04-17-2019, 09:59 PM
[align=center][div style="width:500px;text-align:justify; line-height: 110%;"]TW: blood, mentions of death
The ocean's beautiful rage quelled both men to it. Her whisperings were forever tethered to them, beckoning with a forgiving nature. They were raised around it, and with their shared lack of proper homes, the boys found one in the coasts' comfort. Warm, gentle sand, and powerful, gorgeous tides provided them a comfort they never truly knew elsewhere. It made perfect sense both men would follow the coast in pursuit of that sense of comfort. Somehow, the sea had helped them find one another again.
Santos was naive to this. How long had it been since he had seen Deacon? Eleven, ten years? His last memory was of a twelve year old boy, with long blonde curls and fiery eyes. Forever biting the hand that fed him, forever defiant even in ease- Deacon was a fire, and Santos did not mind the burns- in fact, he had likely thrown in a few logs. He had come to find a sense of belonging in the street gang of battered boys, and though it took time, the boys accepted him with open arms. Santos had practically raised the boy with Ryder's help, teaching him how to survive and defend himself. Everything Santos had learned, he passed onto Deacon with clarity and bluntness. Under his wing, Deacon grew tremendously in those few years, and the two had become inseparable.
The morning after the blackout struck, Deacon did not come back home to that crowded apartment. The bed Ryder had made for him in their shared room was left empty, growing cold for weeks. The boys grew concerned, and Santos went out looking for him time and time again, but to no avail. The boy did not come back, and the world continued to turn much to Santos' devastation. Worries and grief clouded the man's mind ever since. Ryder knew best- telling him Deacon had returned to his family, reasoning the blackout likely scared his family. Though, in no way did this quell Santos' worries, not after hearing of the rage that dripped from the man who created the fire.
A month had passed since the blackout when the shootout happened. When Santos lost Ryder and all those he cared about. When the man had kneeled in his lovers' pool of blood, clutching his chest as life drained from it. Covered in blood and grief, shaken by the absolute shock of the events, Santos had walked from the destroyed convenience store, down the street in silence. That night, he knew a silence he had never before. The street was dark and poorly lit in the night, the only sound the crunching of shattered glass under his boots. His eyes were empty, his face blank as he neared that apartment. Blood dripped from his sleeves as he pushed the door open. The man had allowed himself to slump onto Deacon's mattress, closing his eyes, and letting himself fade into the black.
After that, Santos grew blinded by his grief. The man became reckless and violent, often sabotaging the gang's missions due to his prolonged rages, or his blatant disobedience. It took him about a week before the gang finally picked up and abandoned him that one night. Ever since, the man had been on his own, travelling from one place to the other with no real attachments. He found The Badlands by following the coast, searching for the comfort of the sea, hoping in some way he could find a home there again.
He was still working on that. The dark haired man approached the beach side, nearing Catalyst and Michael with vague curiosity. It appeared they had a joiner, and at first glance, Santos thought nothing of the stranger. He rested his hand upon his handgun that was tucked snugly in his waistband, eyes narrowed as he scanned the other. The blonde held himself upright, his stance defensive, his staff tucked away. He did not seem to be a current threat, but he radiated the nature of a fighter. His eyes told the story of a man who had seen plenty, a quiet fire in them-- a fire Santos knew. The man's face softened- he knew that fire.
"Conejito," he breathed, hand falling away from his gun as he took a step forward. The man rushed towards the blonde, moving to embrace the other, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, his other hand cradling his head, as if scared the other would disappear again. His little rabbit. "Where did you go, Deacon?" He spoke softly, eventually parting the embrace to look at the other, searching his eyes. He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm so sorry..."
[spoiler=TAGS / INFO]GENERAL — Biography
▪ Santos Castellano | Formerly called Castle by those he was close w/
▪ Cisgender male | He/him
▪ Twenty-nine y/o | Born Oct 30 | Scorpio
▪ Newbie of Badlands | Traveller
PHYSICAL —
— 6'4, 220 Lbs. Tall and broad build. Spanish descent.
— Dark wavy hair, full beard, warm complexion, freckled, angular face. Covered in scars and faded tattoos (small, stick and poke tattoos obviously done when he was younger) Tattoos range from his face to his feet. Scars along chest marking his kill count from previous gang involvement.
— Current Injuries: Old bruises and scars, healing left black eye
IMPORTANT NOTES —
▪ Haunted by the ghost of his former best friend/love interest, Ryder. Santos associates his death with guilt and unfullfillment, and often sees his spirit lingering in the background. Does not speak about this to anyone, though.
▪ Has a pet female California kingsnake named Kyros. (Ref.) She is fairly friendly, though has a tendency to bite and not let go. (Non-venomous)
▪ Opinions, motivations and thoughts are always 100% in character and do not reflect the roleplayer's opinions
PERSONA — Lawful Evil
— Distant, detached, introverted, often quiet, defensive, protective, territorial when close w something/someone, proactive, cautious, observant, fairly close minded, capable of apathy, easily stirred/angered, likes to think he’s driven by logic but when vulnerable very much driven by strong emotion, etc.
— Easy to approach, but hard to converse with. Very distant and walled off- does not trust easily.
— Easy to aggravate. More defensive than offense, but it takes very little to make him snap.
INTERACTION — Plotting Thread
— Physical Difficulty: 9/10 | Mental Difficulty: 7/10
— Learned most weapon combat from street gang days // Self-taught in hand to hand
— Currently equipped with an assault rifle (low ammo) and a pistol (low ammo) as well as his weapon of choice, his wooden bat with barbed wire wrapped around it
— To attack, @ user & attack in italicized bold
The ocean's beautiful rage quelled both men to it. Her whisperings were forever tethered to them, beckoning with a forgiving nature. They were raised around it, and with their shared lack of proper homes, the boys found one in the coasts' comfort. Warm, gentle sand, and powerful, gorgeous tides provided them a comfort they never truly knew elsewhere. It made perfect sense both men would follow the coast in pursuit of that sense of comfort. Somehow, the sea had helped them find one another again.
Santos was naive to this. How long had it been since he had seen Deacon? Eleven, ten years? His last memory was of a twelve year old boy, with long blonde curls and fiery eyes. Forever biting the hand that fed him, forever defiant even in ease- Deacon was a fire, and Santos did not mind the burns- in fact, he had likely thrown in a few logs. He had come to find a sense of belonging in the street gang of battered boys, and though it took time, the boys accepted him with open arms. Santos had practically raised the boy with Ryder's help, teaching him how to survive and defend himself. Everything Santos had learned, he passed onto Deacon with clarity and bluntness. Under his wing, Deacon grew tremendously in those few years, and the two had become inseparable.
The morning after the blackout struck, Deacon did not come back home to that crowded apartment. The bed Ryder had made for him in their shared room was left empty, growing cold for weeks. The boys grew concerned, and Santos went out looking for him time and time again, but to no avail. The boy did not come back, and the world continued to turn much to Santos' devastation. Worries and grief clouded the man's mind ever since. Ryder knew best- telling him Deacon had returned to his family, reasoning the blackout likely scared his family. Though, in no way did this quell Santos' worries, not after hearing of the rage that dripped from the man who created the fire.
A month had passed since the blackout when the shootout happened. When Santos lost Ryder and all those he cared about. When the man had kneeled in his lovers' pool of blood, clutching his chest as life drained from it. Covered in blood and grief, shaken by the absolute shock of the events, Santos had walked from the destroyed convenience store, down the street in silence. That night, he knew a silence he had never before. The street was dark and poorly lit in the night, the only sound the crunching of shattered glass under his boots. His eyes were empty, his face blank as he neared that apartment. Blood dripped from his sleeves as he pushed the door open. The man had allowed himself to slump onto Deacon's mattress, closing his eyes, and letting himself fade into the black.
After that, Santos grew blinded by his grief. The man became reckless and violent, often sabotaging the gang's missions due to his prolonged rages, or his blatant disobedience. It took him about a week before the gang finally picked up and abandoned him that one night. Ever since, the man had been on his own, travelling from one place to the other with no real attachments. He found The Badlands by following the coast, searching for the comfort of the sea, hoping in some way he could find a home there again.
He was still working on that. The dark haired man approached the beach side, nearing Catalyst and Michael with vague curiosity. It appeared they had a joiner, and at first glance, Santos thought nothing of the stranger. He rested his hand upon his handgun that was tucked snugly in his waistband, eyes narrowed as he scanned the other. The blonde held himself upright, his stance defensive, his staff tucked away. He did not seem to be a current threat, but he radiated the nature of a fighter. His eyes told the story of a man who had seen plenty, a quiet fire in them-- a fire Santos knew. The man's face softened- he knew that fire.
"Conejito," he breathed, hand falling away from his gun as he took a step forward. The man rushed towards the blonde, moving to embrace the other, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, his other hand cradling his head, as if scared the other would disappear again. His little rabbit. "Where did you go, Deacon?" He spoke softly, eventually parting the embrace to look at the other, searching his eyes. He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm so sorry..."
[spoiler=TAGS / INFO]GENERAL — Biography
▪ Santos Castellano | Formerly called Castle by those he was close w/
▪ Cisgender male | He/him
▪ Twenty-nine y/o | Born Oct 30 | Scorpio
▪ Newbie of Badlands | Traveller
PHYSICAL —
— 6'4, 220 Lbs. Tall and broad build. Spanish descent.
— Dark wavy hair, full beard, warm complexion, freckled, angular face. Covered in scars and faded tattoos (small, stick and poke tattoos obviously done when he was younger) Tattoos range from his face to his feet. Scars along chest marking his kill count from previous gang involvement.
— Current Injuries: Old bruises and scars, healing left black eye
IMPORTANT NOTES —
▪ Haunted by the ghost of his former best friend/love interest, Ryder. Santos associates his death with guilt and unfullfillment, and often sees his spirit lingering in the background. Does not speak about this to anyone, though.
▪ Has a pet female California kingsnake named Kyros. (Ref.) She is fairly friendly, though has a tendency to bite and not let go. (Non-venomous)
▪ Opinions, motivations and thoughts are always 100% in character and do not reflect the roleplayer's opinions
PERSONA — Lawful Evil
— Distant, detached, introverted, often quiet, defensive, protective, territorial when close w something/someone, proactive, cautious, observant, fairly close minded, capable of apathy, easily stirred/angered, likes to think he’s driven by logic but when vulnerable very much driven by strong emotion, etc.
— Easy to approach, but hard to converse with. Very distant and walled off- does not trust easily.
— Easy to aggravate. More defensive than offense, but it takes very little to make him snap.
INTERACTION — Plotting Thread
— Physical Difficulty: 9/10 | Mental Difficulty: 7/10
— Learned most weapon combat from street gang days // Self-taught in hand to hand
— Currently equipped with an assault rifle (low ammo) and a pistol (low ammo) as well as his weapon of choice, his wooden bat with barbed wire wrapped around it
— To attack, @ user & attack in italicized bold