Post by andreas karl maria von hesse on Oct 13, 2010 18:36:28 GMT -5
andreas karl maria von hesse
character basics
I WANNA DARKEN IN THE SKIES, OPEN THE FLOODGATES UP.
I WANT TO CHANGE MY MIND, I WANT TO BE ENOUGH.
I WANNA DARKEN IN THE SKIES, OPEN THE FLOODGATES UP.
I WANT TO CHANGE MY MIND, I WANT TO BE ENOUGH.
FULL NAME , andreas karl maria von hesse
NICKNAMES , none.
AGE , twenty four
BIRTHDAY , march the first
SEXUALITY , bisexual
GRADE , non applicable
OCCUPATION , non applicable
MEMBER GROUP , college student
hello, my name is ZIGGY. i am SEVENTEEN years young and i consider myself a(n) INTERMEDIATE roleplayer. i found this site through ADS. so, here's an example of my average post:
Laying on her back in the bed, staring at the ceiling she realized she spent far too much of her life laying on her back staring a ceilings.
With decrepit men who were near-death heaving on top of her, Bensoning her Hedges. Men, not boys. Men who fought in wars. Men with beloved wives. Men who bed young whores. Men who had children, who had children. Men who wore tweed blazers and neckties. And night, night, night drolled along with eyes fixed on ceiling fans, legs spanned. Wham, bam, (thank you ma’am).
Then there were those nights, laying in lonely beds. Like tonight. Where she stared at the ceiling, mouthing comforting thoughts, with the the dull glow from her nightlight in the corner of her eye. Peppermint. Rowan’s Wallaby. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Mom. Ilse. Dick. Alois. Dick. Dick. Heath. Heath. Tuxedo cake. Pink elephants. Orange chocolate. Karlie. Golden-roofed Burmese temples. Tents in Wales. Die Lorelei. And if the mantra was useless and the reality of being utterly alone in black, silent room crept up against her, then she left.
She stretched in her bed and pulled herself out of its familiar, starch sheets. Pulling on an unfamiliar, flannel shirt which was neither hers nor known to her who it belonged to she did the delicate dance en pointe to the door. Some nights she felt like Moses crossing the Red Sea but instead of walls of water lining her, there were sleeping dryads. And in the port of the room, in its far-most corner laid the most important one of all. She looked like an angel, but slept like a whore. Body sprawled across the mattress, loose brown hair straight from Bellocq’s photos from Storyville, and mouth open like Saint Teresa in Ecstasy. Like any night, she’d pull the quilt over Lolita, making sure to cover that yellow bruise on her arm she’d probably given the nymphette herself out of some jealous or childish fit. She gives her a kiss on the cheek, but her motives behind it were utterly out of sisterly obligation — utterly.
She did not feel comfortable touching people or with people touching her. Not just perverse touchings, but any sort of brush, pet, pinch or feel. There was no grim, pall, pain, or dread to it. It was as simple as hating the screech of nails on chalkboards. In its core it was completely and utterly selfish. She did not want to share, she did not want to let others be in her personal space, the only way you could touch her was if you were pleasing her in some way: hugging, kissing, or coitus. The limbic aversion manifested its way through a series of peculiar mannerism: a) sitting on the farthest end of any dining table, seats away from her peers for the fear that they might accidentally touch elbows B) needing two seats to herself in any situation be it a school assembly, chapel, or a flight even if its at the expense of another individual going without a place c) standing up in situations where everyone is seated because the open seat is much too close to the person next to her. and d) pressing herself against the walls of halls as she walked, even in the middle of the night, so she would not have to fear brushing arms with someone.
There was something miserable about Beaton; it was not the dead silence of the dormitories or the seemingly-everlasting rain that decided to make its presence known once more as she walked outside. There existed this tension of knowing that this was not the end, though it felt like the end; that it was only the first step of a long and dreary life. That after days, months, years of living here their quiet complacency was more volatile then it seemed. It was a feeling of Chekhovian nastroenie, which she often felt she experienced alone and that no one knew what it was except for her, and if she tried to convey it or explain it it was utterly lost. She knew that people had reasons for feeling this way; maybe they had neglectful parents, maybe they were raped, maybe they had abusive boyfriends, terminal diseases. But didn’t know why she herself felt this way but she knew there was someone else who felt the same way.
Gaspard, the wise man with Jupiter’s libido, often told her that the Old Man of the Storr always had a bedfellow. It took her years to figure out that this wasn’t a piece of his usual innuendo. It was only a lazy walk to the Storr, thirty minutes on a rainy day because your feet stuck to the mud. For the year she tried to be Lux Lisbon, she wrote ‘Didrik Staffeldt’ on her underwear. Her mother, who was understandably concerned that her seven year old had boy’s names penned onto her Sailor Moon panties threw each pair out. To her, he was completely predictable. She knew everything from what side of his mouth he placed his cigarette in, to how he licked his lips before a smoke, and to what particular time and where he smoked them. The Old Man of the Storr always had a bedfellow, and that bedfellow was Norwegian and a terrible smoker .She brought herself down, sitting down next to him and resting her head on his shoulder. ”Stop avoiding me. “
With decrepit men who were near-death heaving on top of her, Bensoning her Hedges. Men, not boys. Men who fought in wars. Men with beloved wives. Men who bed young whores. Men who had children, who had children. Men who wore tweed blazers and neckties. And night, night, night drolled along with eyes fixed on ceiling fans, legs spanned. Wham, bam, (thank you ma’am).
Then there were those nights, laying in lonely beds. Like tonight. Where she stared at the ceiling, mouthing comforting thoughts, with the the dull glow from her nightlight in the corner of her eye. Peppermint. Rowan’s Wallaby. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Mom. Ilse. Dick. Alois. Dick. Dick. Heath. Heath. Tuxedo cake. Pink elephants. Orange chocolate. Karlie. Golden-roofed Burmese temples. Tents in Wales. Die Lorelei. And if the mantra was useless and the reality of being utterly alone in black, silent room crept up against her, then she left.
She stretched in her bed and pulled herself out of its familiar, starch sheets. Pulling on an unfamiliar, flannel shirt which was neither hers nor known to her who it belonged to she did the delicate dance en pointe to the door. Some nights she felt like Moses crossing the Red Sea but instead of walls of water lining her, there were sleeping dryads. And in the port of the room, in its far-most corner laid the most important one of all. She looked like an angel, but slept like a whore. Body sprawled across the mattress, loose brown hair straight from Bellocq’s photos from Storyville, and mouth open like Saint Teresa in Ecstasy. Like any night, she’d pull the quilt over Lolita, making sure to cover that yellow bruise on her arm she’d probably given the nymphette herself out of some jealous or childish fit. She gives her a kiss on the cheek, but her motives behind it were utterly out of sisterly obligation — utterly.
She did not feel comfortable touching people or with people touching her. Not just perverse touchings, but any sort of brush, pet, pinch or feel. There was no grim, pall, pain, or dread to it. It was as simple as hating the screech of nails on chalkboards. In its core it was completely and utterly selfish. She did not want to share, she did not want to let others be in her personal space, the only way you could touch her was if you were pleasing her in some way: hugging, kissing, or coitus. The limbic aversion manifested its way through a series of peculiar mannerism: a) sitting on the farthest end of any dining table, seats away from her peers for the fear that they might accidentally touch elbows B) needing two seats to herself in any situation be it a school assembly, chapel, or a flight even if its at the expense of another individual going without a place c) standing up in situations where everyone is seated because the open seat is much too close to the person next to her. and d) pressing herself against the walls of halls as she walked, even in the middle of the night, so she would not have to fear brushing arms with someone.
There was something miserable about Beaton; it was not the dead silence of the dormitories or the seemingly-everlasting rain that decided to make its presence known once more as she walked outside. There existed this tension of knowing that this was not the end, though it felt like the end; that it was only the first step of a long and dreary life. That after days, months, years of living here their quiet complacency was more volatile then it seemed. It was a feeling of Chekhovian nastroenie, which she often felt she experienced alone and that no one knew what it was except for her, and if she tried to convey it or explain it it was utterly lost. She knew that people had reasons for feeling this way; maybe they had neglectful parents, maybe they were raped, maybe they had abusive boyfriends, terminal diseases. But didn’t know why she herself felt this way but she knew there was someone else who felt the same way.
Gaspard, the wise man with Jupiter’s libido, often told her that the Old Man of the Storr always had a bedfellow. It took her years to figure out that this wasn’t a piece of his usual innuendo. It was only a lazy walk to the Storr, thirty minutes on a rainy day because your feet stuck to the mud. For the year she tried to be Lux Lisbon, she wrote ‘Didrik Staffeldt’ on her underwear. Her mother, who was understandably concerned that her seven year old had boy’s names penned onto her Sailor Moon panties threw each pair out. To her, he was completely predictable. She knew everything from what side of his mouth he placed his cigarette in, to how he licked his lips before a smoke, and to what particular time and where he smoked them. The Old Man of the Storr always had a bedfellow, and that bedfellow was Norwegian and a terrible smoker .She brought herself down, sitting down next to him and resting her head on his shoulder. ”Stop avoiding me. “
firstname middlename lastname
[img*]insert snazzy image here (preferred size 400 x 200)
[/img][/center][img*]insert snazzy image here (preferred size 400 x 200)
character details
I WANT THE WATER IN MY EYES, I WANT TO CRY UNTIL THE END OF TIME
I WANT TO LET THE RAIN COME DOWN, MAKE A BRAND NEW GROUND.
I WANT THE WATER IN MY EYES, I WANT TO CRY UNTIL THE END OF TIME
I WANT TO LET THE RAIN COME DOWN, MAKE A BRAND NEW GROUND.
HEIGHT , six-foot three.
EYE COLOR , blue
HAIR COLOR , brown / dark blonde.
PLAY-BY , james hampson
LIKES , liverpool, minimalist architecture, abstract art, a conservative anti-immigration government policy, national pride.
DISLIKES , verbose people who speak with no purpose, liberalist, zionist, grandeur, people who demand respect without earning it, the world at large.
FEARS , ennui, misunderstanding, and yiddish clowns .
DREAMS , to have a partner who fully shares his virtue of vices.
SECRETS , was nearly dismissed from cologne university for extremist views and alleged abuse towards certain classmates.
HABITS/QUIRKS ,
- would never eat next to someone at a dinner table
- always crosses himself when passing a cemetary or church
- does not let people touch him without permissio, not even casually.
OVERALL PERSONALITY , aggressive, abusive, bigot, intellectual, creative, misconstrued.
character history
LET THE RAIN COME DOWN, MAKE A BRAND NEW GROUND
LET THE RAIN COME DOWN TONIGHT.
LET THE RAIN COME DOWN, MAKE A BRAND NEW GROUND
LET THE RAIN COME DOWN TONIGHT.
MOTHER , anna katharina von hesse, retired.
FATHER , landgraf walter maria von hesse
SIBLINGS , fritz von hesse, gerhard von hesse, waldermar von hesse, vera von hesse.
PETS , tito the pitbull.
OTHER IMPORTANT FIGURES, anton drexler, idol.
HOMETOWN , meißen, germany
OVERALL ,
