorts of neat games- tricks. He'd made me practice, telling me that they'd pay off someday. I hadn't really understood then, but I do now, and it's paying off alright. The b*****d. Yes, I'd been angry at first but as I got older I learned just how good he'd been to my mother and I, and I began to wish I could have put him away myself. You see, Edgar Maynard had a record as long as my arm and a reputation with an even longer reach. Anyone who'd known my father avoided my mother and I, and anyone respectable dreaded any association with the name Maynard.

My mother did eventually remarry, though it was out of necessity, not love. And I did finish school. After graduation I worked an odd job here and there, but I could never stick to them. I did actually apply for a real job, about a year and a half back- an opening for a Croupier... a dealer at a casino. It was a perfect fit. The owner was mad about me- would have hired me on the spot if he hadn't had to wait for some paper-work. 'No big deal,' he told me. 'It'll only be a few days.' I was hyped. A real job, making real money, and one I was qualified for. Then the background check came back: 'Son of Edgar Maynard - Conman', it'd said. It listed my fathers crimes and, as far as my boss was concerned, they may as well have been my own. He wouldn't hear my side and before I knew it I was out on my a** once more.

It was the same, time and time again. You wouldn't think it, these days, but some social and business circles have long memories, and it's heard to break into a new one if you're not accepted (even despised) in your own. So, about six months ago, I left. Decided to move away, to find someplace where the authorities and businessmen wouldn't know my father; someplace I'd have a chance.

I'll never be a croupier, that's one bit of history that will always follow me, but in the meantime I've fallen back on what I know. What's familiar. The tricks- cheating people. Maybe I'll try for a real life again, someday, but I've found my niche for now. My father cheated me, and as bitter as it makes me to say it, 'like father, like son'.

GiiMM3!

• Cigarettes
• Anyone with a few bucks in their pocket
• Shoes
• New cards
• Busy street corners
• Shills
• Suckers
• Conversation
• A good lookout/partner
• An eager crowd
• People who don't know me

H3LL N0!

• Reputations you can't shake
• The cops
• The price of cigarettes these days
• Anyone without a few bucks in their wallet
• Anyone else working the same crowd
• Missing cards
• Card sharks
• Confined spaces
• children
• Scuffs

3AR S3X

Chicago blues
• Earl Hooker
• Howlin' Wolf
• Muddy Waters
Jazz
• Louis Armstrong
• Jelly Roll Morton
• Duke Ellington
• Ella Fitzgerald
• Bird
• Chet Baker
Other
• REO Speedwagon
• REM
• AC/DC
• ZZTop
• The Kinks
• The Ramones
• The Grateful Dead
• Iggy Pop
• Depeche Mode
• Pink Floyd
• Jethro Tull
• Lightnin' Hopkins

ii S0LD MY H3ART F0R A PACK 0F CiiGAR3TT3S
The Singer

ii KN0W TH3 B00K SAYS ii'M
The scammer

BUT B3HiiND TH3 MASK ii'M
Ffaux Pas

An Advanced Historical Group RP (No longer a member - but still advertising)

My character

I was christened || Léon Sébastien Bertrand
But they call me || Lionel
My suns and moons || Twenty-six
Monsieur or Madame? || Monsieur
I see through || A rather nondescript shade of blue. His appearance doesn't merit a lasting impression, in general; least of all his eye colour.
The crown 'pon my head || Something between dark blond and light brown. We'll call it 'sandy', to apply a term to such a dull shade. Thick and coarse, it falls just past his shoulders, and is worn (neatly) tied back, despite it's defiant insistence on curling.
I stand to || 5'8"
My weight in gold || 150 lbs.
My face is || Fair- prone to burning quickly -and a blush- whether result of some indignity or anger, is easily apparent.

When I look in the mirrors || Léon does not present a terribly imposing figure. He is of moderate height and medium build. His features, like his frame, do little to distinguish him from other men. His jaw is neither broad nor effeminate, his nose neither too large nor small for his face. Léon is, to be perfectly frank, decidedly average.
Average, that is, unless regarded with more than passing notice. An image, a mirror, cannot tell you half as much as a few seconds' observation. --If one were to linger, a moment longer, in scrutiny, they might recognize a certain determination in his bearing. A keen wariness in the eyes and a haughtiness of mien, which he endeavors to suppress. They would quickly discover just how cleverly an expression can lie. For it is, in fact, his expressions which give Léon character. His smile, bestowed upon a friend, is warm and regardful even, on occasion, affectionate. That same smile, turned upon an unknown, or an enemy, does not reach the eyes. His brow, likewise, is firm and expressive.
My flaws, my perfections || Léon would consider his hair a flaw, were he accustomed to pay it any more mind than necessary. That aside, there is very little to mention here, apart from the typical, small, quickly fading scars acquired from boyhood and constant practice with the blade. He is also prone to burning and allergies.

I love only || Pursuits of romance generally turn out badly, thus he tends to avoid them.
I spend the days || Léon is serving as a King's Musketeer, though his reasons for this career choice are varied.
My justice || In addition to the standard issue musket, Léon favours (predictably) the rapier and main gauche. His own sword is Spanish made.
Purchased for him by his uncle, it is a simple style and, at the time of purchase, poorly cared for. But it appealed to Léon, for its simplicity and function, as well as what it represented to the boy (from the moment he saw it). Constancy, forbearance, longevity, and a respect for the past. --And, indeed, when cleaned up, and blade replaced (with one, also Spanish, approximately forty inches in length and diamond in cross section) it did appear almost new again. The guard is a functional blend of swept and cup hilt styles similar to the Pappenheimer, and since becoming a musketeer, Léon has had it etched with a French-style cross.
His dagger, in comparison, is fairly unremarkable

Myself || In order to justly paint the portrait of his personality, we must first reveal something of his past. Léon is a Huguenot. It is this, first and foremost, which has shaped his life from childhood. He'd lost family, many years before his birth, to the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre in 1572, and the successive uprisings. Finally, his own father was killed for his beliefs, several years later. Léon, being but two at the time, would remember his father only through his mother's memory and her hatred of the Roman Catholic Church.
It was only another eight years before she passed on as well, victim to some illness or other. The boy was then sent to the region of Picardie to live with his uncle, also a devout Protestant réformee. Between being raised by his angry mother and an active Huguenot uncle, Léon is bitter and his beliefs are extreme.
Still, Léon loves his country, despite the flaws of the church and its rulers. He does not, however, love the king who would refuse them the privileges which had been granted to them by the Edict of Nantes. A king who, when reminded of the claims the Protestants had, (if the promises of Henry the Third and Henry the Fourth were to be regarded), would answer "the first-named monarch feared them, and the latter loved them; but I neither fear nor love them."
So, from his youth, he was raised to be staunch, and active, in his beliefs. He dedicated himself to becoming a guardsman for the crown, getting closer to the king and Cardinal. He is, perhaps, vengeful, and certainly an extremist. --And this 'just' king, has not proved so just, after all. The Huguenot free cities were lost one after the other, after they were conquered by the forces of Cardinal Richelieu, and the last and most important stronghold, La Rochelle, fell in 1629 after a siege lasting a month.
Léon was there.

As for his personality, Léon is secretive, about his religious leanings as well as his past. He acts as a Catholic in public to avoid drawing attention, and practices as a Protestant in private. He is hot-headed where religion or politics are concerned. A flaw which he struggles to keep under rein, lest his true opinions be discovered. He is unlikely to approach, or initiate conversation, though whether because he is shy, or simply cautious and reserved, is hard to say.

When he does find allies, he is unerringly loyal, but ally does not equate to friend.
In truth, he is wary of most people, and slow to trust. And, though he feigns amicability well enough, his countenance may give his true feelings away.
Clever and keenly perceptive in his observation, Léon is a fair judge of character. His opinions tend to be just and well regarded by his acquaintances, as he is not inclined to offer his point of view unless requested and, then, not until he's given it due consideration. This, combined with the necessary secrecy, evinces that the young man does nothing without, first, thinking his actions through. Léon's methodical nature, being well known to his friends, reassures them of his loyalty to his king. A loyalty which few could doubt, despite his reticent ways.

While he is not overly large, nor commanding, his will is strong and his quiet determination impressive. These are the traits that earned him a place with the Musketeers, after his two years service with a lesser regiment.

In five words, I am || Determined, methodical, cagey, Protestant, and dutiful. (Whether in filial respect for his family, his beliefs, or his country)
My dreams || His dreams are realized by becoming a Musketeer. The only other thing he could hope for would be a definite end to the religious disputes, and for the Protestants' right to worship publicly to be enforced. If there's any way he can do this in his position, he surely will. But he's simply hoping that the king will do something to stop the Cardinal's attacks, and that further persecution is not to come.

Geoffrey

Geoffrey Leland Faulk [ Twenty~two && September 25 ]
Geoff ;; Lee
Technician (Systems Sciences) && Navigation
Callsign

Hmm, where to start.

--Of course!

If you've ever read a person's self summary on one of those dating connection sites (and I can tell you, I tried a few), they all start the same. 'I'm terrible at writing these things.' 'I hate trying to sum myself up in so few words.' Or 'there's not a lot to say about me.'

Well, I cling to no delusions of being unique. I really am terrible at talking about myself, so here goes nothing.

I could claim that I'm not your average geek, but you've seem my pictures. So, without a doubt, you've already decided for youself that that's precisely what I am. And, well, you're right.

I played a few too many computer games growing up. Watched far too many Sci-fi movies. And stayed up so late reading that I could barely stay awake in my classes. You know the kid, pale, glasses, pocket protector. ...Alright, I never had the pocket protector, but I did alternate between button ups and t-shirts with, what I thought at the time, were cleverly geeky phrases.

I've been into Science Fiction since a young age. I've always loved the retro sci-fi. You remember, right? Star Wars, Star Trek, 2001, Asimov, Heinlein, Arthur C. Clarke, Wells, Herbert, Vonnegut, the original greats from the early days of movies and science fiction novels, those hundreds of years ago. Sure, the modern stuff's alright, but I like nothing better than comparing their vision of the future with the actualization of time.

My obsession is, I realize now, a little extreme, but I just can't give it up.
I mean, I wanted to be Han Solo when I was a boy. Truth be told, I still do. I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be a pilot, and I wanted to win the princess. --I mean, Luke had some bad-a** moves when you put him in the pilot's seat, but Leia was his sister. He got the short end of the stick.

Regardless, my dreams of flying were doomed from birth. My parents had cursed me with bad eyesight. At least I tend to blame them. --Sure, maybe there was a procedure to correct it, but I hate the idea of anyone fiddling around with my vision. I can't see for crap as it is, I'd rather not risk making it worse.
I won't put anything in my eyes if I can avoid it. Not contacts and certainly not lasers. And so I wear glasses. They're not the most practical, and I go through them like mad, but that's my choice.

And, you know, it's funny... the kids call you four-eyes, but the phrase never made sense to me. If I had four eyes, I'd probably have a fair chance of being able to see. Why else would you have four if you weren't meant to have better vision than the average individual with two? Needless to say, the term never bothered me much. It's hard to be insulted by something that doesn't stand up to reason.


I guess you could say, though I'm not flying anything, that I'm living my boyhood dream. How many people actually manage that? And since I couldn't fly, I followed my other interests. I've always had a knack for the way computers and programs work. That's how I chose my primary subject of study. If I couldn't do what I wanted, I'd do what I was talented at.
My second subject of interest, in the adacemy, was Navigation. What geek doesn't splooge himself at the chance to study maps of the universe? Any universe. To plot the course. To be in charge of boldly going wherever the hell you want.

---

What Geoff won't tell you is:
• He was terrible in his weapons courses.
• He tends to be easily excitable when it comes to strange situations or Sci-fi references.
• He tried to revive 1337.
• When that failed he attempted to get it listed as dead language.
• He's had a crush on just about every leading female in a Sci-fi series to date.
• He's intimidated by most of his fellow crew members.
• He's never had a serious relationship.
• In fact, he's a virgin (though he'd insist that it was by choice) ...He's probably just holding out for Aeryn, Barbarella, Uhura, or Trinity.
• He seems well adjusted, but beneath it all he's an utter fanboy.




<b>Geek</b> To boldly geek »»
Ffaux Pas


]

|+|The profiles for some of my characters in these RPs are also in my journal, somewhere. Other stuff will probably be added later|+|

[Ffaux Pas]

Most posts are not written in 1st person. It was just a requirement for the specific RP.

SAMPLES ARE BEHIND THE LINK ( starting about three posts down) CLICK IT NUBS

-A few random samples: As much for my convenience as yours-

From various sources, so they aren't all past tense or in the style you may be looking for.

But I like variety, so here goes:

An OC

((This was typed up in about an hour for a prompt for a first person RP I didn't actually want to join. I just felt like writing something.))

I could feel the bead of sweat run from my temple, down the side of my face. I knew the sinews in my neck were standing out, straining, as I felt every muscle in my body tightening against the pain and the sickness. My eyes were full of need; a junky's need. I could picture my appearance as though a mirror were placed in front of me, I'd seen it often enough on my mates. My eyes were bulging; the dark circles stark in contrast against my pallid skin. My hair was unbrushed, red, and wiry, clinging to my forehead and temples where the sweat kept it damply matted. I knew I was a dreadful sight, but there was no time to make myself more presentable. My mates would understand. As for anyone else along the way, ******** them.

Mikey. He was my best mate. He'd help me out.

I dragged myself up from the sofa, not even bothering to turn off the telly. The remote was lost again and the box itself was across the room; I couldn't spare the energy. The grey t-shirt stuck to my back in a most uncomfortable manner. My trousers felt, suddenly, incredibly heavy. Rough. In fact every bit of fabric, every draft of air as I left my flat, made my skin--sometimes crawl, sometimes burn. My bones twisted and scraped against each other as though I was bein' crushed in a vice. A giant fist. I swear, they'd have shattered into a million fragments if I'd waited any longer. Miserable, the whole way to the lift, the real aches and pains began. The nausea in the pit of my stomach was full force and an implacable throb began behind my eyes then spread through my limbs, adding to the discomfort in my bones.

The heat as I stepped outside was unbearable. I hurried, as quickly as my scraping bones would let me, only to find a whole slew of young professionals waitin' to hail their cabs. I couldn't wait my turn, I jumped on the next bus headin' up town and stood clinging to a pole at the base of the stairs. There wasn't a single seat on the lower level and I knew I'd never make it up to the top then down again. I clung, twitching and panting. There was only one thing for it. I needed my hit. Screw the looks from the old codger across the isle, or the bird in front of me. They knew me for what I was, a worthless junky. They knew where I was headed, even if they didn't know my destination. There was a silent disapproval; they'd judged me. Everyone on the coach had by now. But that didn't change the fact that I was in need. That I would not be human again until my aching bones were soothed. I ignored their stares. I held my head high. Even an addict has his pride. On heroin you're king. Who needs anything else? I certainly didn't need their acceptance.

The route seemed twice as long as normal. Perhaps I'd have been better off trying my luck with a cab, but I couldn't bear the idea of waiting unmoving. Making no progress toward my long desired relief. At each stop a new face entered, sometimes an old one exited but, at every station, we stopped. I Would have screamed, if I wasn't afraid that I'd collapse from the exertion. It gave me this brief image of my bones shattering like glass at an opera. I only cringed more.

For the number of bodies on the bus, the air around me seemed frigid. The layer of sweat on my back was like a layer of ice. And when I'd finally arrived at my intended stop I all but stumbled from the bus, in my inept hurry to get that long awaited hit. I paged from the door. Called up to his flat. No answer. s**t. Mikey, you'd damned well better be home. I waited what seemed like an hour before another resident came home. I made some excuse about having grabbed the wrong keys when I left for a jog, which apparently seemed plausible enough because the old wife let me in. And as was just my luck, the lift was broken. Mikey was on the fourth floor, and thanks to a sudden surge of energy; knowing I was so close, I slid along the wall on my way up the stairs. I supported myself with the railing, fighting the cramping and threatening of my guts.

His door was locked, as it always was, but today, for some reason, I took it as a bad omen. I knocked. "Mikey, it's Billy," I called, waiting for an answer which never came. They were supposed to be here. They had to be. --Finally I could take it no longer. The building was old, the wood and doorjamb were rotten. We'd long suspected that the entire place was termite ridden. It ought to have been condemned long ago. So with one 'all or nothing' effort, I rammed my shoulder into the door. I was weak to begin with, but thanks to wood-rot the jamb splintered and the door gave. I groaned at the effort, at the sudden impact of the collision, and fell to my knees just inside the doorway. My head swam for some time before I collected myself, urging my weary feeble limbs on with the sweet promise of junk to come. The door didn't quite close completely anymore, but I was too sick to care. I found where mikey stored his gear. I'd often seen him cooking up before. We all knew where he kept it.

The thing was, I'd never cooked up myself. I was still new to the junky life. Mikey or Johnny, they'd always prepared my shots before. Said they didn't trust me. Didn't want any to go to waste, but Mikey was a good mate. I'd depended on them, and for what? What good did it do now? My mates weren't here; they'd let me down. But I'd watched often enough. There was nothing to it, right?

Well, I had it all. The syringe, the cooker, the filter, the smack, rubber tubing, and some ascorbic acid to dissolve the junk. I measured the water, acid, and heroin into the cooker. Heated. Dissolved. It all seemed to take ages. When it finally looked about right I dropped in the filter, a small disk of cotton, then drew the liquid into the syringe. Now perhaps I wasn't thinking clearly. Perhaps my measurements were off, but when you're in a state like I was, all you know is what you need. Quantity is unimportant. I cooked up, just as I'd seen Mikey doing so many times. Problem was, I'd cooked up enough for two. Unknowing I tied off my tourniquet, pumped up the vein, and spiked it. Drawing back on the plunger slightly, blood leaked into the syringe, verifying that I had, indeed, hit a vein. My next mistake was injecting all of the drug before releasing the tourniquet. By the time I felt the effects it was too late to control the shot.

When I did taste it though, I felt instantly revived. I fell back on the floor and stared at the ceiling. It was as though I was falling, spinning, but I'd never felt better. Joy unlike any I'd ever known took me. No orgasm had ever been so enjoyable. I'd done it. Once and for all. They'd been away, things were not as I'd expected to find them, but what choice had I had? I'd needed that hit. And when Mikey came home he'd be concerned by the damage to his door, he'd worry that the cops had been there, or that something would be found missing. But he'd discover me on the floor where I remained.
And he'd know. He'd understand.

He'd be angry alright, but he'd see that I was taken care of in the end.

Mikey was a good mate. I never had deserved him.

[Ffaux Pas]

I have this huge a** list of canons I'm familiar with/enjoyed/get asked about often, but I never kept up with it, so it's woefully out of date. I may work on that at some point.

[Ffaux Pas]

Happy 5am. What should I do with myself while I wait?

[Ffaux Pas]

Thank god for caffeine.

[Ffaux Pas]

I am freakin' starving. Bring me something greasy.

[Ffaux Pas]

ought to update sig too.

[Ffaux Pas]

Probably not the best time of day to be starting this.

[Ffaux Pas]

Music! I knew something was missing.

[Ffaux Pas]

Bad Pandora! Bad! Never again.

[Ffaux Pas]

Phone, shut up. Stop ******** buzzing at me.