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Post by ds2k6 on Feb 23, 2008 18:42:03 GMT
Finished? Yuppers 
O N _ Y O U
Name/Alias: Michael – Known commonly as Raph
Gender: Male
Experience: Just under 2 years
Location: Scottieland
C H A R A C T E R _P R O F I L E
b a s i c s
Full Name: Uriel Templar
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Date of Birth: 4th March
Tainted? Yup
Ability: Cryokinesis. While Uri has a great level of control over his ability, he still finds himself freezing things without meaning to when he becomes particularly emotional, and struggles a bit in hotter weather.
Beliefs: That he will never be accepted because of what he is, and because of this, has a real hatred for the world and most people in it.
a p p e a r a n c e
Eyes: Chestnut Brown, Considerably darker near the pupils. Fairly long eyelashes for a male.
Hair: Very dark brown, bordering on black. Normally gelled up, on occasion slicked backwards. Due to extensive use of military-issue shampoo, smells of cocnut.
Height: 5’10”
Weight: 80 kilos
Distinguishing Features: Scar on inner-right forearm
Other: Tends to keep himself shaven at the stubbley stage, not being a fan of the 'clean' look. His attire consists mainly of blacks, his favourite and most frequent outfit being a black suit he wears with alternating whie & black shirts. Often wears a Star of David chain.
p e r s o n a l i t y
Likes: - Military History
- The music of Nat King Cole
- Reading
- Red Wine
- Peaceful Solitude
- Remembering more innocent times
Dislikes:- People in general
- His mother
- Remembering less innocent times
- Coffee
- Plaice
The Good Points: - Intelligent enough to think things through
- Tri-lingual (English, French and Hebrew)
- Very witty
- Good control of ability
The Bad Points:- Extremely Cynical
- Often rude
- Very sarcastic
Habits: Often taps out tunes on tables/chairs/walls/any solid surface he can find
Possessions/Obsessions/Other: Obsesses over his childhood love, Lucy
o r i g i n s
Place of Birth: London, England
Family: Father –Yaron Templar – Untainted
Mother – Éliane Templar – Tainted (Pyrokinesis) - Deceased
History: A British citizen born to an Israeli father and a French mother isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence. It was clear from conception that Uriel Templar was not going to be an average child: Indeed, from birth, the dark eyes of his father (‘Soldiers eyes’, he called them) mixed with the smooth skin of his mother made him a truly fantastic sight.
If either of the parents expected the idyllic English childhood from him, though, they were mistaken. As an ex-interrogator in one of the world’s most ruthless military forces, Yaron had trouble finding work, having to content himself with the odd bit of construction. Uriel’s mother, too, was struggling: For undisclosed reasons, she had not attended any school of such in France, and wound up working on the checkouts at the local supermarket. The flat they lived in showed just how bad their financial situation was: Yellowing wallpaper that was so old it was almost see-through, and a family of cockroaches that had taken up residence under the sink weren’t exactly home accessories of the time.
When he reached school age, Uriel attended the local state comprehensive, quite possibly one of the roughest schools in the country. Never less than three fights a day, and not rare for pupils as young as 9 to come in absolutely blind drunk. Uriel, however, was one of the better pupils at the school: whilst still struggling to achieve amongst the distractions of other pupils, and the limited resources the school had, he managed somehow to achieve the lower end of what was considered a gifted student.
The move to high school was a real shock for Uriel: In a bid to secure their child’s future, his parents put him into a larger and better-off school, albeit further from his home. There, whilst nowhere near the best achiever, he was comfortably average, making the grades with marks to spare. For a change, he was making friends: The pupils here were a lot better at dealing with intelligence than those at his last school. Amongst the group of friends he surrounded himself with was Lucy Thompson.
From the moment he saw herm Uriel had been completely besotted. Such beauty he had never experienced, and it captivated him. Every smile and every word seemed to drip gold, each glance created a million new fantasies. But, alas, his experiences of being shunned in his last school came back to haunt him: Each time he vowed to make his feelings known, he created some excuse not to, tweaked circumstances so he couldn’t. As much as his silent passion tortured him, he couldn’t even begin to release his emotions. He was simply too shy.
At 16, Uriel left school with considerably good grades, and kept close to his group of friends. Even at that time, he knew he would join the army, and possibly never see them again. It came as a shock to him, then, when on the day he went to sign up, he found himself behind Lucy in the queue. As they talked about their future, his shock turned to fear as he realised that this girl, a girl he had loved for as long as he could remember, was singing up to go to war. In order to keep her safe, he decided, he signed up to the same regiment as her. In 6 months, they were both accepted, and their training began.
The Army reminded Uriel of his primary school in a horrifying way. Every other man here was a thug: Piercings, Tattoos in the most awkward of places, and the general air of being dragged about a council estate all their lives. While Uriel had grown up in similar situations, he had at least respected himself enough not to fall prey to the stereotype Londoner.
Whilst their army training took up most of their time, Uriel and Lucy grew closer during their stay. Whilst frowned upon by their sergeants, their friendship began to develop to the stage where Uriel was sure it was too late to admit that he loved her. Contenting himself to a loving friendship, he got through his training and was hit with his first assignment: The Kosovo War.
NATO had been discussing sending troops in for a while, and Uriel’s regiment was going to be one of only a few British ground troops being sent in. Lucy would remain in Britain: They had been assigned to different units, and hers had not been called up. Within 6 hours of their tearful goodbye, Uriel was parachuting into the ethnic-cleansing capital of Europe, gun in hand, emotions held at bay.
Uriel’s unit consisted of 5 men, including Uriel. He was the youngest, and newest to the army: The rest had all served for over 5 years. The unit’s commander, Lieutenant-Corporal Harrison, had served in combat beforehand, and had a long, crisp scar down his face and neck as a reminder. Harsh, he kept the men marching for a full day after the landed, stopping only once every 6 hours. It was on one of these stops that they had their first fire-fight.
The Yugoslavian Army had been using the area they stopped at as a secret mass grave for only a few weeks, but already the stench of rotting flesh was too much to handle. The Brits placed themselves along the road in, and watched as the Serbs dumped the bodies of dead Kosovans in the pit. When the last one was put to rest, the order was given, and Uriel let fly. The soldiers fell instantly, but the gunshots had attracted attention from the road a half mile away, and in minutes they were captured chained in the back of a truck, driving to some unknown military centre.
As it happens, they never made it: As the others, overcome with exhaustion, slept, Uriel watched the landscape grow further from him, the East-European cold keeping him awake. His army fatigues weren’t the warmest piece of kit available, and he was chilled right through. Icy cold.
No sooner had he thought this than the engine of the truck died. Stunned, Uriel looked around, unsure of what was happening. They were in the middle of some country road: Was this were they would be executed? No… The disgruntled voices of their captors were enough to confirm that this stop hadn’t been scheduled. A Serb soldier came to the back of the truck, and ordered in broken English, “You all get out now. We have problem. Wait for other vehicle. No move.”.
Outside, Uriel noticed with a shock smile what had happened: The entire underside of the truck had frozen solid, the ice dripping slowly. He knew it had been cold, but not that cold.
It was inevitable, really, that one of the soldiers would make a run for it. It was the young explosives expert, Darryl, that tried to escape: A punch to the groin of a nearby guard, and he was off. As another Serb raised his gun to shoot, Uriel felt the need to step in. He grabbed the soldiers gun, but before he could try to pull it from his grasp, he felt himself go cold and it turned to ice in his hands. Stunned, he let go, as the soldier backed away, blessing himself and muttering something in his own language. Uriel stared at his hands, all thoughts of war and escape leaving him. He’d done that? And with the truck too… Him?
It was another Serb that broke the silence first, by shooting Corporal Harrison and another soldier. “You break rules. Now you die”, he said bluntly, aiming at Uriel. Could he do the same again?. Raising a hand, he thought cold, visualising the ice, and his heart leapt as a jet of icy air flew from seemingly nowhere, encompassing first the gun, then the soldier himself. He spun himself to face the two other Serbs, and froze them both as well.
Lowering his arm, he turned to the one remaining soldier, smiling. Instead of thank-you, or even astonishment, he was jumped upon, a long knife in his colleagues arm. Cries of Demon and Satan pierced the night as they struggled, before the man drew a long gash along Uriel’s right arm. Screaming, Uriel wrapped his hand around the mans throat, and in seconds he was no more than a lump of ice. Standing, Uriel looked down on him and, without any emotion, brought a boot straight down on his head, smashing it on the cold Yugoslav road.
For the remaining days of the war, Uriel struggled to stay alive, avoid Yugoslavian soldiers, and find a British or American camp. On the closing days, he found one on the outskirts of Pristina. He recovered there for a few days, telling people that his unit had been killed by Serbs on the road, but he had escaped. A few days later, he was on his way back to England.
When he got home, he was told immediately that his mother had died just two days before. Distraught, he handed in his resignation and took the train back to London. His father welcomed him with open arms, and told him that Lucy had called round. His familiar feeling of love returning to him, Uriel went round to her flat later that afternoon.
Since he had last seen her, Lucy had barely changed. She was on Annual leave from the army, having been re-posted in Yorkshire, and was shocked to find that Uriel had resigned. When she asked why, he responded with a shrug. After a moment, though, he realised he should tell her: Everything.
He put his hands on her shoulders, and looked her deep in the eyes. “I’m going to show you something. Then I’ll tell you what happened.”. He ran to her kitchen, poured a glass of water, and laid it on her coffee table. Standing a few feet away, he pointed at the glass, and forced himself to think cold. In the musty heat of the flat, this was hard, but with a struggle, the water turned to ice.
Gasping, he fell into a seat, and looked at Lucy. “I’m showing you this because I lo…”. But he was stopped by a scream from Lucy, who jumped to her feet. “What… What the fuck, Uriel? This… This is why you left the army?”. She shook her head, tears rolling down her face.
“Get out.”, she muttered. Uriel tried to protest, but she raised a hand to stop him. “Get the hell out, you freak.”.
Almost crying himself, Uriel left the flat, shaken badly. He had hoped that, of all people, Lucy would understand. But she hadn’t. She was as scared as that soldier in Kosovo. He knew now that he was alone. An outcast to the world. Tears rolling down his face, he returned to his father’s house, and lay awake all night, thinking things over.
In the morning, he talked to his father about his mother. Remembering the good times, scratching out the bad – mourning talk, basically. A few hours in, his father took Uriel’s hand, and looked deep into his eyes.
“Uriel”, he said, “I have to tell you something. About your mother. She… She wasn’t a normal person. Back in France, she lived in a village, in the south, I can’t remember the name… It was built around people with… abilities. Beyond normal. Your mother… She could make fire, in her hand. Control it. Back home, she was brought up to believe she was better than normal people. She left there because of what her family thought, and what they tried to make her think.”. He sighed and shook his head. “She said that it was often passed down to the children. But when you didn’t show any signs at sixteen, she thought you were okay, and didn’t want to tell you. But I feel, I feel you should know… where you come from.”.
As he heard this, anger pulsed through Uriel like no end. So it was her fault. The pretty French woman with a secret had ruined his life. His career, the only girl he had eve loved… Gone, because of her. He got up and walked to his bedroom. Pushing some clothed into a bag, his tears turned to ice as they fell from his eyes. He walked out of the house without even saying goodbye to his father.
He knew he had to get out of London, and that was what he did. On a train straight to France. He would find the village his mother came from if it killed him, he decided. It took many years of research, but eventually he got a name: Sanlignée.
m i s c
RP Sample: {{From another site}}
As far as work went, Raphael was never very keen on the jealous, paranoid husband thing. Yeah, as a detective, this sort of job was fairly commonplace, but in reality it sucked following some woman around for a week to see if she was screwing around, only to be called a liar and be accused of sleeping with her when you told the husband she wasn't. And for some reason, the women always seemed to have jobs that demanded getting up early and walking through New York in rush hour. Absolute hell.
This cold January morning was a fine example of that mould: Typical un-caring businessmen swearing profusely as Raph bumped into them, their briefcases swinging into his shins as he swerved to avoid another collusion, all while trying to keep an eye on the woman he was following. Average height, long black hair, name of Helen Groves. Her husband had came to Raphael a few days ago, almost bringing himself to tears as he told how he knew, just knew, that his wife was cheating on him, and that Raphael had to confirm it for him so he could give a reason to divorce her.
At that point, the case had annoyed Raphael, but he had said yes for the money. Now, though, he was positively exasperated with the whole bloody thing: Even though it was his first day following Helen, Raphael already knew almost exactly what she would do, thanks to her husbands own 'excursions'. Even thinking about it now made Raph sigh with annoyance.
He continued to keep his tail for a few blocks, still weaving between suitcases and their owners, when he lost sight of Helen. He wasn't too concerned: He already knew where she worked, and could probably get there before her. But then he saw a swish of black hair disappear into an alleyway connecting this street with the one her workplace was on, and his heart missed a beat. At no point had Mr Groves mentioned any alleys: He had made it very clear that she stuck to main roads for fear of being attacked. This detour could mean one of two things: She had suddenly lost any phobia she had of backstreet's, or there was some sustenance to her husband’s paranoia. With only one way to find out, Raphael ran a little down the street and twirled into the alley after her, his own excitement at getting paid so quickly overtaking his usual caution.
Helen stood about two thirds of the way down the alley, facing the opposite way from Raphael. Walking quietly toward her, Raph began very quickly to feel something was wrong: Not only was there no sign of a lover, but she wasn't moving any closer to her work. Instinctively, Raphael closed his eyes momentarily, and when he opened them again the pupils were a cold, steely gray. Why he was using his X-Ray vision now, he wasn't sure, but it certainly paid off: On the woman’s hip, hidden by her jacket, was a holster, holding a gun.
As Raphael's hand moved toward his own revolver, he heard the sound of one being loaded behind him. He spun on the spot, pulling his gun out and pointing it straight at the alley's latest occupant: Helen Groves' husband, who was also pointing a gun right at him.
Startled, Raphael looked over his shoulder at the woman, who had now turned to face him. It was blatantly obvious this had been a setup - But why? He didn't owe anyone money, and he hadn't got into trouble with any shady characters, so why was this happening. Unable to keep his curiosity at bay, Raphael turned back to the man, his gun still raised, and asked him, "Who the hell are you?".
The other man smiled ever so slightly, not lowering his gun for a second. "Relax, Mr Alexandros. I don't want to hurt you, and neither does my colleague.". As a gesture of this goodwill, he dropped his gun to the ground and kicked it to Raphael's feet, raising both his arms in the air. "I represent a Company, a company that are interested in people like yourself, Raphael, and if you'd allow us we'd like to...".
"Whadda'ya mean, people like me?" Raphael asked, although he had a sneaking suspicion he knew already. "Detectives? Italian-Americans? Catholics? Tell me!".
The man answered patiently. "No, none of those things, We mean people with erm... abilities like yourself. Not exactly like yours, but abilities that are beyond the norm. We dealt with a man not long ago who could read minds, another who could contorl and create radioactive explosions. Even my colleague here has an ability, and we would very much like to study yours, Raphael.".
But Raphael had heard enough from the moment this man had confirmed his suspicions: The moment he had finished talking Raphael shot the man in the shoulder, and whirled around to face the woman. No sooner had he did so than she made a fist out of her right hand, and when she opened it flames erupted from her fingers, and cascaded toward Raphael. He threw himself out of the way, crashing into a garbage bin and toppling it over. He let out a gasp of pain, and tightened the grip on his gun: It wouldn’t do to drop it with these freaks out to get him.
The man he had shot was out: Whether he was dead or not didn’t bother Raphael at this stage. The woman was making her way toward Raph, no doubt intent on burning him to a cinder. It took no thinking from him whatsoever: Raphael picked himself off the ground and ran back out into the street, not even bothering to fire a shot at the woman as he ran.
After a good five minutes, he collapsed in another back-alley, panting heavily and clutching his side. He had never been that much of a runner, and the fear that had flooded him as he ran hadn’t helped at all. Now, as he lay panting in a new York backstreet, he made a mental note to get more exercise done, just as he heard footsteps behind him. He knew it was useless: he couldn’t run for another second. So he simply lay there, and waited for what he was sure would happen…
Character Model: Colin Farrell |
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