APPLICATION ➥ l u c e t i

[kingofdogs]

M U N
NAME: Wit.
LIVEJOURNAL/DREAMWIDTH USERNAME: erratum.
E!MAIL: zaplatime [at] gmail [dot] com.
AIM/MSN: zaplatime | aim.
CURRENT CHARACTERS @ LUCETI: NONE.


C H A R A C T E R
NAME: Aðal Nikolaj Ionas.
GENDER: Male.
AGE: Seventeen. | 17.
WING COLOR: Megascops Asio | Eastern Screech Owl (RED MORPH).
PHYSICAL APPEARANCE: ► [CURRENT!PB: Iain De Caestecker.]

At the age of seventeen, Aðal has gray eyes with brown hair, standing at around five foot seven. His hair style is a type medium straight cut but unevenly so; cropped shorter on the sides and mildly longer on the top, the beginnings faux hawk (fohawk) that remains flat, unstyled and soft most of the time because of lack of product to style it with. Aðal has an accent that to the locals of his planet of Varalon is noted as Tudeck. To many it could be considered a strange mix between the traditional North American southern intonation and a Scandinavian dialect. It’s sometimes a mix and mumble of words and makes him a little difficult to understand when he's talking too quickly.

Due to his occupation and the place he lives he is malnourished and maintains a lean build that weighs in at around one hundred and thirty six pounds. His skin tone is of a mid-tone caucasian look, dark and scuffed with coal, dirt, grime and sand and because of this his listed skin type is combination. He has just recently started to get ink on his skin, primarily on his left forearm and left shoulder/back area. The shape of his face is oval and through the dirt that covers his skin freckles highlight the surface over the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks, rolling under the curve of his eyes. As far as scars and injuries are concerned he holds basic lesions on his knees and elbows as well as scaring on length of right arm from an accident during a speed bike race. The clothing that he wears is often simple and dirty, layers are a must, head-wear is common along with belts and pouches. Heavy welders gloves are not uncommon to be in his possession due to his work as a mechanic while jackets are commonly used to crawl through the machinery to repair it, Aðal tends not to use this precaution during work and wears jackets when necessary. The colors of his attire are often dulled, forms of grays, blacks and browns at times with splotches of color here and there. Shoes are rarely new and are often worn down tennies or boots. Clothing is often associated with hand-me-downs or simply so worn into the ground that it seems that way. Colors are located in sashes worn around the waist in layers that are normally dark, bright and remain earthy.

As far as his physical form, due to his work and the place he lives, his body's condition holds decent stamina, agility, balance, coordination, flexibility and speed. Yet due to the harsh nature of his homeland Aðal has moderate health issues such as asthma and a form of developing sciatica. His asthma persists due to the nature of his planet and it's atmosphere, lack of clean air in the work environment and day to day life due to high levels of carbon dioxide, also due to smoking habits. The sciatica (an illness referring to pain, weakness, numbness, or tingling in the leg caused by injury to or pressure on the sciatic nerve) developed from the intense working environment, work related injuries and his developing pastime in being a rather reckless speed bike handler.

HISTORY: ► [CANON WORLD WRITE UP & SUPPORTING CHARACTER LISTING.]

PERSONALITY

STRENGTH(S):
↪ MENTAL;
↪ PHYSICAL;
↪ EMOTIONAL;

WEAKNESS(ES)
↪ MENTAL;
↪ PHYSICAL;
↪ EMOTIONAL;

S A M P L E S
FIRST PERSON:

You want a fuckin’ lesson? I’ll give you a fuckin’ lesson. It doesn’t have t’ do with wings or birds, or cute little towns with people who have wings who are not supposed to have wings.People who take your things and place them in shops where just any asshole can pick 'em up and pretend they belong to them. I work hard for my things, don’t know about you all. [The sound of the voice is frustrated and heavy with an accent that dwells on something of a mix between the standard North American southern intonation mixed with Scandinavian. A rustling of what sounds to be an string instrument in the background.] Fuckin’ birds--

Documents this, documents that--I was owned enough, marked enough where I came from I don’t need a damn barcode on me now because it’s not going t’ change my mind about running. Pages won’t stay torn, ink won’t scrub off and I’ll tell you now; I’m particular ‘bout the where’s and why of my ink. [There’s a pause then the sound of someone tuning a banjo, a few picks of the strings in a forward roll.] I’d rather pretend I’m not here, I’d rather be plurkin’ my own feathers but instead I’ll pluck strings. I wouldn’t want to die after all, I wouldn’t want to kill myself because of some stupid additions that aren’t gonna get you anywhere.

The things aren’t gonna teach how you to fly, that’s for damn sure. [And he keeps on the audio before beginning to p l a y.]

THIRD PERSON:

The water was cold, running off from some distance mountain range off in the unknowing surroundings of elsewhere. As the haze of unconsciousness began to lift, he felt like he could simply float onward if the current was paced quickly enough, but for now it settled to run through his fingertips as they flexed, drift through his hair and tug at the drawstrings of his slacks. The way the morning light greeted him and the way he greeted that light would have been fine if he would have actually been waking from nights of drink and imbibing, if there would have been an excuse for the fact he was waking up under a bridge, against some rocks in a river.

When he realizes what has happened, that the only hangover he is sporting is confusion, his attitude changes from a strange sort of otherworldly calm to where the hell has that snob Hodei abandoned me off now?

Aðal doesn’t care much about the clothing on his body at the moment, even the fact it’s wet because damn--water is rare where he came from, but he’s up. He’s up and he’s shoving what he’s found that belongs to him into a satchel tucked between the folds of cloth and moved, stumbling on smoothed over pebbles and rocks and up to the street level once more. A panic in his eye, he tries to stay calm but; “Fuck--!” The worlds spill from his mouth in a murmur as he hurries through the street. Where are his things? Where has his music gone and why can’t he hear the damn thing that’s been plaguing him for years now. Why can’t he see it’s stupid face because it’s once of those moments when he feels he really needs it’s company. He’s spent so many months telling it to shut the hell up and now it’s not around when he really needs it. It, whatever it is with its colors and how it follows him in silence but its familiar and right now he would take that silence over his own worry as he feels his heart rate spike within his chest, like it was going to plow through his ribcage.

“Momoge? Hodei?!” He calls out for that pretentious pilot and he makes a scene because he can’t stop and he can’t--he can’t breathe, it’s so hard to breathe all of a sudden and his chest is tight, inhaling brings a whistle from his lungs. Aðal is certain he is panicking and he does not really regret almost running into someone, knocking their things onto the ground and he’s not even seen his reflection, not even seen the wings that sprout from his back. His lips tremble and he stumbles into the nearest store, bracing himself against the doorway, his vision blurring as he crumbles to his knees. His wings extend then fall limp, heaving on his back but bright as the autumn reds.

“Dammit. . .” He whispers.

Just dammit.