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El Diablo sabe más por viejo que por diablo.
go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat~
Created on 2007-02-02 01:59:39 (#12187551), never updated
0 comments received, 257 comments posted
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1 Journal Entry, 2 Tags, 1 Memory, 0 Virtual Gifts, 15 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | [VIII] Axel |
|---|---|
| Website: | Quaquenocte RPG |
BioCharacter Name and Series/Original Character: Axel/Kingdom Hearts
Name in Role Play: Alias "Axel", true name Laisren ó Cathasaigh(-Vizcarra)
Race/Ethnicity: Demon/Spanish-Irish
Age: 20 [+?]
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Essentially, whatever he wants it to be; whatever the current situation or Axel's own mercurial temperament dictates.
Appearance: Bristling hair vivid as a scream, swept back out of his face to cascade in a savage crest and kept in appearance by lunette-goggles armed to the teeth (with gadgetry of which not even Axel himself can quite list all the miscellaneous functions that sputter and fizzle and almost never work), overripe-bright and sleek and a mere quiver of something in all the colorful chaos of his person.
His eyes complement his hair in a wide, expressive frenzy of green; the apparatus in his hair that extends metallic tendrils over the left side of his head, ear and temple terminates at one of the deeply tinted tear-shaped marks beneath his eyes. The significance of this is a dire secret, of course. His claws are long and flex like whips; he can quite literally skin a person alive.
His skin is pale enough to provide a shocking contrast to these intrinsic colorings, although the texture is both lost within and shadowed by the riot of sheer stuff, cheap as bangles hard as cleats, draped haphazardly from him wherever there is negative space to be found. Chains, pocketwatches, Swiss knives masquerading as panels and lighters as plaques, the odd pair of handcuffs or iron rings; they form a literal miniature microcosm bedecking his back, for the most part.
His clothing is a strange wild blend of muted overtones clashing and melting into half-tucked, dying-tropical undertones. The thing to consider is that he never follows the fashion, and his clothes never come in one piece. Axel is pretty much a walking thrift store slash UFO-detector (in appearance if not in function).
Personality: Gritty, witty, restless, and completely does not give a flying fuck. If he has a conscience, the screws have come loose, the gears have switched places and the circuits have shorted, because that's about how predictable and meaningful (or sensible) his behavior appears to be.
Of course, if you underestimate his cunning, you might as well kiss your soul goodbye.
He's passionate, but his attention is like a scourge, mercilessly flaying the very flesh from any and all secrets should he choose to lay claim to them.
He can be obsessive, and his fascinations go the way of spontaneous combustion, carelessly strewing everything about in a vast mess without getting his hands dirty.
Love and hate seem to shift and twist and devour each other within his nature in the fashion of the proverbial serpent that coils about the earth: less feeling than mood, they would poison his soul if he had one; instead, if he chooses to express them, they sicken and warp the souls of those around him as surely as a dash of hemlock at the lip of the goblet--and just as insidiously.
In short, this is one fucking dangerous thing running around in technicolor.
Abilities/Weaponry: Axel controls fire; in all its forms and manifestations, and it is unclear to what extent its "natural" behavior is a result of his will. For example, if he sets off a firestorm that decimates an entire region, it's just as likely he left a spark or five burning somewhere out of carelessness as much as sheer whimsy. He can, to a limited extent, create fire from almost nothing (a spark; a moment of friction)--he can certainly build an inferno from an ember without much trouble, and if he really wants to teach a lesson can call upon the bowels of the earth to open their bellows and spit fresh, cleansing volcano breath in your face.
His chakrams are fashioned from this oldest of forges, and he can use them as vessels to transfer and attack with the element in a finesse of style rarely seen with such unruly instruments. He is also a fast little bugger, as light on his feet as he is quick with his hands, and his fighting style tends to avoid melée and prioritize ambush and a dancing sort of search and destroy that appears more playful than it is serious.
Weaknesses: Point one, his fickle nature. His following things through frequently becomes an exception to the rule, or the end secondary to the means. As a result, he goes through life on a high-wire of dissatisfaction and arbitrary eccentricities; he is so inconsistent that at times it would be easier to bump into him by accident than to meet him upon appointment.
Point two, his fighting style. This is also part, parcel and deliverance of his first and foremost weakness, because he gets bored so easily in fights and in life due to how fast he moves that he seeks to slow them down, draw them out by means of flashy tricks and abortive shows of strength. Sometimes he will neglect to finish off an enemy in favor of moving on to potentially better things, or merely decline to fight altogether, running in circles laughing in the dust as he slips through his enemy's fingers again and again.
Please note that this is when he feels like being relatively normal.
As for weaknesses related to his element, cold weather and water will slow him down a little, make him sluggish and mildly inclined to hibernate, a little like a housecat (with untrimmed claws).
History: His mother was of Basque descent, from roughly the region where Guernica is located, and his father was Irish, of the Republic. Axel's early life as Laisren was a strange one. His parents, father upper-middle class and mother a mere fisherman's daughter, had met in Paris, conceived him and then eloped to Venice as stowaways. Once there, the evaluation of marriage was conducted like a business negotiation; then promptly abandoned. His mother had merely deceived and used his father as a means to get the child she wanted, since superstition had cursed her poverty-stricken family to exile; to end with her generation. His father shrugged and, still young (a university student, even), departed on a Grand Tour of Italy as in olden days of legend in the authentic 18th century.
Soon after giving birth to him, his mother contracted the fever that ever lurked in the still waters of the channels and stinking airs between the walls of that ruined city, and fled trailing Death all the way to Vienna on sheer wits and her one strange talent of fashioning metal contraptions from anything of the same material. In another age, she could have been a great inventress--in this one she was fugitive from the whispers as much as the disease that was then sweeping one of its seasonal swathes north across the Italian peninsula; superstition cast out her genius as surely as it had her family in her hometown.
Laisren never learned much about his lineage or his father, of whom only his name remained. He grew up in Vienna, city of music and currents, watching his mother fashion stage props for the world-famous opera in its shadows, and sell trinkets at street corners to earn their living. At least in the anonymity of the urban milieu there was less stigma for the magic his mother did with her hands--but she was a very free-spirited and practical-minded woman who didn't see the advantage in not showing her son the ways of the world. Laisren grew up with the conviction that romance was a myth, social relations a convenience, life a slippery and mockable thing. The one thing his mother did bequeathe him was her work, her small masterpieces and the finest tours de force that slipped from her hand to his. They were by no means the best the world had to offer, but they were unique, and he fashioned them into an identity--one that depended on no one.
Since, his mother, having tired of child-rearing and still young enough to start anew, left her eleven-year-old son to fend for himself after she had deemed him to have the skills to do as she had done; to live on his wits and between the cracks of the world, and that was somehow enough.
It wasn't enough for Laisren. He would climb up in social status with a certain apparent facility only to vanish back down again, as though he were turning in circles within one of those cracks, having no faith in the outside nor interest in the inside. This persistent feeling has dogged him into the present, when, after the last great fire of Vienna the city was remade in non-flammable materials and he, as an amateur metalsmith, had finally earned enough (and apparently decided enough) to up and leave. Axel arrived in Allupato searching and yet not searching for Venice, wandering all over the map with no clear destination.
A lost chapter in this ordinary, linear story of a life in concentric circles would detail how Laisren, at barely twenty, had nearly died in the great fire at the Staatsoper; how, at the last moment as his sight crisped into white-hot nothing, he made a pact with a shadow he could no longer see--that had stepped through the carnage to take a soul that had caught its eye, and retrieved it from the very brink with a certain devilish glee.
It was thus he was inducted into the Organization, and into the world of demons.
Organization/Pack/Clan/Guild?: Organization XIII
Name in Role Play: Alias "Axel", true name Laisren ó Cathasaigh(-Vizcarra)
Race/Ethnicity: Demon/Spanish-Irish
Age: 20 [+?]
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Essentially, whatever he wants it to be; whatever the current situation or Axel's own mercurial temperament dictates.
Appearance: Bristling hair vivid as a scream, swept back out of his face to cascade in a savage crest and kept in appearance by lunette-goggles armed to the teeth (with gadgetry of which not even Axel himself can quite list all the miscellaneous functions that sputter and fizzle and almost never work), overripe-bright and sleek and a mere quiver of something in all the colorful chaos of his person.
His eyes complement his hair in a wide, expressive frenzy of green; the apparatus in his hair that extends metallic tendrils over the left side of his head, ear and temple terminates at one of the deeply tinted tear-shaped marks beneath his eyes. The significance of this is a dire secret, of course. His claws are long and flex like whips; he can quite literally skin a person alive.
His skin is pale enough to provide a shocking contrast to these intrinsic colorings, although the texture is both lost within and shadowed by the riot of sheer stuff, cheap as bangles hard as cleats, draped haphazardly from him wherever there is negative space to be found. Chains, pocketwatches, Swiss knives masquerading as panels and lighters as plaques, the odd pair of handcuffs or iron rings; they form a literal miniature microcosm bedecking his back, for the most part.
His clothing is a strange wild blend of muted overtones clashing and melting into half-tucked, dying-tropical undertones. The thing to consider is that he never follows the fashion, and his clothes never come in one piece. Axel is pretty much a walking thrift store slash UFO-detector (in appearance if not in function).
Personality: Gritty, witty, restless, and completely does not give a flying fuck. If he has a conscience, the screws have come loose, the gears have switched places and the circuits have shorted, because that's about how predictable and meaningful (or sensible) his behavior appears to be.
Of course, if you underestimate his cunning, you might as well kiss your soul goodbye.
He's passionate, but his attention is like a scourge, mercilessly flaying the very flesh from any and all secrets should he choose to lay claim to them.
He can be obsessive, and his fascinations go the way of spontaneous combustion, carelessly strewing everything about in a vast mess without getting his hands dirty.
Love and hate seem to shift and twist and devour each other within his nature in the fashion of the proverbial serpent that coils about the earth: less feeling than mood, they would poison his soul if he had one; instead, if he chooses to express them, they sicken and warp the souls of those around him as surely as a dash of hemlock at the lip of the goblet--and just as insidiously.
In short, this is one fucking dangerous thing running around in technicolor.
Abilities/Weaponry: Axel controls fire; in all its forms and manifestations, and it is unclear to what extent its "natural" behavior is a result of his will. For example, if he sets off a firestorm that decimates an entire region, it's just as likely he left a spark or five burning somewhere out of carelessness as much as sheer whimsy. He can, to a limited extent, create fire from almost nothing (a spark; a moment of friction)--he can certainly build an inferno from an ember without much trouble, and if he really wants to teach a lesson can call upon the bowels of the earth to open their bellows and spit fresh, cleansing volcano breath in your face.
His chakrams are fashioned from this oldest of forges, and he can use them as vessels to transfer and attack with the element in a finesse of style rarely seen with such unruly instruments. He is also a fast little bugger, as light on his feet as he is quick with his hands, and his fighting style tends to avoid melée and prioritize ambush and a dancing sort of search and destroy that appears more playful than it is serious.
Weaknesses: Point one, his fickle nature. His following things through frequently becomes an exception to the rule, or the end secondary to the means. As a result, he goes through life on a high-wire of dissatisfaction and arbitrary eccentricities; he is so inconsistent that at times it would be easier to bump into him by accident than to meet him upon appointment.
Point two, his fighting style. This is also part, parcel and deliverance of his first and foremost weakness, because he gets bored so easily in fights and in life due to how fast he moves that he seeks to slow them down, draw them out by means of flashy tricks and abortive shows of strength. Sometimes he will neglect to finish off an enemy in favor of moving on to potentially better things, or merely decline to fight altogether, running in circles laughing in the dust as he slips through his enemy's fingers again and again.
Please note that this is when he feels like being relatively normal.
As for weaknesses related to his element, cold weather and water will slow him down a little, make him sluggish and mildly inclined to hibernate, a little like a housecat (with untrimmed claws).
History: His mother was of Basque descent, from roughly the region where Guernica is located, and his father was Irish, of the Republic. Axel's early life as Laisren was a strange one. His parents, father upper-middle class and mother a mere fisherman's daughter, had met in Paris, conceived him and then eloped to Venice as stowaways. Once there, the evaluation of marriage was conducted like a business negotiation; then promptly abandoned. His mother had merely deceived and used his father as a means to get the child she wanted, since superstition had cursed her poverty-stricken family to exile; to end with her generation. His father shrugged and, still young (a university student, even), departed on a Grand Tour of Italy as in olden days of legend in the authentic 18th century.
Soon after giving birth to him, his mother contracted the fever that ever lurked in the still waters of the channels and stinking airs between the walls of that ruined city, and fled trailing Death all the way to Vienna on sheer wits and her one strange talent of fashioning metal contraptions from anything of the same material. In another age, she could have been a great inventress--in this one she was fugitive from the whispers as much as the disease that was then sweeping one of its seasonal swathes north across the Italian peninsula; superstition cast out her genius as surely as it had her family in her hometown.
Laisren never learned much about his lineage or his father, of whom only his name remained. He grew up in Vienna, city of music and currents, watching his mother fashion stage props for the world-famous opera in its shadows, and sell trinkets at street corners to earn their living. At least in the anonymity of the urban milieu there was less stigma for the magic his mother did with her hands--but she was a very free-spirited and practical-minded woman who didn't see the advantage in not showing her son the ways of the world. Laisren grew up with the conviction that romance was a myth, social relations a convenience, life a slippery and mockable thing. The one thing his mother did bequeathe him was her work, her small masterpieces and the finest tours de force that slipped from her hand to his. They were by no means the best the world had to offer, but they were unique, and he fashioned them into an identity--one that depended on no one.
Since, his mother, having tired of child-rearing and still young enough to start anew, left her eleven-year-old son to fend for himself after she had deemed him to have the skills to do as she had done; to live on his wits and between the cracks of the world, and that was somehow enough.
It wasn't enough for Laisren. He would climb up in social status with a certain apparent facility only to vanish back down again, as though he were turning in circles within one of those cracks, having no faith in the outside nor interest in the inside. This persistent feeling has dogged him into the present, when, after the last great fire of Vienna the city was remade in non-flammable materials and he, as an amateur metalsmith, had finally earned enough (and apparently decided enough) to up and leave. Axel arrived in Allupato searching and yet not searching for Venice, wandering all over the map with no clear destination.
A lost chapter in this ordinary, linear story of a life in concentric circles would detail how Laisren, at barely twenty, had nearly died in the great fire at the Staatsoper; how, at the last moment as his sight crisped into white-hot nothing, he made a pact with a shadow he could no longer see--that had stepped through the carnage to take a soul that had caught its eye, and retrieved it from the very brink with a certain devilish glee.
It was thus he was inducted into the Organization, and into the world of demons.
Organization/Pack/Clan/Guild?: Organization XIII
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