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Birthday: 10/13


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Dorian N. Morte

Born October 13th 1772 in Rammstein Germany to parents Sven Schuster and Jaquetta Crane under the name of Felix Schuster. He was the youngest of three, his older brothers, Hans and Jan, the twins holding a stark resemblance to their father's blonde curly hair and bright blue eyes. By 10 he and his family moved to the States, settling in on the East Coast. Sven worked in a factory, his mother Jaquetta tutored upper class children in French and piano. Felix became an apprentice to a tanner, learning to earn his way while he was still a boy while the twins, both men by this time, both taking jobs in the factory with their father. The years continued, Felix grew older, nearing his teens when all the troubles began. All his life his older brothers had picked on him, beating the boy to a pulp, leaving him crying into the arms of his mother. As he grew in age and height, so did their punishments. A week before his celebration, the twins took him outside, telling stories of lies and decent, small claims to jealousy. The boys left him, bloodied and bruised out in the cold, though he held back his cries and his fists, using his arms to protect his own when the wails weighed down upon him. Picking himself back up, young Felix returned within the domains of his once loving home, finding it torn asunder with the sounds of rage. The fights had picked up in the past few years and only seemed to get worse, the sounds of skin hitting skin echoing into the halls. The anger was rising within them all and Felix had no idea why. Pressing his lanky body to one of the walls, he remained in the shadows, listening to the harsh words, hearing things like "He isn't even mine!" "But you raised him, Sven, with your own sons you raised him!" "He looks nothing like me, like us! He resembles" his rage ebbed and flowed, remembering the dark haired man well, his looming presence, his fearsome gaze that somehow dragged a once faithful wife into his bed chambers. Felix had always known he was a black sheep, his raven hair, straight and flat against his scalp, pale grey eyes, the color of looming storms. His father only bore blonde haired children. Even his mother's dark auburn curls and chocolate eyes resembled nothing of his own. The night was just one of the many that began to unravel for him. The following day his brother, Hans, lost an arm, lopped off through a large shredder, ripped from the socket, leaving nothing but a gaping hole and the tingling feeling of something that once was. Felix only thought how well it served him. The man would have a harder time beating him with just one fist. Even as his brother died, his vicious thoughts stayed with him, the infection seemed to have tainted the very air, turning everyone on edge. It had been his first funeral. Standing in his best blacks in the cold October air, watching a dirt piled over the fair boy, he only wished he was the one to bury him and that Hans was still alive. The following day his mother approached him. Tears staining her cheeks at the lost of her eldest son. Taking her little black sheep to the side, she began to unravel a story, speaking of a dark haired man, a man named Dorian, who had been a dear friend to her once. The man had visited for only a short time, traveling like a gypsy from town to town in search for something better for himself. The man was a French man, a man from her own town. Her story began to waiver, trailing back and forth, retracting as she spoe, giving a clear discription of how the man looked. Felix was still a boy, but he was no idiot. He knew that Sven Schuster was not his father, somehow he had always known. Days lingered now between his thirteenth birthday, the tension in the household every growing. Sven's constant screaming echoing through the halls, masking the sound of the gentle sobbing of his mother. Jan simply avoided him all together, as if some looming aura surrounded the boy. Taking a day off from his works, Felix remained home with his mother, coaxing her into a lesson, helping her along with the musics as he played on his own violin. The grand piano twanged and twinged, small sounds erupting from the beneath the thick hood. The sounds didn't seem to help the children's temperments, running about, squealing and screaming, chasing and smacking one another, the pair of siblings they were. "Felix, watch them," the voice intoned, her body leaning into the guts of the instrument. Managing to snag one child, a small red haired girl with freckles adorning her face, squirming and wiggling about in his clasp. The brother still ran free, knocking over stands and sheet music alike. The moment took just that, a near breath, a blink before it was all over. The shouting boy continued to run, waving his arms about, showing off for the little sister, mocking her in her confinement. Without so much as a warning, the boy slipped, sliding across the smooth wooden floors, papers flying beneath his feet, his hands reaching out, snagging for anything. Perhaps if at that moment she had not tried to pull herself out, had not slipped her shoulder out beneath the hood, perhaps she would have been alright. A broken back, but still alive. The boy found the stand, the soul thing protecting his mother from being crushed beneath the weight of the massive piano. The stand slipped, hood crashed down, a wail of screams erupted as the hood crushed the boys hand, leaving him dangling like a poppet from the edge of the grand. Jaquetta was not so lucky. Her body remained hunched, head and neck still within the confines, arms poised up as if her hands were simply resting on the edges. The soft thump, the disturbance of strings from within as a weight hit down on them hard, the pooling of blood that began to pour down the length of her creamy white dress. He stood there, frozen, grip locked onto the girl who cried, unsure of what was happening, trying to break free and reach her brother. Her wails turned to shrieks, his fingers digging hard into her wrists, nails cutting her soft little flesh, making her bleed gently. A cold chill ran through him as he tossed her aside, unaware of her pleas, her nursing her injured wrists, or her struggling to rise to get help. The cold feeling washed over him, clamped down hard and blacked him out. As if time suddenly slipped by, like her slipped into a slumber, suddenly being woken up as Jan shook him, trying to pry him from the boy, the suddenly audible sound of the girl ringing in his ears. Even as he came to he didn't stop, his hand wrapped like a vice around the child's face, the back of his head slamming repeatedly onto the hard ground, splatters of warm liquid dotting his face, the child no longer struggling beneath him. Jan continued to fight, only his hits held no effect on Felix, his pulling, his screams. He must have been doing it for quite some time, his voice was hoarse and his muscles quaking and spasming. It may have been what Jan had said, it may have been the punch to his jaw, but something brought forth the thing from within as Felix suddenly charged him. Hands encircled the older brother's throat as Felix tried to throttle the life from him, his heated rage blinding him. All was now red. Once more his world was turned to black, though this time the aid of a club was to blame, laying the boy out cold. A day. One more day and he would be a nearing the age of a man. His cell was cold and dank that October day, the skies a looming grey like his eyes. He sat in the far corner, simply waiting. To hang a child was unheard of, but the boy committed cold blood murder and attempted another in the same room. Priests came and prayed for his soul, their words fallen on his deaf ears. Mothers wailed in place of his own, he didn't so much as glance their way. The mother of the children came and cursed his name, hissing and spitting, condemning him to hell and farther pits in it, calling him the Devil's child. Her words were nothing but noise to him. It wasn't until his final visitor did he pay any heed. It was his father. Not the blonde haired man he had known, not Sven, but the grey eyed man his mother spoke of, Dorian. Felix rose, walked towards the man, listened to his words and for the first time was truly afraid. He didn't wish to die. He was but a child. "Fear not," his father said, hand reaching past the bars, cradling the boy's face in his long slender fingers "Death cannot have you if you wish it not to," he left him only with his words and a small silver chain adorned with a circular charm.Within the circle was a small hourglass, rotating freely within, fine ground up diamonds for the sands of time. "Wear it," the man instructed "For luck," his smile remained, granting a small bit of strength to the boy. "And when you wake up, you will know what to do," wake up? Had it all been nothing but a horrid nightmare? He desperately wished it to be. But as he stood at the gallows, thick rope draped about his neck like a scarf, he couldn't help but think that it was not a dream and he may never wake up. "Mind your hands," was he his father left for him, that and a charm, dangling beneath his shirt, the cool chain bouncing along his heaving chest. "Any last words, son?" the priest said. But wasn't he suppose to read him his rights first? When had that happened? His eyes flicked through the audience, the faces all waiting, watching. Jan and Sven stood towards the front. He would not be missed. He did not wish his last vision to be of their scowling faces. Turning towards the back, the sight of the man, Dorian standing off towards the edge, hands shoved well within his pockets did he find his last image. His father and what appeared to be his mother, head well intact. "I guess," he began, clearing his throat, scanning the audience, his gaze falling upon the fallen boy's mother "The lesson to be learned here is, 'mind your hands',". His world suddenly slipped beneath him, eyes bulging as he fought for a gasp of air. It wasn't until he stopped his fight, given up on breathing, did it all become clear. "He isn't dead!" one man cried, tugging on his leg, watching as he wiggled and continued to follow the man with his eyes. "How many coils?" "Thirteen!" it seemed even thirteen couldn't kill him. "We will have to shoot him." "Who has a gun!" "I do!" "who are you?" the man in black approached, pistol in hand, shoving a bullet into the chamber "An old friend," the barrel of the gun felt cold against his clammy skin, surreal nearly. "Remember, Felix, keep your eyes closed." the man said, pulling back the hammer "And mind your hands,".

His life was set new. From the moment he was laid, quite alive, only faking it, into his own grave to the time he crawled himself out of it was his life new. He had lived and died and had so much more to live for. Changing his name, taking the name his father had, not the one Sven had given him, he moved West, traveling on foot, learning quickly what the man Dorian had meant by minding his hands. Years passed, and continued to do so. He grew, aged, grew some more, and then suddenly stopped. As if the sands in his hour glass had ceased. His life had simply stopped proceeding. A man now in his thirties, never married, always fearing to, his intimate relationships costing him in some small way. They would either die from his touches, his control waning in certain circumstances, or would simply grow too close. Fifty more years passed, his age remained always the same. Traveling constantly from town to town every so often, having to start his life a new. It soon became easier simply to stop trying so hard. Questions still fluttered about his mind, still gnawed at him. It wasn't until his eighty-ninth birthday were they all answered. Dorian, the first one, appeared once more, out of the grey clouds as he had before. For once, Morte, a name he found most fitting, looked like his father. His questions were asked, his answers oddly gratifing. Death. The reaper. Grim. The stuff of nightmares and legends, the unknown fear that every mortal holds. Death. He had a face, and he had a name. Having lived it and granted it, he now was able to control it. Offer it. though never take it back. It was a gift. A transportation to another domain, another plane of reality. He had always believed in God as a child, but as he aged, he simply figured that He had simply forgotten about him. His father wasn't always sure of where a person might be led to, though he knew there were places like the heavens and hells Morte had heard of. It was all a matter of perspective. It had been the last he had seen of Dorian, his father, his trainer and in a way his maker. Having slipped through the lives of so many, he simply passed from day to day, placing his gifts where they were needed. Now a man in his own wealth, beneath a man with much power, he looms in the darkness, a dark reminder of the gifts he could grant, ones he revels in. Some may say his works are evil, his position in life a dark and dank view. But he would simply reply as it being something he enjoys, something he is good at. Who are they to deny him his gifts. His true nature remaining a mystery to all, he continues on his path, seeking out the next part of his destination.
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Brich Aus


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Princess Arcee Report | 01/30/2017 8:46 pm
Princess Arcee
I- have no idea where to begin, so I'll leave the honor up to you sweatdrop
I can't wait to get started though <3
Princess Arcee Report | 01/30/2017 8:34 pm
Princess Arcee
Then pm it is!!
Princess Arcee Report | 01/30/2017 8:26 am
Princess Arcee
Any of those would be fine with me :3 I can work with whichever.
And I can or you can start! Whichever you like, lol~
Princess Arcee Report | 01/29/2017 9:43 pm
Princess Arcee
Okie dokie!
Modern times it is!
Princess Arcee Report | 01/29/2017 9:13 pm
Princess Arcee
Oh yes, it's going to be lovely!
I have one more question, though. What time period will it be set in, if any?
Ariel was made for modern time rp, but I can easily change that!
Princess Arcee Report | 01/29/2017 8:43 pm
Princess Arcee
Knock yourself out with the gore and violence and horror~
Ariel was originally made for Five Nights at Freddy rp, so I'm used to gore and such!
Not so good at rp'ing gore and violence myself, but I'm told I'm good at doing horror- though I don't think so ;.;
and yes, her parents are very much alive and well and stealing and swindling
Princess Arcee Report | 01/29/2017 8:22 pm
Princess Arcee
Ariel would be a good fit. She was long neglected and abused by her parents until they accidentally killed her.
And then discarded without a thought.
She would be a very good fit <3
Princess Arcee Report | 01/29/2017 8:08 pm
Princess Arcee
Well then! First thing is first!
Which of my characters would you be interested in interacting with?
I have smol Ariel, the ghost girl. I also have Mimori-chan, who is a Japanese zashiki warashi or house spirit. Both are clearly children~
Then there's Acchan, my somewhat-magical young woman singer.
Or I could come up with someone new~
It's entirely up to you <3
Princess Arcee Report | 01/29/2017 7:39 pm
Princess Arcee
That it does. With that being said, I look forward to brainstorming and plotting something out with you <3
Princess Arcee Report | 01/29/2017 7:32 pm
Princess Arcee
Well, I'm always up for pm or profile comment rp. Just know I apologize in advance if my responses are slow.
Much as it pains me, things don't clean themselves and good help is hard to find.
One also gets distracted by feeding and training those kindred animals ;.;