Post by oliver on May 18, 2008 22:42:21 GMT -5
Wow. That was a great application. Lengthy, yes, but very very nicely done. Bravo! Accepted, Welcome to Crimson Kiss...
Name: Oliver 'The Tailor' Galworthy
Gender: Male
Age of turning: 21
Year of turning: 1666
Current place of residence: Pudding Lane, London, England. A little shop house called 'Galworthy & Son Tailors'.
Lifestyle: Animals, particularly young bovine. Although when in his less stable state of mind he cannot promise to leave a human completely unharmed.
General Appearance:
At a first glance he looks small, almost waif-like until one sees the glow of maturity in dark irises of sloe. His frame is slender and deceptively slim, his lack of height and bulk adding to the illusion of a weaker man. Jet black hair sets off an ethereally pale complexion common of his kind, with smooth youthful features and artful fingers which never seem to be idle. Attire-wise he tends to keep things conservative, with a measuring tape usually found hanging from his neck.
He is also almost never without a needle and spool of thread handy.
Personality:
Where one expects to find hyper jubilance will instead face someone more calm and collected with the odd bout of randomness. A cautious kind of control over actions and expression of emotions when dealing with anyone living or undead. Yet despite a certain aloofness, Oliver is not cold. Smiles are not foreign to him, and he is not adverse to company of any form. In his craft he is neat, precise and takes on the role of a perfectionist where nothing less would suffice. Distractions to his work may make him a bit peevish, but he is otherwise slow to anger.
However, like a coin with two faces, Oliver can flip to another side that is more whimsical, child-like and a lot less sane without the outright violence and bestial behavior . This being a lasting effect of the emotional trauma he faced during the time of his turning. Coherency can give way to mindless phrases and nonsensical ramblings that could cause unease in even the most stoic of individuals. But there is method to his madness, and one need only to pay heed to decipher his endless riddles.
Empathy is his strength, as well as his innate ability to read another's body language which aids him in the matching of a client with his or her rightful materials need for their garment. In terms of his kind, his weakness is compassion and abhorrence to bloodshed. But let not his gentle nature be mistaken for naivety and ignorance, he is still a vampire after all.
History:
(WARNING! Ridiculously long-winded stuff and relentless massacring of history ahead!
)
The year of our Lord 1666, Stuart England, Pudding Lane, London.
"The point of the needle is like a wild animal; it needs to be tamed with a sturdy but gentle hand, led with strict precision and held by the strong leash of fine thread."
A lesson well taught and learned by the adopted son of one Trenton Galworthy amongst the many that was to aid the boy into becoming the heir of his kingdom. A kingdom of cloth, scissors, needle and thread. It wasn't much, just a tiny shop house that sat quietly in the far corner of Pudding Lane , with faded gold letters of 'Galworthy's Tailoring' clinging to the window. The stout man hoped that one day, he could change the lettering to 'Galworthy & Son' , the more s' at the back the better.
Not that fate made it easy for him.
His dear Bronwyn of dark hair and fair of face, was never able to conceive. And after two miscarriages and a thousand nights of heartache, she could take no more. Fortune decided to finally wink his way when the tailor went to collect his monthly supply of pure China made silk from the docks. Mewling cries amidst the shimmering material came from a babe whose mother had passed of an unknown illness after the child was born. A few extra coppers and Trenton the tailor went home with six rolls of silk and a son. Bronwyn was in love the moment she saw the squirming bundle in her husband's arms, and she named him Oliver.
So what if the boy had ebony eyes instead of blue? So what if he was, well, different. Oliver had always been such a good boy, if but a bit odd in his own way. Not the most outgoing lad on the street but he had other talents. Empathy, and a keen sense of observation. Sensitivity that was not usually seen in most males. Trenton knew his son would make a fine tailor one day.
"You never really pick the material Oli, it will speak to you. Listen."
And he did. The song of satin as it slipped through his fingers and the whispering shift of velvet, they became a part of his world, his life. It all seemed to be going well, like the streamline stitch of a hem, on a certain path of a happy family, just trying to live through the horrors of the dying plague .
Until He came at the turn of the nineteenth Winter..
************
He was wealthy gent, most likely European from the sound of his heavily accented voice but his name remained unknown. At first the remaining townsfolk were wary of him, especially when they only ever saw him at night. But he had such a charming manner, and a charisma none could really resist and soon the suspicion died down to easy acceptance. As for his other odd habits and fancies? Eccentricity of a man with too much money and time on his hands.
Oliver had never really been satisfied with such an answer, but the man brought business to their shop which had fallen on hard times due to people fleeing the town. Extravagant garments that cost a pretty penny. And always a word of praise for the tailor's bright son when they were delivered. Surely he meant no harm?
That's why Oliver thought nothing of it when he came home late from a delivery to find the tall pale figure lingering about the shop. Blinded by familiarity he never stopped to wonder why the man was visiting the shop at such a late hour when he usually had his orders delivered to his home , nor did he wonder why his parents were not tending to the unexpected guest .
"This is beautiful."
"Yes sir, our crimson velvet is most popular with lords and ladies alike... Shall I cut you a sample sir?"
Taking the soft material from pale hands he brought it over to the table to cut, when he looked up at the mirror before him... And saw only himself.
Fear so sharp it stilled his heart, and Oliver realised that he was facing something far worse than the plague itself. And why was the red of the velvet dripping down like rain?
Scissors in hand he made to stab at the wolf he had unwittingly invited into the sheep pen, but was shaken further when the creature with the obsessive smile didn't falter for a second, merely continued to step towards him, crowding him into the back of the shop... That's where he found his beloved parents. Or at least what was left of them.
Oliver could almost feel it, like the inevitable fall of a rock down a well, his mind slowly but surely plummeting into darkness at the sight of all that blood, so much blood. All he could do, was sit there on the floor, frozen in extreme dread and grief. He didn't even make a sound, or twitch in protest when cold arms embraced him , his head tilted to one side. And as two sharp points slowly pressed into his neck, his last coherent thought in a cloud of hysteria was that one should always wear a thimble to stop the prick of a needle...
Then came a pain.
******************
"W-what have you done?"
The first hoarse words uttered by the confused fledge three days later as the monster hoisted a terrified young lady by her trussed up self and savaged her throat like a wild beast. When two pairs of horror filled eyes met, Oliver felt the the last of his sanity tauten tight like string, and snap. A hysterical giggle popped from pale lips, a ghostly smile as the dying girl was placed in his lap with a soft, firm order from his maker.
"Drink."
Instinctively he obeyed, and at the very first sip of that ambrosial red and the feel of it slipping through his fangs like the smoothest of satin ,the new born child of the night allowed the darkness to take him once more.
Funny that when consciousness returned to him again, he was more distraught by the absence of his sire than the slaughter of his parents and young lady. The betrayal and sense of abandonment ,and the agonising loss from all that had happened in one night drove him further into madness.
Somehow in his insanity he was afraid that his already fallen parents would be turned into monsters as well and broke a lamp over their corpses, managing to stumble out of the shop just as the flames licked over cloth and wooden walls.
He grinned sweetly as the fire spread into the Farriner Bakery next door, like a child would when he'd accomplished something commendable. Proud that he had managed to save his darling parents from a fate worse than death. And he sang softly to himself as he swayed past the screaming townsfolk towards the empty slums, leaving behind a disaster that would be remembered for many, many years to come.
"Ashes, ashes we all fall down..."
****************
Present day England, Pudding Lane, London.
It had taken him many years to return.
Many years to find the courage to face the ghosts that still haunted him even as he looked upon the white washed walls of what had once been the interior of his father's store. Pudding Lane had indeed changed from when he last saw it.
Time had passed in the kind of blur only those who suffered immortality ever experienced. After the Great Fire, Oliver finally emerged from the slums with a clearer mind. His diet having consisted of rats and the occasional dog left him somewhat weak and he knew that he needed to leave his hometown before another human could get inflicted with same disease he would carry forever in his body.
It wasn't that hard to escape under the cover of night onto a ship at the dock, and from there he began his long journey across the seas to exotic lands and places. The tailor within enjoyed watching the change of fashion fads from one era to the next as he made his way across the globe, and it didn't take long for his fingers to start craving for the needle and thread. Despite his dip back into insanity now and then, he managed to get by without much trouble.
He created wearable works of art on whatever shore he landed on, inspired by the people and evolving trends, but he never really stayed in one place for long. Oliver survived on an income supplied by special commissions, with his promise that the requested garment would be perfect in every way that would suit the person.
None ever complained.
His new vampiric nature helped to hone into his empathic abilities, making him so attuned to his client's needs and wants that each article of clothing was unique, priceless. Money was accepted, certain gifts permissible. But fame and renown was sternly denied. A solemn oath of secrecy from any who called upon his services, because the last thing Oliver wanted, was to be put in the spotlight. Especially when he was highly allergic to sunlight and lived off the blood from livestock.
But he knew his time as a wanderer had to come to an end, the inner tailor longing for a store of his own to settle in. It was time to come home.
"Good evening, everything to your liking, Mr..."
"Galworthy, Oliver Galworthy."
If the proprietress was surprised by the novelty of a purely Asian man with a Western surname, she didn't show it. Instead she just smiled and helped him to fill the rent form. Honestly she didn't know why he'd want to set up shop here of all places, so out of the way and hidden that it could be easily passed over without even a peep. But she was finally getting it rented out, so she wasn't about to make a fuss.
"And you will be setting up a tailoring shop here yeah, what's the name?"
The dark haired man with the ebony eyes gave her a dreamy, faraway grin.
"Galworthy & Son."
***************************
Name: Oliver 'The Tailor' Galworthy
Gender: Male
Age of turning: 21
Year of turning: 1666
Current place of residence: Pudding Lane, London, England. A little shop house called 'Galworthy & Son Tailors'.
Lifestyle: Animals, particularly young bovine. Although when in his less stable state of mind he cannot promise to leave a human completely unharmed.
General Appearance:
At a first glance he looks small, almost waif-like until one sees the glow of maturity in dark irises of sloe. His frame is slender and deceptively slim, his lack of height and bulk adding to the illusion of a weaker man. Jet black hair sets off an ethereally pale complexion common of his kind, with smooth youthful features and artful fingers which never seem to be idle. Attire-wise he tends to keep things conservative, with a measuring tape usually found hanging from his neck.
He is also almost never without a needle and spool of thread handy.
Personality:
Where one expects to find hyper jubilance will instead face someone more calm and collected with the odd bout of randomness. A cautious kind of control over actions and expression of emotions when dealing with anyone living or undead. Yet despite a certain aloofness, Oliver is not cold. Smiles are not foreign to him, and he is not adverse to company of any form. In his craft he is neat, precise and takes on the role of a perfectionist where nothing less would suffice. Distractions to his work may make him a bit peevish, but he is otherwise slow to anger.
However, like a coin with two faces, Oliver can flip to another side that is more whimsical, child-like and a lot less sane without the outright violence and bestial behavior . This being a lasting effect of the emotional trauma he faced during the time of his turning. Coherency can give way to mindless phrases and nonsensical ramblings that could cause unease in even the most stoic of individuals. But there is method to his madness, and one need only to pay heed to decipher his endless riddles.
Empathy is his strength, as well as his innate ability to read another's body language which aids him in the matching of a client with his or her rightful materials need for their garment. In terms of his kind, his weakness is compassion and abhorrence to bloodshed. But let not his gentle nature be mistaken for naivety and ignorance, he is still a vampire after all.
History:
(WARNING! Ridiculously long-winded stuff and relentless massacring of history ahead!
)The year of our Lord 1666, Stuart England, Pudding Lane, London.
"The point of the needle is like a wild animal; it needs to be tamed with a sturdy but gentle hand, led with strict precision and held by the strong leash of fine thread."
A lesson well taught and learned by the adopted son of one Trenton Galworthy amongst the many that was to aid the boy into becoming the heir of his kingdom. A kingdom of cloth, scissors, needle and thread. It wasn't much, just a tiny shop house that sat quietly in the far corner of Pudding Lane , with faded gold letters of 'Galworthy's Tailoring' clinging to the window. The stout man hoped that one day, he could change the lettering to 'Galworthy & Son' , the more s' at the back the better.
Not that fate made it easy for him.
His dear Bronwyn of dark hair and fair of face, was never able to conceive. And after two miscarriages and a thousand nights of heartache, she could take no more. Fortune decided to finally wink his way when the tailor went to collect his monthly supply of pure China made silk from the docks. Mewling cries amidst the shimmering material came from a babe whose mother had passed of an unknown illness after the child was born. A few extra coppers and Trenton the tailor went home with six rolls of silk and a son. Bronwyn was in love the moment she saw the squirming bundle in her husband's arms, and she named him Oliver.
So what if the boy had ebony eyes instead of blue? So what if he was, well, different. Oliver had always been such a good boy, if but a bit odd in his own way. Not the most outgoing lad on the street but he had other talents. Empathy, and a keen sense of observation. Sensitivity that was not usually seen in most males. Trenton knew his son would make a fine tailor one day.
"You never really pick the material Oli, it will speak to you. Listen."
And he did. The song of satin as it slipped through his fingers and the whispering shift of velvet, they became a part of his world, his life. It all seemed to be going well, like the streamline stitch of a hem, on a certain path of a happy family, just trying to live through the horrors of the dying plague .
Until He came at the turn of the nineteenth Winter..
************
He was wealthy gent, most likely European from the sound of his heavily accented voice but his name remained unknown. At first the remaining townsfolk were wary of him, especially when they only ever saw him at night. But he had such a charming manner, and a charisma none could really resist and soon the suspicion died down to easy acceptance. As for his other odd habits and fancies? Eccentricity of a man with too much money and time on his hands.
Oliver had never really been satisfied with such an answer, but the man brought business to their shop which had fallen on hard times due to people fleeing the town. Extravagant garments that cost a pretty penny. And always a word of praise for the tailor's bright son when they were delivered. Surely he meant no harm?
That's why Oliver thought nothing of it when he came home late from a delivery to find the tall pale figure lingering about the shop. Blinded by familiarity he never stopped to wonder why the man was visiting the shop at such a late hour when he usually had his orders delivered to his home , nor did he wonder why his parents were not tending to the unexpected guest .
"This is beautiful."
"Yes sir, our crimson velvet is most popular with lords and ladies alike... Shall I cut you a sample sir?"
Taking the soft material from pale hands he brought it over to the table to cut, when he looked up at the mirror before him... And saw only himself.
Fear so sharp it stilled his heart, and Oliver realised that he was facing something far worse than the plague itself. And why was the red of the velvet dripping down like rain?
Scissors in hand he made to stab at the wolf he had unwittingly invited into the sheep pen, but was shaken further when the creature with the obsessive smile didn't falter for a second, merely continued to step towards him, crowding him into the back of the shop... That's where he found his beloved parents. Or at least what was left of them.
Oliver could almost feel it, like the inevitable fall of a rock down a well, his mind slowly but surely plummeting into darkness at the sight of all that blood, so much blood. All he could do, was sit there on the floor, frozen in extreme dread and grief. He didn't even make a sound, or twitch in protest when cold arms embraced him , his head tilted to one side. And as two sharp points slowly pressed into his neck, his last coherent thought in a cloud of hysteria was that one should always wear a thimble to stop the prick of a needle...
Then came a pain.
******************
"W-what have you done?"
The first hoarse words uttered by the confused fledge three days later as the monster hoisted a terrified young lady by her trussed up self and savaged her throat like a wild beast. When two pairs of horror filled eyes met, Oliver felt the the last of his sanity tauten tight like string, and snap. A hysterical giggle popped from pale lips, a ghostly smile as the dying girl was placed in his lap with a soft, firm order from his maker.
"Drink."
Instinctively he obeyed, and at the very first sip of that ambrosial red and the feel of it slipping through his fangs like the smoothest of satin ,the new born child of the night allowed the darkness to take him once more.
Funny that when consciousness returned to him again, he was more distraught by the absence of his sire than the slaughter of his parents and young lady. The betrayal and sense of abandonment ,and the agonising loss from all that had happened in one night drove him further into madness.
Somehow in his insanity he was afraid that his already fallen parents would be turned into monsters as well and broke a lamp over their corpses, managing to stumble out of the shop just as the flames licked over cloth and wooden walls.
He grinned sweetly as the fire spread into the Farriner Bakery next door, like a child would when he'd accomplished something commendable. Proud that he had managed to save his darling parents from a fate worse than death. And he sang softly to himself as he swayed past the screaming townsfolk towards the empty slums, leaving behind a disaster that would be remembered for many, many years to come.
"Ashes, ashes we all fall down..."
****************
Present day England, Pudding Lane, London.
It had taken him many years to return.
Many years to find the courage to face the ghosts that still haunted him even as he looked upon the white washed walls of what had once been the interior of his father's store. Pudding Lane had indeed changed from when he last saw it.
Time had passed in the kind of blur only those who suffered immortality ever experienced. After the Great Fire, Oliver finally emerged from the slums with a clearer mind. His diet having consisted of rats and the occasional dog left him somewhat weak and he knew that he needed to leave his hometown before another human could get inflicted with same disease he would carry forever in his body.
It wasn't that hard to escape under the cover of night onto a ship at the dock, and from there he began his long journey across the seas to exotic lands and places. The tailor within enjoyed watching the change of fashion fads from one era to the next as he made his way across the globe, and it didn't take long for his fingers to start craving for the needle and thread. Despite his dip back into insanity now and then, he managed to get by without much trouble.
He created wearable works of art on whatever shore he landed on, inspired by the people and evolving trends, but he never really stayed in one place for long. Oliver survived on an income supplied by special commissions, with his promise that the requested garment would be perfect in every way that would suit the person.
None ever complained.
His new vampiric nature helped to hone into his empathic abilities, making him so attuned to his client's needs and wants that each article of clothing was unique, priceless. Money was accepted, certain gifts permissible. But fame and renown was sternly denied. A solemn oath of secrecy from any who called upon his services, because the last thing Oliver wanted, was to be put in the spotlight. Especially when he was highly allergic to sunlight and lived off the blood from livestock.
But he knew his time as a wanderer had to come to an end, the inner tailor longing for a store of his own to settle in. It was time to come home.
"Good evening, everything to your liking, Mr..."
"Galworthy, Oliver Galworthy."
If the proprietress was surprised by the novelty of a purely Asian man with a Western surname, she didn't show it. Instead she just smiled and helped him to fill the rent form. Honestly she didn't know why he'd want to set up shop here of all places, so out of the way and hidden that it could be easily passed over without even a peep. But she was finally getting it rented out, so she wasn't about to make a fuss.
"And you will be setting up a tailoring shop here yeah, what's the name?"
The dark haired man with the ebony eyes gave her a dreamy, faraway grin.
"Galworthy & Son."
***************************