Post by Κομμα on Aug 4, 2011 0:32:07 GMT 7
As part of my mandatory NaNo procrastination... I've decided to finally work on my Muses' profiles I hadn't finished yet!
It's about bloody time...
... I thought I told you not to use black.
I still find it amusing how you think you can boss me around.
*sighs* At least bold it so it's easier to see...
Fine. Let's get on with it.
----------------------------------------------------
Name: Sean. And as far as I'm concerned, this is my real name now.
Race: Muse. I decided to let go of my past and my humanity, to explore the full potential of this whole muse business. As a result, no, I'm not a human anymore, I'm a muse. He's not lying. None of my other muses have gone quite this far. It does come with certain benefits, but not enough for any of my other muses to let go of their entire lives. Exactly, I'm more devoted than them and therefore better ;D
Age: Twenty-one-ish.
Appears: Late teens, early twenties.
Appearance: Black hair, somewhere between short and medium, dark clothes, pale complexion, pale blue-gray eyes. I'm slender, I'm not exactly tall. Probably 5'9 or 5'10, I haven't really checked. I'm an inch or two shorter than my brother. Hey, look, a picture! Wait, what're you-- i56.tinypic.com/sl5s06.jpg ... I suppose that'll do. But I don't have a cat... Technicalities... *rolls eyes*
Personality: I do a lot of thinking, so I'm not normally extremely loud. I often prefer sticking to the shadows when in a large crowd and observing rather than participating, though I have no objections to communication; I do enjoy being around other people, my quiet is a choice rather than a defensive reaction of any sort. I actually enjoy creating a little chaos from time to time. I personally wouldn't recommend getting on my bad side, as I did frame someone for a large string of serial murders as revenge in a past life. I can take a joke perfectly fine, but I've been told I'm more serious. I deal better with clean and refined people than I do with any other sort, but I'm perfectly capable of being civil with anyone, as long as they are civil with me; as I said, you don't want to get on my bad side. I can't guarantee I'm any more sane now than I was when I was still a human.
Likes: Money, wine, fancy social gatherings, cleanliness, cars (I tend to prefer newer, sleeker models and classics from prior to the sixties), horror and suspense, mystery, reading, classical literature, classical music, instrumental music, quiet settings, meditation, a bit of destruction and general chaos on occasion, being in control. ... Are you and Don seriously from the same family? Erm... yes? >_>
Dislikes: Loud and obnoxious people, dirtiness, hard liquor, drunkards, women that are too forward, most sitcoms and romantic comedies, rap and hip-hop "music", most Shinigami, people with no motivation, muses with no motivation, easily influenced individuals (I won't deny I'm perfectly comfortable with taking advantage of them, but that doesn't mean I like them), spazzy preteens, sparkly vampires, self-declared "Twihards," vampire romance novels on the whole... well, most modern and teen romance, really.
Fears: None. Well, I can't say anything against this. I haven't come across anything that he has any irrational fear of up to this point in time. But if I DO find anything, he'll be changing this immediately. -_-
History: Is this truly necessary? Yep. *cringe*
I suppose I should start with my old life. I was born in a less than pleasant neighborhood in Newmarket-On-Fergus, Co. Clare, Ireland. I mostly stayed out of the way of my father, nor was I quite as close to my mother as Don was. I still strongly preferred her to our father; I got front row seats to his abusive drunkenness. I luckily only co-starred in his little shows on one occasion. My older brother used to be quite protective of me, and fended him off, actually managed to give the drunkard a black eye and a dislocated shoulder. That's not to say that Don didn't get the worst of it; he was only around eleven at the time, after all.
It was very shortly after this that our mother decided she had to leave; it was with good intentions. She intended to leave, save her money, and come back for Don and myself, run off with us to another country. She couldn't take us with her; she was very young when Don was born, forced to quit school to take care of him, and the only things she could do for money wouldn't precisely provide the best atmosphere for any child. She promised she would be back in a few years; when she wasn't, Don and I left. I was twelve, he was fourteen. He was set on finding her; I was fine following him, as long as it got me away from our father, fine living on the streets so as not to be under the same roof as that man. We met Pat shortly thereafter. He was ten at the time; it had been a year since his grandfather died, and he was living with his very overprotective grandmother; overprotective guardians make children wonder what they're being protected from, and Pat found out rather quickly, I think, when he began hanging around us.
Two years later, Don had gotten quite good at making fake IDs. He was nearly sixteen, nearly old enough to legally drink, but he had to go pushing his luck and try one out at a local bar in Newmarket. We happened upon Mac's Tavern, where the bartender happened to be a rather infamous con artist, who tossed the fake ID back at Don and gave him a free pint for the effort. So began something of an apprenticeship between Don and Al, much to Al's distaste; he had grown up on the streets and didn't particularly like where it had led him, only did what he did because he couldn't do anything else anymore. We were in the tavern nearly every day afterwards, and Mac even gave us odd jobs around the place. Mostly janitorial and busboy work, but it was honest work and it was quite welcomed. Mac of course never knew who Al really was; all he knew was that Al could pick out even the most genuine-looking fake ID and he was an asset to the place, so any friend of Al's was a friend of his.
Things turned sour only a year, maybe a year and a half later. Don was seventeen by this point and was introduced to tequila for the very first time on the night his curse with the drink began. It started out quite a good night; we all got quite a good laugh at Don's rather substandard tolerance for liquor, as he was on the floor after only a few shots. Too drunk to really notice anything around him. Too drunk to recognize the voice yelling at the other side of the bar, harassing one of the bartenders working that night. I did recognize it, before the man got too drunk and too wily and was thrown out by Al. I excused myself after Al came back, discretely as I could, and went out the door myself.
Surely enough, it had been exactly who I thought it was. For the first time in four years, I was only a few feet away from my father. He was stumbling off down the street, swearing. I don't know precisely what possessed me to do it, but I followed him. Maybe it was some sort of curiosity. I kept to the shadows as much as I could, but I think I could have followed him in the streetlights and he wouldn't have even noticed. Aside from the fact that he was most certainly intoxicated, perhaps even more so than he used to be on a regular basis, he had a certain purpose to his gait.
I followed him down an alleyway, and through a maze of alleys, until he stopped at a small blacktop with a dumpster I recognized almost instantly; I supposed he had walked a few blocks down to be discreet, as this alleyway was only a short walk from the back exit of Mac's. There was someone else already here as well. Still, I kept to the shadows, watching their exchange in a near terrified silence. Standing in front of the dumpster with cold and unforgiving eyes on the drunkard, was my mother. From what I gathered of their brief conversation, it was the first time they had met since she left. He had managed to track her down and demand that she meet him, and he was begging her to come home, begging her to tell him where they were; she knew full well that myself and Don had run away from home, knew full well where we were and what we were up to because she was often in Mac's herself, was fairly good friends with the staff.
But she didn't want us to know she was even in town, as she still hadn't managed to save nearly enough money for us to get out, to get away. She was ashamed and didn't want her boys knowing the lowly means she had to resort to in order to scrounge up a small amount of cash.
My memories of the conversation itself are vague. He stumbled forward to put his hand on her arm at some point while he was begging her to come home, and she pulled a gun and screamed at him not to touch her. There was a struggle, six shots rang out. It was she who fell to the ground, and he who stumbled back, ran down a different alley than mine, the alley that led right out next to Mac's Tavern.
I ran as well. I skipped town. I couldn't be there anymore, not with that right around the corner of the tavern where I had spent the majority of my time for the past year, right around the corner physically and in my own mind. I picked up the gun as I ran and brought it with me; it was a standard revolver, and I manage to thieve a few bullets from a local pawn shop before making my way out to the highway, gun hidden, and hitchhiking my way up to Ennis. Here, a year down the road, I met Zellogi.
To this day, I still can't explain the circles that my conscious and subconscious mind led me in, twisted between dreams and nightmares and reality. Something made me think that everything that happened that night had been Al's fault; he had as good as pulled the trigger, in my head. There was the fact that he had thrown the man out of the bar in the first place, but it went far beyond that. Since we met Al, Don had begun losing sight of his goal to find our mother and get out of Newmarket. Al was too good of a friend, something like an older brother, even like the father Don had never known. There may have been a little jealousy on my part. More than that, my mother had apparently known Al, and Al had known we were looking for her and never pointed us in her direction. For as much a friend as we had considered him, that truly bothered me, I think. There were a number of factors that could have led to the delusion. Over the next year, it became less like Al had caused this to happen indirectly, and more like it had been him that I watched pull the trigger. It became reality to me. In my mind, it was him I had seen in the alley that night, it was him that had murdered my mother, and I wanted revenge. Zellogi was more than happy to oblige.
Zellogi was a shinigami, one quite curious about humans. In short, I believe he was curious to see what a madman would do with a death note. I must have provided him with quite a show; I spent a year devising my plans and finding somewhere to hide out before enacting anything. I had Zellogi make his way to Newmarket, to Al's apartment, to leave a note for him with instructions, and a warning that I would kill the few people he cared about should he decide not obey. I told him when and where there would be a freak animal attack against a woman in her home, that there would be instructions left at her home as to where to go next to find me. Effectively, as he was at the scene at the time this attack and every subsequent attack occurred, under my instruction and threat, he became the lead suspect in this strange series of animal attacks across the country.
As the charades went on, my delusions gradually lost their grounds. I didn't know what the truth was for a while, and slowly began to accept that my revenge against Al was without any real grounds. When it came down to this, I finally led Al straight to me. I was saner, though perhaps not quite sane yet. Given time, I might have managed to return to something like normal, but I wasn't going to allow the time. The greatest detective the world over was on the case, and though Al was the "main suspect", Zellogi had done some recon under my request and delivered me information that I was the real main suspect; Al was only a front for the public, so he might be caught and help lead L in the right direction, straight to me. I couldn't have that. Losing wasn't an option, I had to be in control of the situation. Rather than let my slightly saner side persuade me to beg for forgiveness, my pride and remaining madness led me to go through with the final step of my plan; I wrote my own name in the death note, and detailed it so I would die in the very same manner as my victims, passing the death note over to Al. I died, he gave up the notebook, and the murders ended, but my groundless revenge succeeded; Al was still suspected, was still wanted, was still at risk of being sentenced to death.
But, as Al is proof, death in another universe doesn't really affect a muse, whether they be merely an occupational Muse or not. As you can see, nice memories in my previous life are numbered; I had no problems cutting all ties with it. Before I ever did, I did apologize for the monstrous mistakes I made; to Al and Pat, and especially to my brother. Al and Pat are on somewhat grudging speaking terms with me, while Don refuses to acknowledge that I'm here and tends to leave when I do show up. I suppose regret is the only tie I haven't quite cut with my previous life; but at the same time, I still feel as though I was another being then entirely, enough that I was able to forfeit my humanity and become a fully-fledged muse, in terms of both occupation and species.
As a Muse, I'm not really a living entity; I am inspiration embodied, and therefore am more or less incapable of dying, and able to tap into abilities that I would not otherwise have as a human; in my case, I can phase in and out of material form, wholly or partially, as I choose to. Think of the Cheshire Cat floating into view as only a crescent moon of a smile, then a head, then one stripe at a time; or conversely, appearing slowly all at once. Even when he's not visible, or only partially visible, he is there, but not in any material form. My phasing is very similar in nature.
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Yay!!!!
Are you going to work on that novel now?
Er... *tiptoes away to next character profile*
-_-'
It's about bloody time...
... I thought I told you not to use black.
I still find it amusing how you think you can boss me around.
*sighs* At least bold it so it's easier to see...
Fine. Let's get on with it.
----------------------------------------------------
Name: Sean. And as far as I'm concerned, this is my real name now.
Race: Muse. I decided to let go of my past and my humanity, to explore the full potential of this whole muse business. As a result, no, I'm not a human anymore, I'm a muse. He's not lying. None of my other muses have gone quite this far. It does come with certain benefits, but not enough for any of my other muses to let go of their entire lives. Exactly, I'm more devoted than them and therefore better ;D
Age: Twenty-one-ish.
Appears: Late teens, early twenties.
Appearance: Black hair, somewhere between short and medium, dark clothes, pale complexion, pale blue-gray eyes. I'm slender, I'm not exactly tall. Probably 5'9 or 5'10, I haven't really checked. I'm an inch or two shorter than my brother. Hey, look, a picture! Wait, what're you-- i56.tinypic.com/sl5s06.jpg ... I suppose that'll do. But I don't have a cat... Technicalities... *rolls eyes*
Personality: I do a lot of thinking, so I'm not normally extremely loud. I often prefer sticking to the shadows when in a large crowd and observing rather than participating, though I have no objections to communication; I do enjoy being around other people, my quiet is a choice rather than a defensive reaction of any sort. I actually enjoy creating a little chaos from time to time. I personally wouldn't recommend getting on my bad side, as I did frame someone for a large string of serial murders as revenge in a past life. I can take a joke perfectly fine, but I've been told I'm more serious. I deal better with clean and refined people than I do with any other sort, but I'm perfectly capable of being civil with anyone, as long as they are civil with me; as I said, you don't want to get on my bad side. I can't guarantee I'm any more sane now than I was when I was still a human.
Likes: Money, wine, fancy social gatherings, cleanliness, cars (I tend to prefer newer, sleeker models and classics from prior to the sixties), horror and suspense, mystery, reading, classical literature, classical music, instrumental music, quiet settings, meditation, a bit of destruction and general chaos on occasion, being in control. ... Are you and Don seriously from the same family? Erm... yes? >_>
Dislikes: Loud and obnoxious people, dirtiness, hard liquor, drunkards, women that are too forward, most sitcoms and romantic comedies, rap and hip-hop "music", most Shinigami, people with no motivation, muses with no motivation, easily influenced individuals (I won't deny I'm perfectly comfortable with taking advantage of them, but that doesn't mean I like them), spazzy preteens, sparkly vampires, self-declared "Twihards," vampire romance novels on the whole... well, most modern and teen romance, really.
Fears: None. Well, I can't say anything against this. I haven't come across anything that he has any irrational fear of up to this point in time. But if I DO find anything, he'll be changing this immediately. -_-
History: Is this truly necessary? Yep. *cringe*
I suppose I should start with my old life. I was born in a less than pleasant neighborhood in Newmarket-On-Fergus, Co. Clare, Ireland. I mostly stayed out of the way of my father, nor was I quite as close to my mother as Don was. I still strongly preferred her to our father; I got front row seats to his abusive drunkenness. I luckily only co-starred in his little shows on one occasion. My older brother used to be quite protective of me, and fended him off, actually managed to give the drunkard a black eye and a dislocated shoulder. That's not to say that Don didn't get the worst of it; he was only around eleven at the time, after all.
It was very shortly after this that our mother decided she had to leave; it was with good intentions. She intended to leave, save her money, and come back for Don and myself, run off with us to another country. She couldn't take us with her; she was very young when Don was born, forced to quit school to take care of him, and the only things she could do for money wouldn't precisely provide the best atmosphere for any child. She promised she would be back in a few years; when she wasn't, Don and I left. I was twelve, he was fourteen. He was set on finding her; I was fine following him, as long as it got me away from our father, fine living on the streets so as not to be under the same roof as that man. We met Pat shortly thereafter. He was ten at the time; it had been a year since his grandfather died, and he was living with his very overprotective grandmother; overprotective guardians make children wonder what they're being protected from, and Pat found out rather quickly, I think, when he began hanging around us.
Two years later, Don had gotten quite good at making fake IDs. He was nearly sixteen, nearly old enough to legally drink, but he had to go pushing his luck and try one out at a local bar in Newmarket. We happened upon Mac's Tavern, where the bartender happened to be a rather infamous con artist, who tossed the fake ID back at Don and gave him a free pint for the effort. So began something of an apprenticeship between Don and Al, much to Al's distaste; he had grown up on the streets and didn't particularly like where it had led him, only did what he did because he couldn't do anything else anymore. We were in the tavern nearly every day afterwards, and Mac even gave us odd jobs around the place. Mostly janitorial and busboy work, but it was honest work and it was quite welcomed. Mac of course never knew who Al really was; all he knew was that Al could pick out even the most genuine-looking fake ID and he was an asset to the place, so any friend of Al's was a friend of his.
Things turned sour only a year, maybe a year and a half later. Don was seventeen by this point and was introduced to tequila for the very first time on the night his curse with the drink began. It started out quite a good night; we all got quite a good laugh at Don's rather substandard tolerance for liquor, as he was on the floor after only a few shots. Too drunk to really notice anything around him. Too drunk to recognize the voice yelling at the other side of the bar, harassing one of the bartenders working that night. I did recognize it, before the man got too drunk and too wily and was thrown out by Al. I excused myself after Al came back, discretely as I could, and went out the door myself.
Surely enough, it had been exactly who I thought it was. For the first time in four years, I was only a few feet away from my father. He was stumbling off down the street, swearing. I don't know precisely what possessed me to do it, but I followed him. Maybe it was some sort of curiosity. I kept to the shadows as much as I could, but I think I could have followed him in the streetlights and he wouldn't have even noticed. Aside from the fact that he was most certainly intoxicated, perhaps even more so than he used to be on a regular basis, he had a certain purpose to his gait.
I followed him down an alleyway, and through a maze of alleys, until he stopped at a small blacktop with a dumpster I recognized almost instantly; I supposed he had walked a few blocks down to be discreet, as this alleyway was only a short walk from the back exit of Mac's. There was someone else already here as well. Still, I kept to the shadows, watching their exchange in a near terrified silence. Standing in front of the dumpster with cold and unforgiving eyes on the drunkard, was my mother. From what I gathered of their brief conversation, it was the first time they had met since she left. He had managed to track her down and demand that she meet him, and he was begging her to come home, begging her to tell him where they were; she knew full well that myself and Don had run away from home, knew full well where we were and what we were up to because she was often in Mac's herself, was fairly good friends with the staff.
But she didn't want us to know she was even in town, as she still hadn't managed to save nearly enough money for us to get out, to get away. She was ashamed and didn't want her boys knowing the lowly means she had to resort to in order to scrounge up a small amount of cash.
My memories of the conversation itself are vague. He stumbled forward to put his hand on her arm at some point while he was begging her to come home, and she pulled a gun and screamed at him not to touch her. There was a struggle, six shots rang out. It was she who fell to the ground, and he who stumbled back, ran down a different alley than mine, the alley that led right out next to Mac's Tavern.
I ran as well. I skipped town. I couldn't be there anymore, not with that right around the corner of the tavern where I had spent the majority of my time for the past year, right around the corner physically and in my own mind. I picked up the gun as I ran and brought it with me; it was a standard revolver, and I manage to thieve a few bullets from a local pawn shop before making my way out to the highway, gun hidden, and hitchhiking my way up to Ennis. Here, a year down the road, I met Zellogi.
To this day, I still can't explain the circles that my conscious and subconscious mind led me in, twisted between dreams and nightmares and reality. Something made me think that everything that happened that night had been Al's fault; he had as good as pulled the trigger, in my head. There was the fact that he had thrown the man out of the bar in the first place, but it went far beyond that. Since we met Al, Don had begun losing sight of his goal to find our mother and get out of Newmarket. Al was too good of a friend, something like an older brother, even like the father Don had never known. There may have been a little jealousy on my part. More than that, my mother had apparently known Al, and Al had known we were looking for her and never pointed us in her direction. For as much a friend as we had considered him, that truly bothered me, I think. There were a number of factors that could have led to the delusion. Over the next year, it became less like Al had caused this to happen indirectly, and more like it had been him that I watched pull the trigger. It became reality to me. In my mind, it was him I had seen in the alley that night, it was him that had murdered my mother, and I wanted revenge. Zellogi was more than happy to oblige.
Zellogi was a shinigami, one quite curious about humans. In short, I believe he was curious to see what a madman would do with a death note. I must have provided him with quite a show; I spent a year devising my plans and finding somewhere to hide out before enacting anything. I had Zellogi make his way to Newmarket, to Al's apartment, to leave a note for him with instructions, and a warning that I would kill the few people he cared about should he decide not obey. I told him when and where there would be a freak animal attack against a woman in her home, that there would be instructions left at her home as to where to go next to find me. Effectively, as he was at the scene at the time this attack and every subsequent attack occurred, under my instruction and threat, he became the lead suspect in this strange series of animal attacks across the country.
As the charades went on, my delusions gradually lost their grounds. I didn't know what the truth was for a while, and slowly began to accept that my revenge against Al was without any real grounds. When it came down to this, I finally led Al straight to me. I was saner, though perhaps not quite sane yet. Given time, I might have managed to return to something like normal, but I wasn't going to allow the time. The greatest detective the world over was on the case, and though Al was the "main suspect", Zellogi had done some recon under my request and delivered me information that I was the real main suspect; Al was only a front for the public, so he might be caught and help lead L in the right direction, straight to me. I couldn't have that. Losing wasn't an option, I had to be in control of the situation. Rather than let my slightly saner side persuade me to beg for forgiveness, my pride and remaining madness led me to go through with the final step of my plan; I wrote my own name in the death note, and detailed it so I would die in the very same manner as my victims, passing the death note over to Al. I died, he gave up the notebook, and the murders ended, but my groundless revenge succeeded; Al was still suspected, was still wanted, was still at risk of being sentenced to death.
But, as Al is proof, death in another universe doesn't really affect a muse, whether they be merely an occupational Muse or not. As you can see, nice memories in my previous life are numbered; I had no problems cutting all ties with it. Before I ever did, I did apologize for the monstrous mistakes I made; to Al and Pat, and especially to my brother. Al and Pat are on somewhat grudging speaking terms with me, while Don refuses to acknowledge that I'm here and tends to leave when I do show up. I suppose regret is the only tie I haven't quite cut with my previous life; but at the same time, I still feel as though I was another being then entirely, enough that I was able to forfeit my humanity and become a fully-fledged muse, in terms of both occupation and species.
As a Muse, I'm not really a living entity; I am inspiration embodied, and therefore am more or less incapable of dying, and able to tap into abilities that I would not otherwise have as a human; in my case, I can phase in and out of material form, wholly or partially, as I choose to. Think of the Cheshire Cat floating into view as only a crescent moon of a smile, then a head, then one stripe at a time; or conversely, appearing slowly all at once. Even when he's not visible, or only partially visible, he is there, but not in any material form. My phasing is very similar in nature.
--------------------------------
Yay!!!!
Are you going to work on that novel now?
Er... *tiptoes away to next character profile*
-_-'
