ALDRICK, Darclen Weston

[brady]

DARCLEN WESTON ALDRICH
Welcome to the victim's list

Wanted Dead Or Alive – Bon Jovi

BACK TO BASICS
All the basic info

••• Name: Darclen Weston Aldrich
••• Alias: Darc
••• Age: 24
••• Gender: Male
••• Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual
••• Species: Druid
••• Loyal to: No one
••• Alignment Conflicted
••• Companion: Golden Eagle; Bronwyn
••• Play By: Josh Holloway

LOVE/HATE RELATIONSHIPS
Likes, dislikes, etc

••• Likes:

• Sincerity; say what you mean.
  
• Silence; hold your tongue.
  
• Mystery; leave a little to the imagination.
  
• Respect; find out what it means to me.
  
• Humility; pride comes before a punch in the face.
  
• Adrenaline; it’s the feeling of being alive.
  
• Uniqueness; stand out in the crowd.

••• Dislikes:

• Ignorance; you sound so stupid trying to sound smart.
  
• Predictability; no one should know what you’re going to say before you say it.
  
• Small spaces; suffocation is a cage.
  
• Tuna; that’s just repulsive.
  
• Arrogance; tell me, what’s the view like up your ass?
  
• Clichés; be above the stereotype.

••• Pet Peeves:

• Drama; this isn’t high school.
  
• Too much perfume; I shouldn’t smell you before I see you.
  
• Shyness; man up, buttercup.

••• Weaknesses:

• Relationships; don’t get too close.
  
• Impulsive; never thinking it through.
  
• Motion sick; I mean, hit-the-deck-he’s-gonna-blow motion sick.
  
• Oblivious; I don’t get you.

••• Strengths:

• Quick-thinker; I always have a plan, you just may not like it.
  
• Stoic; hit me with your best shot.
  
• Smooth; I could charm a snake to purr.

••• Habits:

• Nail biter; it’s a stress relief.
  
• Crosses arms; it’d be awkward to leave them hanging there.
  
• Bites lip; it’s a thinking thing.
  
• Ruffles hair; it’s just ruff-able.
  
• Raise one eyebrow; it’s called disbelief.

••• Overall Personality:

Darclen is a man of few words—not to say he is anti-social on any term so much as he says only what he thinks needs to be said. He keeps things simple and sweet and if asked a direct question he will give a direct answer, no beating around the bush. After all, he’s always honest, even if it does get him a few slaps in the face. He’s not unaware of women but nor does he pay them any particular attention because he’s a little commitment phobic. He’s protective of other people because he likes the sense of heroism he gets from it. Darclen always keeps his cool and at times that can be infuriating for other people because they can never see the emotion underneath his confident surface. But he isn’t as calm and collected as he appears. He constantly doubts himself and is full of regrets, grudges, qualms, and anger. Indeed, at times he simply hates himself. He may have a few acquaintances but he doesn’t have friends because no one has ever struck him as important enough to let that close to him. He’d be a lonely person if not for the fact that he’s never truly alone—the company of his golden eagle, Bronwyn, and the plant life around him keep him content. But every once in a while he really needs human interaction… and that’s when he’s drawn to trouble.

THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE
Appearance and what not

••• Hair: Dirty blonde, straight, down to his jaw-line, often messy.
••• Eyes: Green
••• Weight: 180
••• Height: 6’1
••• Body Type: Muscular
••• Distinguishing Marks:

[/u]:
[li]The mark of the druid, obviously.
[/li][li]A Celtic cross emblazoned across his right shoulder—an intricate, ancient design of a cross intertwined with black roses and clawed vines.
[/li][li] A bold, yet elegant, script scrawling the words ‘Eternity’ along the back of his neck above the mark of the druid.
Scars:
[/li][li] A long, garish mark from his left thumb to his wrist.
[/li][li] A knife mark down his chest on his right pectoral. [/li][/ul]
••• Overall Appearance:

Darclen has dark green eyes the color of shadowed leaves in a forest with hints of yellow like the rays of sunlight contorting through the clawed branches. He has a strong jaw-line peppered with dark stubble. The smooth golden canvas of his skin melts into a seductive pink for his coy lips. His eyes are narrow and intense, always with a hint of amusement in them. His dirty blonde hair brushes down to his ears, usually a casual mess. He has a very rugged appearance. He is muscular and takes obvious care of his body but is not exactly a body-builder, either. Darclen stands high enough to be considered tall but he isn’t close to the tallest guy around. He has strong, capable hands that can be gentle on a woman’s skin or harsh on the throat of an enemy. His expressions don’t give away much as to what he is thinking and he usually just looks humored and calm, even if there is a torrent of emotion brewing behind his piercing gaze.

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YOU CAN'T CHANGE HISTORY
History and other info

••• Birth Place: Chicago
••• Family:

• Mother; Annemarie Aldrich; bye-bye, miss American pie (deceased)
  
• Father; who? (unknown)
  
• Twin; Dominic Aldrich; hide ‘n’ seek (missing)

••• History:

Darclen was born a twin…not that looking at them would ever reveal such a connection, as where Darclen was the sun, his brother, Dominic, was the moon. They grew up with their mother in a small, cramped box apartment in downtown Chicago. Neither of them ever heard mention of their father for bringing him up would cause more trouble than they needed. Usually, if Darclen got up the nerve to hesitantly ask his mother about his sire, Annemarie would begin throwing things and screaming incoherently like a woman possessed. Of course, it wasn’t exactly her fault. Annemarie was born a little touched in the head and couldn’t afford any medication or any real help. This made it impossible for her to get a job so Dominic and Darclen spent most of their time earning money as best they could. But what can two eight-year-old boys do in downtown Chicago that can help pay rent, really? It’s a simple equation. There are plenty of rich folk wandering ignorantly down the streets, their wallets bursting and ripe for the picking.
Growing up a thief isn’t the best for a kid’s mentality, though. It led to drug and alcohol problems, to street racing and robbery, to grand theft auto and being on a first-name basis with the neighborhood cops. Dominic was always more in trouble than Darclen—not necessarily because he was worse but because he got caught more often. Darclen had a weird way of knowing when the authorities were coming. He knew when to bail out and, if it was too late, how to talk his way out of it…whereas Dominic seemed to be a magnet for cop interest and worse interest. Eventually, when he was 17, he got on the wrong side of the wrong people and Darclen hasn’t seen him since.

••• RP sample:
The following example is from a horse site I used to belong to:
The overhead canopy of vegetation made futile efforts to shield the below moss from the searing rays shot like detrimental arrows toward its target. The amorphous shadows slipping languidly down the trunks skirted from the advancing figure, imitating water’s evasion toward oil. The shade curled back into the crevices from which it had intruded, turning its face from the fiery radiance secreting from the Dark God as he approached. The luminance exuded from his pores as if an inner inferno blazed beneath the luscious hide of bronze and pearl, though it did not emanate a sanctified aura, but rather a possessed one. And, indeed, he was demented – crazed and manipulated by an unquenchable thirst for one trophy that no obstacle would sway him from clutching: revenge. It dictated his actions, every brainwave stirring in his mentality originating from his objective. Indeed, his mission had consumed him so entirely that it took on a life of its own within his; a parasite, a raw, pulsating being tied too thoroughly in his soul to be amputated. But why remove the source of his conviction? His life was centered on the goals that had sprung to explosive life during his enslavement, and it spiced his ambitions with the effect of gasoline on his interior hell.

The spacious firmament overhead began to darken as a colony of truculent clouds contracted across the vast sweep of azure. The billows began to churn in a narrowing rotation, causing the sea of cerulean to be masked by a thick veil of moody gray, though the eye of the storm remained an open window to the overhead beauty. Viranchi intensified the concentration of sun compressing through the minute hole until a profound spotlight leaked down and focused upon him, the sole recipient of the daylight. The threads of his carpet began to heat in the scorching gaze fixated upon his figure, and a smirk quirked his lips as he stole both attention and warmth. He tossed his regal cranium, his mane lashing at the quickening gale like a pirate’s banner cracking in the crisp morn as he contemptuously observed the landscape before his jagged hooves. Various horses loitered across the tundra he had wandered to, but his vision settled on each no longer than a breath, disregarding their importance. He looked around at the little fishes present and considered himself the Kingfish. His white-dipped nostrils flared at the scents assaulting his interest, like the hollow, concave eye sockets of a blanched skull. His mind dilated, the edges rippling beyond his skull, coiling to the ground like tendrils of invisible smoke as they sought out the feast waiting their arrival. As each hand dipped into the many banquets, his curiosity was dragged to one in particular: a mare with an evident streak of confidence, her ego wrongly flaring, a mountain she had built with no base, no substance. He snorted, spheres narrowing as his head whipped around to search for the female whom he had selected as the first victim to fall to her knees for the crimes of Apollo and Cheraz. Why did she assume she had the right to strut about like a goddess? What made her better than the rest of the dogs Viranchi saw them all as? Rather than pry these answers from her memories, he decided to assess her himself.

And, trust me, you don’t want Viranchi’s scrutiny; his eyes will linger at every fault, for he expects perfection, and ignore each positive attribution, for nothing can compare to his perfection and is thus written off. His head ducked toward his hooves, thin membrane of his eyelids closing, muzzle brushing his pectoral muscle as he curved his grandiose décolletage, sinew surging as it tightened along his archway. His crescent ears pointed toward the faint echoes reverberating off every surface surrounding him, evaluating the scene he was soon to step into and direct. Decisively, he returned to his former position and promptly hunted her coordinates, separating the sounds he knew to be hers from the rest of the white noise constantly shifting in the background. He used her mind to compare her direction with the information he was receiving, and he drove himself almost aggressively into the minds of her neighboring horses, seeing her through their eyes and forming a cemented opinion of her before she had even become aware he existed. Finally, he reopened his eyes and shifted their stare toward the map extended onward.

He caught sight of her, miles off and yet within view due to the benefits of being an everlasting Immortal, and, the next moment, he was inches behind her glossy rump, his breath hot and sultry against her flesh as he dragged his nose up along her flank, inhaling her signature perfume. The limelight of brightness temporarily blinked out as the clouds altered to follow his teleportation, taking a moment to find him and then fitting upon him once more. The sides of the beam lathered at the mare’s back, sizzling on her fur where he came in closest contact, like boiling honey. He took note of the earthy and yet appetizingly zesty pigments in her scent as he folded time and spun away from her hindquarters quicker than lightning could flash. One moment, space floated unhindered in her wake, then he was there, and, before a breath could be so much as drawn, he had vanished again and reappeared two feet in front of her nose. An ominous grin arranged his features as he drilled his eyes into hers, his mind enveloping hers as he drank in her reaction. He was sure that at least a flare of surprise would streak across her physique, for the eyes that bore with almost passionate force into hers were of two colors; one, utter black, as if midnight had drained into its fathoms, the other bleached white like the skin of a woman’s corpse. One ear took to his skull as he noticed the rare downward angle with which he had to slant his head in order to keep such eye connection with her, and a purr built in his chest at the realization that, for once, this mare was lesser in stature than he was.

IT'S ALL ABOUT YOU
The Personal Stuff

••• Your Name: Brady
••• Age: Just turned 17
••• Gender: Male
••• How'd you find us: Proboards support forum. Saw your advertisement. =)
••• Did you read the rules: EDITED

[The Goddess]