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Duplicity App, take 2
Jan. 14th, 2021 07:16 pm« « « HEDONISM » » »
Name: skidmo Age: 38 Contact: Timezone: PST Other Character(s): Dorian Gray-CAOS, George's previous app. |
Name: George Lovelace Door: (George is a reapp, so he should be a Dominant.) Canon: Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy (part of the Shadowhunter Chronicles of Cassandra Clare) Canon Point: During Forever Fallen, about four years after his death Age: 19 (24, mentally) Appearance: He's described as being tall and broad with brown eyes and curly brown hair. 6'5" and (at least once) described as a Scottish sex god. I use Diego Boneta for a PB. History: Ave atque vale, George Lovelace, child of the Nephilim. Forever and ever, my brother, hail and farewell. Since his death, George has been haunting the London Institute with his much-removed cousin Jessamine. Personality: George is above all things affable, friendly, and unwilling to engage in any kind of emotional confrontation. +easygoing/-repressive: His roommate Simon, who is the narrator for most of the book he originates in, says that the reason he likes George is because George is never difficult or complicated, and that's sort of what George strives for. Any time a situation is leaning toward being too serious or heavy or emotional, George cracks a joke. Emotions are not something you can fight, so George just ignores them whenever he can. On occasion, he can be serious and deal with his emotions. Before the ceremony that will either turn him into a half-angel or kill him, George has a brief heart to heart with Simon about Simon being his best friend even if he's not Simon's. Of course, being George, he ends it by saying, "Are we going to have to hug now?" +loyal: He wants to be a good bro. When it comes to his friends, he basically wants to keep them happy and safe at all times. If that means tromping down to live in the moldy basement in solidarity with the other mundane students, he can do that. If it means making an idiot of himself to create a distraction while a friend sneaks out of the dining hall, he can do that. And if it means throwing himself into the path of a faerie warrior to save a friend, he can do that too. +altruistic/-hero complexGeorge wants to be a hero. He left his family's sheep farm at the first chance for adventure. He tells Simon, "Everybody in this academy, Shadowhunters and mundanes, people with the Sight and without it, everyone of them is looking to be a hero. We are all hoping for it, and trying for it, and soon we will be bleeding for it." In the end, George dies for it, and he never gets to be the kind of hero he was looking for. He wants to do some good in the world. He's always been athletic and good-looking, and people have always liked him, but Shadowhunting was the first thing he ever wanted to do that was actually heroic, that put his athleticism to some use off the football pitch. He wants to be a hero badly enough to risk his life for the chance to do so. -hedonistic: After spending several years as a ghost, unable to touch anyone or anything, unable to eat or drink, and with literally no one to talk to but his prudish, Victorian cousin, George will be almost obsessed with the physical world, pursuing every sensation he can, from food to sex to pain. He wants to feel things now that he can, and he'll have very little motivation not to follow those impulses. -avoidant/-hot-tempered: Confrontation is not his thing. He will put off addressing an issue in personal relationships until it bothers him enough to blow up about it. It doesn't take him long to settle again, but he can and has run his mouth at the wrong time and gotten into trouble with friends. This also translates to him being bad in a crisis. When he's forced to confront something without preparation, he tends to freeze and/or go for the easiest reaction. Powers and Abilities: He's a trained Shadowhunter (demon-hunter), but he doesn't have any of the angelic power that goes with it, so basically he's about super-spy/soldier level martial expertise, ala Black Widow but without the cool tech and with a familiarity with more archaic weapons. Because of this training, he also has a smattering of Latin, Greek, Arabic, and Cthonian. He's pretty good at tennis too! Most sports come easily to him. Inventory: Just the Lovelace family ring. Samples: How he communicates How he thinks |
Duplicity: Memory for Magnus
Dec. 20th, 2018 01:32 pmGeorge is about ten, maybe eleven, dressed in short pants and a school tie that's loosened, his jacket hanging out of his rucksack, all gangly limbs and pointed knees and elbows. He runs all the way back from school. He could take the bus, but the sun is out and Morna meets him at the corner with her tail wagging, so he hikes his rucksack up on his shoulders and just runs. For the joy of it, for the feel of the wind on his face and the sound of Morna yipping in front of him.
He runs straight up the stairs and throws his bag into the coat closet before careening into the kitchen. Morna stops at the doorway between the kitchen and the mud room, her tail thumping on the floor. "Gran! Did you know, there was a bloke called Magellan, and he sailed right round the whole earth?"
"George Finlay Lovelace, your shoes are filthy," Gran says, wiping her hands on her apron. She's dusted in flour, rolling out her ginger biscuits. "Take them off and come in again." She shoes him out, sending a spray of white dust into the air.
George leaps back out of the kitchen to leave his trainers by the door, Gran's voice ringing behind him. "Might as well let the dog in and banish you to the mud room. Have you run all the way home?"
George's socks skid across the kitchen floor when he zips back in. "Nobody'd ever sailed that far before," he says, pulling up a stool to the sink to wash his hands. He doesn't need the stool anymore--in fact, using it means he has to stoop--but it's habit, and he hasn't been tall enough for all that long. "And folks thought he was well mad, but he did it anyway. Sailed right round the whole bloody earth!"
"Language!"
George dries his hands and pulls up a chair at the table, picking up a biscuit round to help cut them out. "People were always having grand adventures in history and in books and things," he says with a sigh, tossing a piece of dough to Morna when Gran isn't looking. "All I ever do is school and sheep. Nobody ever had a grand adventure with sheep."
"Oh no," Gran says, and George turns to her with a frown. She sounds...disappointed. "No, that won't do at all. Lovelaces may be many things, but we are certainly not whingers."
"I'm not whinging!" George protests, and Gran taps his cheek lightly, leaving a spice-scented trail on his face.
"'Nobody ever had a grand adventure with sheep,'" she quotes back to him, and she's right. It does sound like whinging.
"Well, nobody ever did." He puts down the cutter and slumps in his chair.
"Imagine if they did, though," Gran says, nudging him off his chair to find a baking sheet.
George is skeptical, and he peers at her over the cupboard door. "What do you mean?"
"Well, instead of whinging about there being no shepherd adventurers, why don't you think about what a shepherd adventurer would do. Where would he go? Who would he fight? Who would he save?"
"He can't go anywhere! He's got to look after the sheep! And they never do anything." The baking sheet clatters when he drops it onto the table.
For a long while, Gran doesn't say anything. She hums to herself as she rubs butter onto the sheet, and George thinks she's given up. One by one, she drops the cut biscuits onto the sheet, arranging them in neat rows.
"I know your father likes to say that Lovelaces are well-known quitters, but sometimes your father doesn't have the sense the Angel gave a slug." She carries the tray of biscuits to the oven and slides them in. Then she pulls up a chair next to George and looks at him seriously. "If you want an adventure, Georgie, you're going to have to make it up for yourself." She stands and ruffles his hair. "Now go on with you. Take Morna to the barn and see to your chores."
George gets up and leaps back into the mud room, sitting to pull his trainers back on and leaning against Morna as he ties them. Gran calls from the kitchen, "When you come back, I expect to hear a story about George the adventuring shepherd. No biscuits without stories."
Popping to his feet, he grins at Gran and holds the door for Morna to run out. "It'll just be about chickens and sheep," he warns.
"Someone's got to look out for the chickens," Gran says, and George laughs as he runs to the barn.
He runs straight up the stairs and throws his bag into the coat closet before careening into the kitchen. Morna stops at the doorway between the kitchen and the mud room, her tail thumping on the floor. "Gran! Did you know, there was a bloke called Magellan, and he sailed right round the whole earth?"
"George Finlay Lovelace, your shoes are filthy," Gran says, wiping her hands on her apron. She's dusted in flour, rolling out her ginger biscuits. "Take them off and come in again." She shoes him out, sending a spray of white dust into the air.
George leaps back out of the kitchen to leave his trainers by the door, Gran's voice ringing behind him. "Might as well let the dog in and banish you to the mud room. Have you run all the way home?"
George's socks skid across the kitchen floor when he zips back in. "Nobody'd ever sailed that far before," he says, pulling up a stool to the sink to wash his hands. He doesn't need the stool anymore--in fact, using it means he has to stoop--but it's habit, and he hasn't been tall enough for all that long. "And folks thought he was well mad, but he did it anyway. Sailed right round the whole bloody earth!"
"Language!"
George dries his hands and pulls up a chair at the table, picking up a biscuit round to help cut them out. "People were always having grand adventures in history and in books and things," he says with a sigh, tossing a piece of dough to Morna when Gran isn't looking. "All I ever do is school and sheep. Nobody ever had a grand adventure with sheep."
"Oh no," Gran says, and George turns to her with a frown. She sounds...disappointed. "No, that won't do at all. Lovelaces may be many things, but we are certainly not whingers."
"I'm not whinging!" George protests, and Gran taps his cheek lightly, leaving a spice-scented trail on his face.
"'Nobody ever had a grand adventure with sheep,'" she quotes back to him, and she's right. It does sound like whinging.
"Well, nobody ever did." He puts down the cutter and slumps in his chair.
"Imagine if they did, though," Gran says, nudging him off his chair to find a baking sheet.
George is skeptical, and he peers at her over the cupboard door. "What do you mean?"
"Well, instead of whinging about there being no shepherd adventurers, why don't you think about what a shepherd adventurer would do. Where would he go? Who would he fight? Who would he save?"
"He can't go anywhere! He's got to look after the sheep! And they never do anything." The baking sheet clatters when he drops it onto the table.
For a long while, Gran doesn't say anything. She hums to herself as she rubs butter onto the sheet, and George thinks she's given up. One by one, she drops the cut biscuits onto the sheet, arranging them in neat rows.
"I know your father likes to say that Lovelaces are well-known quitters, but sometimes your father doesn't have the sense the Angel gave a slug." She carries the tray of biscuits to the oven and slides them in. Then she pulls up a chair next to George and looks at him seriously. "If you want an adventure, Georgie, you're going to have to make it up for yourself." She stands and ruffles his hair. "Now go on with you. Take Morna to the barn and see to your chores."
George gets up and leaps back into the mud room, sitting to pull his trainers back on and leaning against Morna as he ties them. Gran calls from the kitchen, "When you come back, I expect to hear a story about George the adventuring shepherd. No biscuits without stories."
Popping to his feet, he grins at Gran and holds the door for Morna to run out. "It'll just be about chickens and sheep," he warns.
"Someone's got to look out for the chickens," Gran says, and George laughs as he runs to the barn.
D&D Group 3
Sep. 24th, 2018 04:01 pm( The Deets )
So, just to recap:
1) Welcome to the group!
2) When can you play?
3) Are you saddling yourself with a Dwarf cleric or am I?
4) AMA
So, just to recap:
1) Welcome to the group!
2) When can you play?
3) Are you saddling yourself with a Dwarf cleric or am I?
4) AMA
The Ascension
Aug. 15th, 2018 02:42 pmSitting with Simon in their dank, moldy, dungeon room, George tried to convince himself there was nothing to be afraid of. He'd be fine. He'd trained as hard as anyone for this moment, and he was totally going to survive.
Probably.
"You know," he said to Simon, looking around for the last signs of Jon Cartwright XXXV, the latest in a long series of pseudo-pet rats, "I'm really going to miss it here."
"You're not going to cry again, are you?" Simon said, because he was a good bro like that. "I think there may be another sentient slime mold growing in the back of my sock drawer, if you want to get really choked up."
"Does one wear socks to get transformed into a half-angel superhuman fighting machine?"
Simon answered without hesitation. "Not with sandals. Never with sandals."
In the end, they picked outfits that felt most like themselves, so Simon was in one of his thrift store t-shirts, and George wore jeans and a rugby shirt. It was almost hard to believe this was the last time they'd be getting ready for a test together, the last time they'd get dressed in the cold, slimy room they'd come to think of as home.
George felt compelled to speak, in case Simon was thinking the same things he was. "It's not like we'll never see each other again." He was going to London, Simon to New York, but they'd be in the mundane world again, where things like cell phones existed.
"Of course not," Simon answered.
"But it won't be the same." George didn't look at Simon, lest he actually cry this time.
"No, I guess it won't."
George looked down at the socks in his hand and put entirely too much effort into folding them neatly and sliding them into his suitcase. Enough effort that he could pretend it was a totally casual amount of time to think about what he wanted to say.
"You're my best friend, you know." He still didn't look up from his packing. "Don't worry," he added before Simon could argue, "I know I'm not your best friend, Si. You've got Clary. And Isabelle. And your bandmate mate. I get it. I just thought you should know."
It felt like the sort of thing Simon should know. It felt like the sort of thing you said when you weren't going to see your roommate again for a long time.
Simon didn't say anything at first, and eventually, George had to look at him.
"You're right, George," he said eventually. "I do have more than enough best friends."
George tried, really he did, not to show how much that hurt. Simon was going to tell him that they were just roommates. No hard feelings, but we're both moving on with life now, etc. etc.
Simon kept talking, though. "But there's something else I've never had. At least until now."
"What's that?"
"A brother."
George was sure he was grinning wide enough to split his face, but he couldn't think of a better word for it.
"Are we going to have to hug now or something?" he asked.
Simon grinned. "I think that may be inescapable."
***
Before the ceremony began, George had joked with Simon about why he hadn't wanted his parents there, even though, as Shadowhunters, they were allowed to attend. "Just in case I explode, mate. Don't get me wrong, the Lovelaces are hardy folk, but I don't think they'd enjoy a faceful of liquefied George."
But as he watched one after another of his friends, his classmates, dregs and elites alike, stepped into the concentric circles, hovered over by the creepy Silent Brothers in their parchment-colored robes, eyes and mouths sewn shut...
With every one of his friends who swore on the Angel to uphold the Law, who drank from the Cup of the Angel, George felt the anticipation grow. It wasn't fear. He was confident in his training, and every single one of his classmates had made it through just fine.
Simon was just before him, and as they passed each other, Simon on his way out of the circles, George on his way in, George gave him a quick high five.
When he reached the circles, he knelt in the center as Consul Penhallow stood over him in her ceremonial red robes.
"Do you swear, George Lovelace, to forsake the mundane world and follow the path of a Shadowhunter?" They were words he'd heard asked of everyone who went before. An oath they had all taken. "Will you take into yourself the blood of the Angel Raziel and honor that blood? Do you swear to serve the Clave, to follow the Law as set forth by the Covenant, and to obey the word of the Council? Will you defend that which is human and mortal, knowing that for your service, there will be no recompense and no thanks but honor?"
The room felt impossibly quiet, waiting for him to answer. "I swear."
"Can you be a shield for the weak, a light in the dark, a truth among falsehoods, a tower in the flood, an eye to see when all others are blind?"
"I can," George said, looking up to meet the Consul's eyes.
"And when you are dead," she continued, her voice calm and stern, "will you give up your body to the Nephilim to be burned, that your ashes may be used to build the City of Bones?"
"I will."
Consul Penhallow held out the cup to him. "Then drink."
George took it, glad to have the ceremony finally over, the parts he had to be so serious for. He took a deep breath, raised the Mortal Cup in toast, and shouted, " Sláinte!" He could hear the laughter as he took his drink.
And then there was pain like he'd never known, a scream in his mind that may have come from himself, and at last, utter darkness.
[ooc: All dialogue comes from Cassandra Clare's Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy.]
Probably.
"You know," he said to Simon, looking around for the last signs of Jon Cartwright XXXV, the latest in a long series of pseudo-pet rats, "I'm really going to miss it here."
"You're not going to cry again, are you?" Simon said, because he was a good bro like that. "I think there may be another sentient slime mold growing in the back of my sock drawer, if you want to get really choked up."
"Does one wear socks to get transformed into a half-angel superhuman fighting machine?"
Simon answered without hesitation. "Not with sandals. Never with sandals."
In the end, they picked outfits that felt most like themselves, so Simon was in one of his thrift store t-shirts, and George wore jeans and a rugby shirt. It was almost hard to believe this was the last time they'd be getting ready for a test together, the last time they'd get dressed in the cold, slimy room they'd come to think of as home.
George felt compelled to speak, in case Simon was thinking the same things he was. "It's not like we'll never see each other again." He was going to London, Simon to New York, but they'd be in the mundane world again, where things like cell phones existed.
"Of course not," Simon answered.
"But it won't be the same." George didn't look at Simon, lest he actually cry this time.
"No, I guess it won't."
George looked down at the socks in his hand and put entirely too much effort into folding them neatly and sliding them into his suitcase. Enough effort that he could pretend it was a totally casual amount of time to think about what he wanted to say.
"You're my best friend, you know." He still didn't look up from his packing. "Don't worry," he added before Simon could argue, "I know I'm not your best friend, Si. You've got Clary. And Isabelle. And your bandmate mate. I get it. I just thought you should know."
It felt like the sort of thing Simon should know. It felt like the sort of thing you said when you weren't going to see your roommate again for a long time.
Simon didn't say anything at first, and eventually, George had to look at him.
"You're right, George," he said eventually. "I do have more than enough best friends."
George tried, really he did, not to show how much that hurt. Simon was going to tell him that they were just roommates. No hard feelings, but we're both moving on with life now, etc. etc.
Simon kept talking, though. "But there's something else I've never had. At least until now."
"What's that?"
"A brother."
George was sure he was grinning wide enough to split his face, but he couldn't think of a better word for it.
"Are we going to have to hug now or something?" he asked.
Simon grinned. "I think that may be inescapable."
***
Before the ceremony began, George had joked with Simon about why he hadn't wanted his parents there, even though, as Shadowhunters, they were allowed to attend. "Just in case I explode, mate. Don't get me wrong, the Lovelaces are hardy folk, but I don't think they'd enjoy a faceful of liquefied George."
But as he watched one after another of his friends, his classmates, dregs and elites alike, stepped into the concentric circles, hovered over by the creepy Silent Brothers in their parchment-colored robes, eyes and mouths sewn shut...
With every one of his friends who swore on the Angel to uphold the Law, who drank from the Cup of the Angel, George felt the anticipation grow. It wasn't fear. He was confident in his training, and every single one of his classmates had made it through just fine.
Simon was just before him, and as they passed each other, Simon on his way out of the circles, George on his way in, George gave him a quick high five.
When he reached the circles, he knelt in the center as Consul Penhallow stood over him in her ceremonial red robes.
"Do you swear, George Lovelace, to forsake the mundane world and follow the path of a Shadowhunter?" They were words he'd heard asked of everyone who went before. An oath they had all taken. "Will you take into yourself the blood of the Angel Raziel and honor that blood? Do you swear to serve the Clave, to follow the Law as set forth by the Covenant, and to obey the word of the Council? Will you defend that which is human and mortal, knowing that for your service, there will be no recompense and no thanks but honor?"
The room felt impossibly quiet, waiting for him to answer. "I swear."
"Can you be a shield for the weak, a light in the dark, a truth among falsehoods, a tower in the flood, an eye to see when all others are blind?"
"I can," George said, looking up to meet the Consul's eyes.
"And when you are dead," she continued, her voice calm and stern, "will you give up your body to the Nephilim to be burned, that your ashes may be used to build the City of Bones?"
"I will."
Consul Penhallow held out the cup to him. "Then drink."
George took it, glad to have the ceremony finally over, the parts he had to be so serious for. He took a deep breath, raised the Mortal Cup in toast, and shouted, " Sláinte!" He could hear the laughter as he took his drink.
And then there was pain like he'd never known, a scream in his mind that may have come from himself, and at last, utter darkness.
[ooc: All dialogue comes from Cassandra Clare's Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy.]
