Woshington
02-24-08, 08:06 PM
Name: Woshington
Age: 28
Race: Human
Hair Colour: Black
Eye Colour: Brown
Height: 6'
Weight: 195lbs
Personality
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."
Oscar Wilde
And Woshington, despite being lovingly crafted by his maker, fell intermediately into the category of "most people". Personality reproduced in him by those around him. Furthermore, he is a variant on the norm, a particular degree of the façade of one personality blanketing the uglier reality. To mould who we are to the world we meet is something "most people" share; whether it be to defend or attack. Woshington is the same, he is a walking dualism.
For this Althanian, every motion appears fluid--projecting a typical, but contrasting, combination: tranquil extroversion, something he wears brazenly on his sleeve. A truth told so vigorously it could only be a lie. A toothy grin contrasts against his inky skin and placid brown eyes. More so, his personality sinks beyond. The exuberance of his unkempt afro hairstyle and flamboyance in his gaudy airbrushed wares are a mask he wears intentionally. Simmering beneath what he appears to be is what he is in actuality: a methodical individual, a perfectionist who battles with the desire to weave audacity into his flawless sphere. Littering his speech with ethnic eccentricities and exaggerating his outlandish accent is his favoured tool for his masquerading trade. To the naked eye Woshington is bright and lively, a living stereotype for happy tropical living. An archetype confirmed in his booming voice and the consuming love felt by those experiencing the two-handed grip when he shakes for an introduction. This young man's outward rhythm is certainly musical. The few who have the pleasure of his extended company can see that he craves efficiency, uniformity and exhibits degrees of ruthlessness in his work. Woshington considers himself cocky, but is actually somewhat arrogant.
Appearance
Six feet tall, lithe and only moderately muscular, skin so black it almost shimmers blue in the sunlight; Woshington is a vibrant figure. His movement is a flow of swaggers, leers and lurches; topped off by his unusual outfits: tropical shirts worn open displaying his bare chest; oversized shorts and loud sneakers. The colour scheme of choice is yellow, trimmed with green and blue. A tool belt hangs from his waist, a small pouch at the front and slots containing spray paint cans either side. His face is gaunt, his features harshly pronounced but his eyes are lively and his smile is warm matching the cheery afro adorning his head like an urban pompadour.
History
division.one-althanas.universe
Woshington was born (yesterday) on Corone Island, where he expired less than a minute later. For his mother had been suffering from pica while carrying. Pica is a condition causing the mother to experience strange cravings during the pregnancy; but far beyond the usual cheese and icecream. The Corone top soil had been skimmed frequently by Mama Woshington as her compulsion to eat dirt overcame her. As the mother ingested small rocks and clods of mud the foetus inside her suffered. Woshington was pierced and skewered like the rest of her internals, a blocked digestive system ensued and eventually the child had no other choice but to scrape his way out and onto the very same dirt his mother had been feasting upon. He laid squirming in his mother’s blood. A sunbeam cracked through a spur in the rolling hills of the ancient island, showering his retina in glorious light. Then Woshington died nameless. Followed in death by his ailing mother.
division.two-other.universe
Quickly he negotiated the various energies of the omniverse, an exported soul imported for a new universe. Born again, on another world, at the same age he died—only a matter of seconds old. Hardly noticeable for his second birth mother. This time he was big and fat, healthy and shining with the light of the Althanas sun branded in his memory.
He spent his latter teenage years playing at sandbox gangsters, revelling in living across two worlds: where his tropical beach met the cracked concrete of a third world urban jungle. Not quite the dual universal, but nevertheless the microcosm felt like home to him. Discovering the joys of life with his pseudo thugs brought him to his first of three loves; graffiti. Endless summers were filled with nights of beautifying six foot brick boundaries and metal shutters with spray paint logos and murals. The cans came swiped from the neighbourhood’s DIY emporium. Life felt like pure heaven. There was even time to play ball games in the dry white sand; Woshington stayed fit and agile.
His agility garnered the attention of a specialist. An ageing Mestre was taking in the spiritual benefits of strolling the ocean front when the spectacular form of sixteen year old Woshington performing a springing handstand caught his eye. The tropical teen flew above his dazzled opponents, before bracing into the soft sand… Woshington had already swung his leg and struck the ball: contact between the red and white patchwork of the leather ball and the coffee bean black of the skin atop his bare foot resulted in a screaming goal. Woshington offered his foot to a team mate, who kneeled before deftly dusting away the round patch of wet sand left behind on the goal scorer’s foot. A confabulation followed between boy and old man, and the result: Woshington was under the tutelage of Mestre Karde. Decades of devotion to bónfim—the audacious martial art of the tropics—created only few mestres and Karde was one of them. Skin hanging loose, eyes glazed milky white and bone joints worn of all but pockets of clinging cartilage—this man was walking death, holding his shrivelled life in his skeletal grip. Karde’s only hope was to infuse his knowledge with a worthy candidate and Woshington was his young beach star. The second love of Woshington’s life: bónfim.
Number three: military manoeuvres and the appropriate paraphernalia. Following the inevitable (and quite predictably sad) demise of the old Mestre, Woshington wandered a different path. Commence: a cliché downward spiral. With his mestre in the ground and his gangsters flanking his every move the sandbox escapades were escalated. Drug dealing and guns, etc, etc. Woshington set his eyes to devouring, at first, biographies of the various tropical jungle guerrilla generals, but later he leaned towards particularly “serious business” military textbooks. What he learned he deployed on the streets to slaughter his foes and their businesses. His jovial exterior, in his youth it was natural, but by this point it was becoming the mask that marked his life thereafter. Beneath he was a taker of lives. Orders were to wage war on the streets and he supposed himself the general of the two worlds (sand/concrete). Ending life was no emotional struggle to him; perhaps this is because, somehow, he knew there was a rebirth. Obviously, death was not a concern for such a man.
division.three-hello.corone
Amazingly, Woshington was the first of the gang to die. Despite his unsavoury growth, he was nevertheless a worthy general and comrade. The bullet . . . the centurion .45 APC burned through his skin with blistering speed and split into the bone of his temple before tearing the ridged and wrinkled flesh of his brain. For a second time he was face down, but this time the soil of rural Corone was replaced with the warm concrete of an equatorial metropolis ghetto. Again Woshington came back. For his third coming, no woman was tortured with his adult body within hers. The new womb was the ground on which he died, the same day, the same time. Buried alive. Woshington clawed determinedly at the soft earth forming his shallow grave. He broke ground directly beneath the foetus that was once his shell. It was still warm, while his mother’s dead body had remained while he lived a life in another universe for the moments that were years. To him at least. Woshington thought nothing of it, dusted himself down and grabbed a cloth sack full of aerosol paint cans that had energised into the omniverse along with him and joined him on the journey. Next to his mother’s body is a lightweight crossbow and sack of bolts to match. He was the same person that had died before, but he felt no panic at what had happened… before he had known his destiny beneath his consciousness. It was suddenly conscious.
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."
Oscar Wilde
He’s just like everybody else in the omniverse: Woshington is certainly a quotation, a mimic--but his compilation of traits is a tribute to his friends, family and experiences. Ideas are meant to be copied.
The next morning he watched as he saw the sun peak through the hill spurs again and boomed, “Wow, I was born yesterday.”
Skills
1. Woshington is particularly skilled with an aerosol can.
2. Woshington has a self-taught knowledge of contemporary weaponry and warfare.
3. Woshington has a basic knowledge of chemistry as a result of the two previous skills.
4. Woshington practices “bónfim” – an original fantasy martial art. The style is highly acrobatic, gymnastic, with lots of sweeps and kicks. The hands are kept free for use with projectile weapons. Rumours that some mestres can produce psionic-like energy concentrations and manipulations persist. For the record, bónfim is inspired by real life capoeira (if that helps).
Equipment
1. Wide and varied wardrobe of loud apparel.
2. Sack full of spray paint cans; all the colours of the rainbow!
3. Utility belt with slots for spray paint cans, with front pouch for miscellaneous items.
4. A fully fuelled lighter.
5. Bónfim martial arts text book.
6. Crossbow, can be wielded single-handedly, but has short range. Energy in the projectile is lost as early as 30 yards.
7. Case full of bolts (the maximum amount you’ll let me get away with ^_~)
Age: 28
Race: Human
Hair Colour: Black
Eye Colour: Brown
Height: 6'
Weight: 195lbs
Personality
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."
Oscar Wilde
And Woshington, despite being lovingly crafted by his maker, fell intermediately into the category of "most people". Personality reproduced in him by those around him. Furthermore, he is a variant on the norm, a particular degree of the façade of one personality blanketing the uglier reality. To mould who we are to the world we meet is something "most people" share; whether it be to defend or attack. Woshington is the same, he is a walking dualism.
For this Althanian, every motion appears fluid--projecting a typical, but contrasting, combination: tranquil extroversion, something he wears brazenly on his sleeve. A truth told so vigorously it could only be a lie. A toothy grin contrasts against his inky skin and placid brown eyes. More so, his personality sinks beyond. The exuberance of his unkempt afro hairstyle and flamboyance in his gaudy airbrushed wares are a mask he wears intentionally. Simmering beneath what he appears to be is what he is in actuality: a methodical individual, a perfectionist who battles with the desire to weave audacity into his flawless sphere. Littering his speech with ethnic eccentricities and exaggerating his outlandish accent is his favoured tool for his masquerading trade. To the naked eye Woshington is bright and lively, a living stereotype for happy tropical living. An archetype confirmed in his booming voice and the consuming love felt by those experiencing the two-handed grip when he shakes for an introduction. This young man's outward rhythm is certainly musical. The few who have the pleasure of his extended company can see that he craves efficiency, uniformity and exhibits degrees of ruthlessness in his work. Woshington considers himself cocky, but is actually somewhat arrogant.
Appearance
Six feet tall, lithe and only moderately muscular, skin so black it almost shimmers blue in the sunlight; Woshington is a vibrant figure. His movement is a flow of swaggers, leers and lurches; topped off by his unusual outfits: tropical shirts worn open displaying his bare chest; oversized shorts and loud sneakers. The colour scheme of choice is yellow, trimmed with green and blue. A tool belt hangs from his waist, a small pouch at the front and slots containing spray paint cans either side. His face is gaunt, his features harshly pronounced but his eyes are lively and his smile is warm matching the cheery afro adorning his head like an urban pompadour.
History
division.one-althanas.universe
Woshington was born (yesterday) on Corone Island, where he expired less than a minute later. For his mother had been suffering from pica while carrying. Pica is a condition causing the mother to experience strange cravings during the pregnancy; but far beyond the usual cheese and icecream. The Corone top soil had been skimmed frequently by Mama Woshington as her compulsion to eat dirt overcame her. As the mother ingested small rocks and clods of mud the foetus inside her suffered. Woshington was pierced and skewered like the rest of her internals, a blocked digestive system ensued and eventually the child had no other choice but to scrape his way out and onto the very same dirt his mother had been feasting upon. He laid squirming in his mother’s blood. A sunbeam cracked through a spur in the rolling hills of the ancient island, showering his retina in glorious light. Then Woshington died nameless. Followed in death by his ailing mother.
division.two-other.universe
Quickly he negotiated the various energies of the omniverse, an exported soul imported for a new universe. Born again, on another world, at the same age he died—only a matter of seconds old. Hardly noticeable for his second birth mother. This time he was big and fat, healthy and shining with the light of the Althanas sun branded in his memory.
He spent his latter teenage years playing at sandbox gangsters, revelling in living across two worlds: where his tropical beach met the cracked concrete of a third world urban jungle. Not quite the dual universal, but nevertheless the microcosm felt like home to him. Discovering the joys of life with his pseudo thugs brought him to his first of three loves; graffiti. Endless summers were filled with nights of beautifying six foot brick boundaries and metal shutters with spray paint logos and murals. The cans came swiped from the neighbourhood’s DIY emporium. Life felt like pure heaven. There was even time to play ball games in the dry white sand; Woshington stayed fit and agile.
His agility garnered the attention of a specialist. An ageing Mestre was taking in the spiritual benefits of strolling the ocean front when the spectacular form of sixteen year old Woshington performing a springing handstand caught his eye. The tropical teen flew above his dazzled opponents, before bracing into the soft sand… Woshington had already swung his leg and struck the ball: contact between the red and white patchwork of the leather ball and the coffee bean black of the skin atop his bare foot resulted in a screaming goal. Woshington offered his foot to a team mate, who kneeled before deftly dusting away the round patch of wet sand left behind on the goal scorer’s foot. A confabulation followed between boy and old man, and the result: Woshington was under the tutelage of Mestre Karde. Decades of devotion to bónfim—the audacious martial art of the tropics—created only few mestres and Karde was one of them. Skin hanging loose, eyes glazed milky white and bone joints worn of all but pockets of clinging cartilage—this man was walking death, holding his shrivelled life in his skeletal grip. Karde’s only hope was to infuse his knowledge with a worthy candidate and Woshington was his young beach star. The second love of Woshington’s life: bónfim.
Number three: military manoeuvres and the appropriate paraphernalia. Following the inevitable (and quite predictably sad) demise of the old Mestre, Woshington wandered a different path. Commence: a cliché downward spiral. With his mestre in the ground and his gangsters flanking his every move the sandbox escapades were escalated. Drug dealing and guns, etc, etc. Woshington set his eyes to devouring, at first, biographies of the various tropical jungle guerrilla generals, but later he leaned towards particularly “serious business” military textbooks. What he learned he deployed on the streets to slaughter his foes and their businesses. His jovial exterior, in his youth it was natural, but by this point it was becoming the mask that marked his life thereafter. Beneath he was a taker of lives. Orders were to wage war on the streets and he supposed himself the general of the two worlds (sand/concrete). Ending life was no emotional struggle to him; perhaps this is because, somehow, he knew there was a rebirth. Obviously, death was not a concern for such a man.
division.three-hello.corone
Amazingly, Woshington was the first of the gang to die. Despite his unsavoury growth, he was nevertheless a worthy general and comrade. The bullet . . . the centurion .45 APC burned through his skin with blistering speed and split into the bone of his temple before tearing the ridged and wrinkled flesh of his brain. For a second time he was face down, but this time the soil of rural Corone was replaced with the warm concrete of an equatorial metropolis ghetto. Again Woshington came back. For his third coming, no woman was tortured with his adult body within hers. The new womb was the ground on which he died, the same day, the same time. Buried alive. Woshington clawed determinedly at the soft earth forming his shallow grave. He broke ground directly beneath the foetus that was once his shell. It was still warm, while his mother’s dead body had remained while he lived a life in another universe for the moments that were years. To him at least. Woshington thought nothing of it, dusted himself down and grabbed a cloth sack full of aerosol paint cans that had energised into the omniverse along with him and joined him on the journey. Next to his mother’s body is a lightweight crossbow and sack of bolts to match. He was the same person that had died before, but he felt no panic at what had happened… before he had known his destiny beneath his consciousness. It was suddenly conscious.
"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation."
Oscar Wilde
He’s just like everybody else in the omniverse: Woshington is certainly a quotation, a mimic--but his compilation of traits is a tribute to his friends, family and experiences. Ideas are meant to be copied.
The next morning he watched as he saw the sun peak through the hill spurs again and boomed, “Wow, I was born yesterday.”
Skills
1. Woshington is particularly skilled with an aerosol can.
2. Woshington has a self-taught knowledge of contemporary weaponry and warfare.
3. Woshington has a basic knowledge of chemistry as a result of the two previous skills.
4. Woshington practices “bónfim” – an original fantasy martial art. The style is highly acrobatic, gymnastic, with lots of sweeps and kicks. The hands are kept free for use with projectile weapons. Rumours that some mestres can produce psionic-like energy concentrations and manipulations persist. For the record, bónfim is inspired by real life capoeira (if that helps).
Equipment
1. Wide and varied wardrobe of loud apparel.
2. Sack full of spray paint cans; all the colours of the rainbow!
3. Utility belt with slots for spray paint cans, with front pouch for miscellaneous items.
4. A fully fuelled lighter.
5. Bónfim martial arts text book.
6. Crossbow, can be wielded single-handedly, but has short range. Energy in the projectile is lost as early as 30 yards.
7. Case full of bolts (the maximum amount you’ll let me get away with ^_~)