Post by IVAN FRITZ on Jun 26, 2015 0:52:02 GMT -6
IVAN FRITZ
140 ♦ MALE ♦ AMBIGUOUS ♦ N/A ♦ BUSINESS ♦ SAMEDI
HISTORIA
His guts spilled out on the floor, blood dribbling down into the dirt and slick puddles of oil from broken machinery and dyed fabric. In the dark, fingertips shaking, he--
--his memory felt blank, hazy, and confused, like looking through murky well water--
--the landlord, his father, drained on the floor and choking, dead where his bones melt and burn under his skin.
(The name dies with him. As the Baron, his names come and go as he pleases.)
Evil like a cent, a necessary crime; simple mechanics of the marketplace. People exist as commodities to trade, and he sinks in the leather cushioning of his armchair. In a manner of speaking--an epithet, the Baron supposed leisurely and spun the autumn-gold metal of his cigarette holder. It flickers black and red, whirling like a roulette table.
He exists as a money collector, a racketeer, a criminal. He takes to the silence of strange, unknown corners of the business world, and inherited his names from a corrupted lawyer and a women in charcoal-colored silks.
"And thus," his voice wound throughout the room, low and intrigued while the cigar end glowed in the shadows, "To what do I owe the glory o' such illustrious guests."
Apologies are not the Baron's way. The king of his meticulously-designed empire, he precludes them, and examines the world from a higher throne. He must posses everything, control most of all, and he orchestrates.
Takes advantage without useless sentiments and apologies. Such never befits good strategy, a gentleman of service and innovation of the highest caliber--and that evening, handsome in his showroom like a statue chiseled from white marble, he knows to tend to his business dealings.
Fitting. Very little interest in the faceless. The numbers that he tallies off on signed-away papers--again, and he lets the ash weep into the pan, commodities.
In rare moments, he regrets the loss of a potential exchange, a dropped bargaining chip. History's greatest killers are industry and resource, supply and demand, and he found no need to alter that when his country so desperately calls for him.
("The lord Baron markets blood by the pint," they mumur behind closed doors. Forty two years ago, he left his old name, after the Green Dawn twisted him into an eyeless, soulless creature wrapped in a dead-chill.)
He lived long, slept with a witch who gave him tastes of magick; the sort of boy that curls lovingly into noblewomen, a talent which he covets. The lives of court ladies bestow a grace and a cigarette hole in the heart, drawn to him by birth and loveless marriage.
They know him as enigmatic, like smoke breaking in the night air, and bizarre from his gambling house. The greater upper nobility treats his interests as eclectic, his philanthropy as honorable, and his documents as official.
Lonely manors have room for the Baron and his endless charm, his winsome smiles and quiet talk--the way he slips in and out of them, more exciting than other men of his kind, and willfully at their mercy. Young, or young enough to fool them, and beautiful and they never ask for greater than that in their affairs.
An intelligent and a clean creature, once said in the darkness, and they appreciate his company. They want him like a love note: clandestine, temporary, and thrilling. The kind of man that accompanies style and returns when called for, hidden from their husbands and their lurking fathers.
"Unlike many I've met," he heard, pressing his lips to a dangled and pretty ankle, "You are hardly afraid of women, no matter what the kind."
And sinister, another muttered after a passing moment. They know him for what he is, and welcome it. The ones that seek him out have their little horrors, something cruel in them, an unashamed appetite.
(He creates his deals at all costs and in all methods of negotiations; one woman's way of putting words to an endless string of bed partners. Each serves as a means to a madness, a useful contact in a cesspool of competition. The king of his empire, he said and chewed on the dangled end of a cigar. No good man loses sight of his game board.)
--his memory felt blank, hazy, and confused, like looking through murky well water--
--the landlord, his father, drained on the floor and choking, dead where his bones melt and burn under his skin.
(The name dies with him. As the Baron, his names come and go as he pleases.)
Evil like a cent, a necessary crime; simple mechanics of the marketplace. People exist as commodities to trade, and he sinks in the leather cushioning of his armchair. In a manner of speaking--an epithet, the Baron supposed leisurely and spun the autumn-gold metal of his cigarette holder. It flickers black and red, whirling like a roulette table.
He exists as a money collector, a racketeer, a criminal. He takes to the silence of strange, unknown corners of the business world, and inherited his names from a corrupted lawyer and a women in charcoal-colored silks.
"And thus," his voice wound throughout the room, low and intrigued while the cigar end glowed in the shadows, "To what do I owe the glory o' such illustrious guests."
Apologies are not the Baron's way. The king of his meticulously-designed empire, he precludes them, and examines the world from a higher throne. He must posses everything, control most of all, and he orchestrates.
Takes advantage without useless sentiments and apologies. Such never befits good strategy, a gentleman of service and innovation of the highest caliber--and that evening, handsome in his showroom like a statue chiseled from white marble, he knows to tend to his business dealings.
Fitting. Very little interest in the faceless. The numbers that he tallies off on signed-away papers--again, and he lets the ash weep into the pan, commodities.
In rare moments, he regrets the loss of a potential exchange, a dropped bargaining chip. History's greatest killers are industry and resource, supply and demand, and he found no need to alter that when his country so desperately calls for him.
("The lord Baron markets blood by the pint," they mumur behind closed doors. Forty two years ago, he left his old name, after the Green Dawn twisted him into an eyeless, soulless creature wrapped in a dead-chill.)
He lived long, slept with a witch who gave him tastes of magick; the sort of boy that curls lovingly into noblewomen, a talent which he covets. The lives of court ladies bestow a grace and a cigarette hole in the heart, drawn to him by birth and loveless marriage.
They know him as enigmatic, like smoke breaking in the night air, and bizarre from his gambling house. The greater upper nobility treats his interests as eclectic, his philanthropy as honorable, and his documents as official.
Lonely manors have room for the Baron and his endless charm, his winsome smiles and quiet talk--the way he slips in and out of them, more exciting than other men of his kind, and willfully at their mercy. Young, or young enough to fool them, and beautiful and they never ask for greater than that in their affairs.
An intelligent and a clean creature, once said in the darkness, and they appreciate his company. They want him like a love note: clandestine, temporary, and thrilling. The kind of man that accompanies style and returns when called for, hidden from their husbands and their lurking fathers.
"Unlike many I've met," he heard, pressing his lips to a dangled and pretty ankle, "You are hardly afraid of women, no matter what the kind."
And sinister, another muttered after a passing moment. They know him for what he is, and welcome it. The ones that seek him out have their little horrors, something cruel in them, an unashamed appetite.
(He creates his deals at all costs and in all methods of negotiations; one woman's way of putting words to an endless string of bed partners. Each serves as a means to a madness, a useful contact in a cesspool of competition. The king of his empire, he said and chewed on the dangled end of a cigar. No good man loses sight of his game board.)
OTHER
PLAYER BACKGROUND. "I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career—
—that make me an excellent addition to this site's staff team."
PLAY BY. KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN - ALAUDE - IVAN FRITZ
—that make me an excellent addition to this site's staff team."
PLAY BY. KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN - ALAUDE - IVAN FRITZ