Post by ALASTAIR on Jun 9, 2011 1:30:08 GMT -5
ALASTAIR
Into this house we're born, Into this world we're thrown. Like a dog without a bone; An actor out alone
• • HOPE YOU GOT YOUR THINGS TOGETHER,
hope you are quite prepared to die
FULL NAME: Ἀλάστωρ, of which Alastor or Alastair are adequate translations
NICKNAME: No.
AGE: That is utterly irrelevant.
BIRTHDATE: I have the same birthday as Shirley Temple. Delicious girl.
SPECIES: Demon (White-Eyed)
GENDER: Male
ORIENTATION: Sadist
OCCUPATION: Hell's Chief Torturer
• • LOOKS LIKE WE'RE IN FOR NASTY WEATHER,
one eye is taken for an eye
FACE CLAIM: Christopher Heyerdahl
SKIN: Pallid and clammy
HAIR: Currently thinning reddish-brown, with a short beard
EYES: White. The vessel's might be blue.
HEIGHT: 6'5"
WEIGHT: 180 lb.
OVERALL APPEARANCE: Overly tall and oddly-proportioned, with a spindly frame and broad, stooped shoulders. His jaw is too prominent, his eyes too receding, he wasn't a pretty man even when he was human. But Alastair chose this body for the hands. Those long, pallid strangler's hands with such hideous strength in them. People always notice his voice, that strange high nasal scrape of sound. Such strange inflections and unpleasant flatness to his vowels, but nothing about Alastair is as awful as his hands. Most people don't notice that until it's far too late.
• • DON'T GO AROUND TONIGHT,
well, it's bound to take your life
LIKES:
- Time to play, with his tools arranged just so and someone new to break.
- Defiance. Yum.
- When they start begging.
- That last extra twist of the knife.
- Clove cigarettes. The scent mingles well with copper.
- Beethoven. The man understood things.
- Cinnamon candies
- Being in Hell
DISLIKES:
- Pretty much anything that's not on the 'Likes' list.
- Vomit. It's unseemly.
- All humans. All of them. Every single one.
- Failure
- Boredom
- The little (pagan) gods
- The cold
- Getting stuck on Earth
STRENGTHS:
- Exceptionally powerful demon (see abilities)
- Terrifying levels of focus
- Utterly confident
- Very good at his job
- Creepy as f*ck.
WEAKNESSES:
- Underestimates humans
- Ignores anything that isn't angels, demons, and the building blocks of the apocalypse
- Can get overenthusiastic when doing his job
- Vulnerable to a well-constructed Devil's Trap, holy water, etc.
- Creepy as f*ck.
FEARS:
- That's not really a concept which applies, but sure.
- Getting stuck on earth
- God returning to the game
- Losing his job
- Redemption
- Getting trapped forever in a Devil's Trap
POWERS & ABILITIES: White-Eyed Demon (Lilim). He possesses an extensive knowledge and awareness of the universe, having occult knowledge, usage of spells cast in Enochian as well as rituals. Partial immunity to Sam's psychic abilities and Ruby's Knife. He also can send an angel back to Heaven by expelling it from its vessel. Alastair has shown to be resistant to an angel's power of exorcism. He possess knowledge of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and has demonstrated power to overwhelm a reaper. Standard demonic powers (great strength, telekinesis, ability to shrug off physical damage, etc.).
OVERALL PERSONALITY: Alastair does one thing, and he does it perfectly. He's a consummate torturer, he loves everything about his work. He loves breaking people. He loves rebuilding them in his own twisted image. He gets a gratification from his work that is more than merely sexual ecstacy, it's perfect exalted joy. He loves nothing better and craves nothing more. Everything he does is about the torture, one way or another. He loves it like a drug, and even when he's supposed to be doing something else he sometimes takes a little side trip to work someone over for a while. Just to keep his hand in, you know.
• • THERE'S A BAD MOON ON THE RISE,
don't go around tonight
HISTORY: There's not a lot of point to tracing the history of a demon. Time in Hell isn't like time on Earth, and it's not like he cares about his human history. The first moment that matters to Alastair is the moment he accepted what it is to be a demon. After that, he learned and suffered, he hurt and was hurt, and he grew into what he is. Centuries passed in hours, minutes in years. It was all very ineffable and metaphysical, but the point is he found his Talent and he honed it until it was perfect.
These days he's tromping around the dank misery that is the Earth, acting as a glorified errand boy because the lesser demons keep failing at the perfectly simple tasks which have been assigned them. He'd much prefer to get back down to Hell and continue playing with his special pets, John Winchester among them, but he has his orders, and so he finds his fun up here where he can and completes his tasks as quickly and efficiently as possible. The sooner this mess is dealt with, the sooner he can go home where he belongs.
• • WELL, IT'S BOUND TO TAKE YOUR LIFE,
there's a bad moon on the rise
ALIAS: BRIAR
OTHER ACCOUNTS: Rin Cooper, Wil Croft, Drew Copeland, Adam Milligan, Ben Crewe
EXPERIENCE: 15+ years
WHERE DID YOU FIND US: Caution 2.0
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:
There's a killer on the road. His brain is squirmin' like a toad... The light blue Camry was pulled off the road at a sharp angle, nose down in the drainage ditch and the rear wheel still spinning. Take a long holiday, let your children play. Oil was leaking out of the undercarriage into the damp overgrowth of wild mustard and oatweed, but the radio was still going strong, sending Jim Morrison's lost-and-vicious voice floating out into the muggy evening air.
A door popped open, having to fight its own counterweighting to go up at the angle needed to let the car's remaining occupant emerge. First came one long leg in unfashionable brown trousers, there was a blob of something red and thick draped across the oversized black loafer. The other leg a second later, then the too-tall, too-skinny frame levered itself up out of the Toyota. There was blood caked into his beard, he licked at it as he straightened up on his feet and looked around, getting his bearings. If ya give this man a ride, sweet memory will die. Killer on the road. Town was north-northwest. He couldn't see the lights yet, but he could practically smell the stink of humanity.
Alastair started walking, meticulously cleaning the blood and shredded flesh out of his beard and moustache but ignoring the stains down the front of his crisp blue cotton shirt and the drying viscera caking his shoelaces. It was all about perspective.
