Post by Fletcher Dean Colechester on Mar 17, 2007 19:30:43 GMT -5
How I received my invite: Over the phone XD
Name: Fletcher Dean Colechester
He's called Master Fletcher by Slaves
He's Called Dean by Nicholas and his Master
Human's refer to him as Mr. Colechester
Age: Appears 22
Rank in Society: Werewolf, but he’s a rare kind that is capable of changing when felt like it.
Why they traveled to the castle: Uh… He’s been apart of it, a loyal werewolf whose been there long since the Cashel’s, protecting it with his life and soul. It so happens that he befriended Nicholas and made it his duty to guard him.
Appearance: He's got odd colored hair, blonde and black overlapping, and just the way its styled is awkward. It mocks as if the wind had blown in one direction, and stood stuck in that position. It's the kind of hair that would strike you as disgusting, yet you can't help but look twice just because so. If you were of the tactile type, you wouldn't be able to help yourself from running fingers through his hair to see if it is hard as it looks, or as soft and smooth as silk.
He's got stunningly gorgeous, deep ice blue, puppy dog eyes that seem so cold sometimes, they pierce. People have always stopped to give them a second chance, most likely amazed by the brightness that exuded from such unusual eyes that could color the pale of a cold room.
To go with his eyes, he's got porcelain pale skin. It always seems too pale for his features, and the majority of black from his hair overrules it, highlighting his facial features against pale, white skin.
From years of building up strength to fight back the abuse he's been forced to endure over the years, he managed to create a strong build despite his lanky and lithe look. He's muscle toned on his arms only slightly, but his stomach nicely, the crease of where hip meets groin dark and visible from such.
Around his throat he bears a thick leather collar, spiked rightly that will tear the skin of whomever tries to overpower him by the anatomy mentioned, and velcro in the back so it will rip clean away. However, it's enchanted, so it grows to meet the size of his neck when he alters.
He wears clothing fit to a oddness.
He's got numerous piercings fit to him.
He's got a scar over his shoulder from his Sire, and in that a circle that looks like Q; a branding of his demonic binding to the castle.
He’s got hidden scars from pleasured tortue.
Below his lip, to the right side, is a beauty mark that really shows when he smiles, which is rare.
Personality: He's all snark and rude, his eyes reflecting his attitude in volumes of scorn and malice, his voice portraying his dark determination to live the dirty life. He's sharp as a whip, his mouth forming words and his larynx producing them before he can think, which usually gets him into trouble. He's cold and slightly withdrawn, but will not be afraid to take someone on once he's been challenged or commanded. He's sarcastic--a lot-- and is more physical than verbal. He'd rather kill than talk, let alone fight. He's full of himself a lot, tends to think he's the impressive, smart alec, but is usually proven otherwise despite his strength. That's only if it's an unfair fight.
History: Fletcher was never normal. He was raised around abuse and tragedy, trained to kill with a deadly accuracy and terrifying trajectory that's usually always a connect hit. Fast-forward to age five. At such a tender, unable to understand age, he didn't realize the meaning of tears, and was always confused to why his dame would cry after what he learned was called screaming at his sire. Only few weeks after this discovery, his dame fell ill and passed with pain.
At fourteen, he was a young killer, his skills amazingly accurate for such an age. He had a tendency to have his spazzmatic moments full of rage that began deep within the pit of his stomach before it enlarged throughout his body. He had developed a devotion towards men, gazing at them in the streets and admiring them from afar. He suspected this fault as his fathers. His life was, however, altered.
He grew attitude towards his father, and fled.
Only a few months after his retreat, Fletcher found a castle that was beaten and worn, and called it to be home. For a year, he lived and guarded it like his home. Until it was rebuilt, and the Cashel’s took refuge. He felt a strong bond to the young one when he was born, and one day approached him. However, soon after, Fletcher left when Nicholas’s parents passed only to seek his sire who had abandoned him. He found him in a small, dungy town, living off alcohol and sex. Enraged that he had took his son instead of done it at some bar, Fletcher broke under pressure, and with the rage he had kept locked up inside, refusing to let it out, he turned, ripping out the innards of his sire, literally tearing him limb from limb with a precision quality. As he still breathed. He watched his sire take his last breathe and wilt, dying under his gaze. From that day on, Fletcher had become a cold, hard shell, a barrier against demons of his past.
Through the years he lived a lone life, killing all those who deemed him a monster or simply challenged him. Until he met Nicholas again. His bond still strong to the man, he made a binding mark on his scarred shoulder to prove his loyalties to the castle. He is now both Slave and Master.
Roleplay Sample(s): The ringing of the pub’s door alert him, his ears jerking from beneath his tail. The rudeness of human when they couldn’t read signs. Growling deep in his throat, he unraveled himself, his tail causing his ears to fold than perk again as he slimmed out his long body, his ribs protruding against flesh as he stretched as a cat would, toes separating so claws could extend without catching on clotted fur around it, before he launched himself to a stand with his hind legs. He bucked down, his spine snapping with a sickening crunch as he reformed his bones with echoing cracks to accommodate a human body.
“Can’t you read?” His accent was thick and obviously Texan*. “It’s closed and if you don’t get out my fangs’ll—oh, Nicholas.” He broke out in smile. “Fancy seeing you.”
*Think of Dean from Supernatural
Name: Fletcher Dean Colechester
He's called Master Fletcher by Slaves
He's Called Dean by Nicholas and his Master
Human's refer to him as Mr. Colechester
Age: Appears 22
Rank in Society: Werewolf, but he’s a rare kind that is capable of changing when felt like it.
Why they traveled to the castle: Uh… He’s been apart of it, a loyal werewolf whose been there long since the Cashel’s, protecting it with his life and soul. It so happens that he befriended Nicholas and made it his duty to guard him.
Appearance: He's got odd colored hair, blonde and black overlapping, and just the way its styled is awkward. It mocks as if the wind had blown in one direction, and stood stuck in that position. It's the kind of hair that would strike you as disgusting, yet you can't help but look twice just because so. If you were of the tactile type, you wouldn't be able to help yourself from running fingers through his hair to see if it is hard as it looks, or as soft and smooth as silk.
He's got stunningly gorgeous, deep ice blue, puppy dog eyes that seem so cold sometimes, they pierce. People have always stopped to give them a second chance, most likely amazed by the brightness that exuded from such unusual eyes that could color the pale of a cold room.
To go with his eyes, he's got porcelain pale skin. It always seems too pale for his features, and the majority of black from his hair overrules it, highlighting his facial features against pale, white skin.
From years of building up strength to fight back the abuse he's been forced to endure over the years, he managed to create a strong build despite his lanky and lithe look. He's muscle toned on his arms only slightly, but his stomach nicely, the crease of where hip meets groin dark and visible from such.
Around his throat he bears a thick leather collar, spiked rightly that will tear the skin of whomever tries to overpower him by the anatomy mentioned, and velcro in the back so it will rip clean away. However, it's enchanted, so it grows to meet the size of his neck when he alters.
He wears clothing fit to a oddness.
He's got numerous piercings fit to him.
He's got a scar over his shoulder from his Sire, and in that a circle that looks like Q; a branding of his demonic binding to the castle.
He’s got hidden scars from pleasured tortue.
Below his lip, to the right side, is a beauty mark that really shows when he smiles, which is rare.
Personality: He's all snark and rude, his eyes reflecting his attitude in volumes of scorn and malice, his voice portraying his dark determination to live the dirty life. He's sharp as a whip, his mouth forming words and his larynx producing them before he can think, which usually gets him into trouble. He's cold and slightly withdrawn, but will not be afraid to take someone on once he's been challenged or commanded. He's sarcastic--a lot-- and is more physical than verbal. He'd rather kill than talk, let alone fight. He's full of himself a lot, tends to think he's the impressive, smart alec, but is usually proven otherwise despite his strength. That's only if it's an unfair fight.
History: Fletcher was never normal. He was raised around abuse and tragedy, trained to kill with a deadly accuracy and terrifying trajectory that's usually always a connect hit. Fast-forward to age five. At such a tender, unable to understand age, he didn't realize the meaning of tears, and was always confused to why his dame would cry after what he learned was called screaming at his sire. Only few weeks after this discovery, his dame fell ill and passed with pain.
At fourteen, he was a young killer, his skills amazingly accurate for such an age. He had a tendency to have his spazzmatic moments full of rage that began deep within the pit of his stomach before it enlarged throughout his body. He had developed a devotion towards men, gazing at them in the streets and admiring them from afar. He suspected this fault as his fathers. His life was, however, altered.
He grew attitude towards his father, and fled.
Only a few months after his retreat, Fletcher found a castle that was beaten and worn, and called it to be home. For a year, he lived and guarded it like his home. Until it was rebuilt, and the Cashel’s took refuge. He felt a strong bond to the young one when he was born, and one day approached him. However, soon after, Fletcher left when Nicholas’s parents passed only to seek his sire who had abandoned him. He found him in a small, dungy town, living off alcohol and sex. Enraged that he had took his son instead of done it at some bar, Fletcher broke under pressure, and with the rage he had kept locked up inside, refusing to let it out, he turned, ripping out the innards of his sire, literally tearing him limb from limb with a precision quality. As he still breathed. He watched his sire take his last breathe and wilt, dying under his gaze. From that day on, Fletcher had become a cold, hard shell, a barrier against demons of his past.
Through the years he lived a lone life, killing all those who deemed him a monster or simply challenged him. Until he met Nicholas again. His bond still strong to the man, he made a binding mark on his scarred shoulder to prove his loyalties to the castle. He is now both Slave and Master.
Roleplay Sample(s): The ringing of the pub’s door alert him, his ears jerking from beneath his tail. The rudeness of human when they couldn’t read signs. Growling deep in his throat, he unraveled himself, his tail causing his ears to fold than perk again as he slimmed out his long body, his ribs protruding against flesh as he stretched as a cat would, toes separating so claws could extend without catching on clotted fur around it, before he launched himself to a stand with his hind legs. He bucked down, his spine snapping with a sickening crunch as he reformed his bones with echoing cracks to accommodate a human body.
“Can’t you read?” His accent was thick and obviously Texan*. “It’s closed and if you don’t get out my fangs’ll—oh, Nicholas.” He broke out in smile. “Fancy seeing you.”
*Think of Dean from Supernatural
