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Post by heyyitsnarwhal on Dec 3, 2009 20:07:19 GMT -5
001. NAME• Oliver Nikolas Clark
002. NICKNAME• Ollie, Olive are the most common ones; in fact, he doesn't introduce himself as Oliver but as Olive. His grandmother calls him Nik, and his little sister calls him Nikky, but those select two are allowed to do so.
003. AGE• Twenty-Five
004. BIRTHDATE• February 23rd
005. WHERE DO YOU LIVE?• New Ore leans, Louisiana
001. YOUR FACE• Juan Ibanez
002. HAIR• Oliver's hair starts at a point on the upper back of his head, but that's the only discernible point, or part, from there on out. A mass of brown tresses, thick but silky with nearly obsessive maintenance, sprouts outward and lays straight against his skull, falling in jagged layers across the nape of his neck, framing his face, and brushed lightly across his forehead covering his left eyebrow. Highlights of reddish brown streak through the brown, and this color is more prominent in his facial hair. As far as facial hair goes, he's got a mustache and a beard, though it's nothing too excessive.
On the odd day he cleans up he shaves his beard short, but not totally off, with sharp lines; similarly his hair is combed back giving him a more dramatic, sharp look to his tresses.
003. EYES• Ahh, Olive's eyes. Nothing about them is all that spectacular, they're average is size, the color of them is a baby blue of sorts; he wasn't blessed, or cursed if you will, with those gorgeously long eyelashes men seem to have. No.. the thing that makes his eyes notable is the look in them. They express everything that his face doesn't, and they express it all in ten fold. There's an intensity about them that is so old with a life lived fast and hard that it catches your breathe; but in the same respect, when they go warm and innocent you'd think he'd never experienced a bad thing in his life.
004. HIEGHT• He stands at about 6'3"
005. WEIGHT• Hmm, let's say 'bout 150 lbs.
006. BODY MODS• One, out of place piercing resides in his ear. Well, in the cartilage of his ear that thirteen year old girls seem to be determined to get. Olive had been struck by this phenomenon too at that age and hasn't felt particularly compelled to get rid of it.
007. FASHION/STYLE• Casual, casual, casual. It's all about just relaxing and going with the flow. T-shirts with minimal designs, usually with a v-neck but sometimes just your average Joe shirt. Nothing special. Oh, and jeans. Because society seems to think pants are necessary. Shoes are usually tennis shoes of a slip on variety, or flip-flops. Yup, even when it's cold.
001. LIKES• - Having control
- Black Coffee
- Simplicity
- Parks
- Old Musicals
- Photography
- Carpentry
002. DISLIKES• - Losing control
- Cemeteries
- Hospitals
- Anything where death is prevalent, really
- Injustice
- Ignorant people
- His mother
003. FEARS•- He'll lose his mind
- Turn into a vampire/Immortality
- Dolls
004. STRENGTHS• - Adapting
- Stress control
- Photography
- Carpentry
- Lying, he's quiet good at it.
005. WEAKNESSES• - Compulsive
- Temper
- Little Ambition
- He keeps to himself, bottling up his problem which usually results in his temper
- Women
006. ODDITIES• Olive is a medium, and if that's isn't strange enough add in: he grew up in a home filled with mentally unstable people and he refuses to buy a telephone.
007. ORIENTATION• Straight as they come.
008. SPECIFIC MORALS• Respect the dead, that's a huge one for him. Being a medium gives him a whole different light on the subject, and frankly he's tired of hearing ghosties complain to him about how no one appreciates them. Similarly, don't waste you life; if it makes you happy do it, if you haven't done it try it! Other than that morals can... bend a bit.
009. PERSONALITY OVERVIEW• Olive is an unusual lad, he gained much of his quirkiness from his grandmother and the entourage of children she's adopted, all of them "different" in some way, shape, or form. While he might think differently than most, and finds things that are viewed as disgusting as beautiful, Oliver is completely laid-back.... Well, when he gets his way. Was it mentioned he's a control freak? Yeah, control is incredibly important to him. If anything threatens his control he goes from his quirky self to, nearly, an apathetic sociopath.
001. PARENT ONE• Maria Clark - Occupation unknown | Julia Clark, his grandmother - Runs a foster home
002. PARENT TWO• Gambet Fonté - 'Professional' Gambler
003. SIBLINGS• Oliver doesn't have any biological siblings, however, with his grandmother running a foster home she adopted a few children. Those adopted children he considers his family.- Little Sister, Kathlyn
- Little Brother, Joshua
- Older Sister, Heather
004. PETS• Olive has one cat named Lily, a stray tabby cat that he took in.
005. HISTORY OVERVIEW•
Olive's life is an odd one, to say the least. His mother left him when he was eight years old, but he doesn't blame her for it, what he blames her for is the turmoil his grandmother went though because of Maria. Still though, Oliver can be practical when he wants to be, and he's more than aware that if he hadn't been a medium, if he hadn't scared Maria, none of it would have happened. You see.. well, actually, let's start at eight years old.
He stared outside the window, the rain slapping against the glass and blurring the outside world. The world outside of Oliver's window was covered in a translucent curtain of gray, the clouds seemed to growl with discontentment above the Louisiana soil and cast it's angry shadow over everything. In short, it was gloomy. A storm was rolling in from the cost, and every Louisianian knew that the storm wasn't going to be playing games with the Cajun bunch, the storm wasn't going to hold back. However, it wasn't the storm that caused the boy to frown. It wasn't the storm that caused him to rub at his eyes, perplexed by what he saw. The only thing that caused him confusion, confusion so strong it dismissed any fears, was the group of five people outside of his window. They, unlike the scenery around them, where two shades brighter than average. Their faces were blank, their eyes empty holes of deep gray that seemed to go on forever, though their lips curved pleasantly upward. They looked hopeful, even without their eyes gleaming with that light that comes with hope.
"Oliver, what are you looking at?"
Oliver looked over his shoulder at his mother looming over his shoulder, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. Drinking off another hangover, but it seemed to work for her. His frown deepened, and then he pointed outside toward the figures. She obliged, and then gave him a quizzical glance, "Oliver, you've seen storms before. Oliver, darling, come away from the window. Listen to my story from last night."
Giving one last glance out the window, he followed his mother obediently into the other room, ready to hear his mother idea of a wonderful night. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he began to have an inkling that things were not as they should be...
It didn't take long for him to be so confused, so curious, about those people waiting outside his house that he wandered out there and started talking to them. They told him about their lives, they wailed with joy at the prospect of someone being able to see them, talk to them, help them. Oliver learned quickly that they wanted to use him more than befriend him, but he hadn't mind. After all, if they could live waiting for him, he could live to be used. Soon his mother noticed him talking to nothing, however; eying him when he looked around the kitchen and seemed to focus on a guest that was not there... That was when she decided.
"Oliver, are you alright?"
Oliver chewed slowly on his fruity pebbles, swinging his feet from the chair he sat on by the table. His mother nursed a healthy serving of brandy, like every morning.
"Yeah mom," He said in-between bites, "Why?"
She shifted, her eyes looking down into her lap, "You still talking to Jeramiah?"
Oliver nodded, and replied, "Yup, he told me about how cream puffs killed him, how they clogged up his heart. Don't you eat those things, youngin', they're the death of ya!" Jabbing his spoon at his mother, he then grinned, "That's what he always says."
Again, she shifted, and then ran a hand over her face. "I'm going to drop you off at Grandma's for the week, she misses you."
That stopped his grin right there, and his face fell, "Why? Mom, mom, I don't wanna gooo!"
"Shut up," She snapped, and then seemed to get ahold of herself with a drag from her cigarette, "Listen, I have lots of work to do... I'll be too busy to take care of you this week."
His nose wiggled in preparation for what might come, "But... I was at Grandma's just this weekend!"
"Oliver Nikolas Clark, don't you argue with me. I said you're staying at your grandmother's and that's final!"
Jumping down from his chair, he huffed and went to his room to pack. Grandma's was always filled with weird kids, and they were usually mean; plus he liked staying home better. Jeramiah only stayed here, he wouldn't follow him anywhere else like the others.
Olive's grandmother ran a Foster Home; she was an old Cajun woman, with an odd French twang and kept a book about Hoodoo in her book shelf. She read tarot cards, and was as superstitious as they come. She always had a soft spot in her heart for the misunderstood, and even adopted some of the kids that went through her home, and none of the kids could give up her cooking.
After his mother described Olive's symptoms to a psychiatrist, the doctor demanded he see the child. He was diagnosed with a severe case of paranoid schizophrenia. His grandmother immediately was inspired to take in mentally unstable kids... and grandma's home became a foster home for the unstable.
"Tell me about your hallucinations, Oliver."
"Call me Olive."
"Olive... tell me about the ghosts."
Olive sighed and looked toward the corner of the room. He'd been seeing different psychiatrist for the past five years; every time someone the psychiatrist knew would contact him, and then he'd deliver the message and the psychiatrist would tell him to leave their office. This one had lasted five months so far.
"Why don't I talk about my wacked up family, Doc? Or how no one will believe me, ever, because you have me signed up for the crazy list? Or how about," Olive leaned forward and gave a small smile, "we talk about the three years of hell I went through?"
"Olive... you don't see ghosts. You are schizophrenic, you see things that look real."
"Says you."
"Yes, says me."
"You're a prick."
His grandmother pulled him out of the office by the ear, the young male bending low to keep from his ear being ripped off, muttering small complaints of ouch, ouch, ouch.
"I can't believe you, insulting people trying to help you!"
"Grandmere, hold your horses, Jesus! I don't need help!"
"You're just like Heather, refusing to cooperate."
"She's my hero."
A quick, sharp tug on his ear shut him up, though he was smirking as he got into the pick-up truck.
Life continued this way for about two more years, but then one of the kids commited suicide at the house. That had been Olive's undoing, shortly after he'd found his grandmere's muscle relaxers and ate them like candy... however, it only worked half the time, blocking the ghosties out. Sometimes, they only seemed more prevalent.
It was such a time when his grandmother finally believed him.
'Ollie, Ollie-boy.. Please, don't let the other kids do what I did. Please Ollie. Ollie-boy are you listening!?'
A weak, pathetic, "No," grunted out of him as he lay on the floor, the bottle of pills rolling out of his hand empty and he watched it roll and roll until it hit a stubby foot.
"My pills.." Wide eyes look up to see her grandson, limp on the floor, his face ungodly pale. Rushing to his side she grabbed his shoulders roughly, shaking him and yelling into his face, "Ollie! Ollie! Oh my, oh my god! You stupid, stupid boy! Ollie!"
His world twisted and turned in his head until his stomach felt similarly, and finally he smirked up at her face and said, "Kyle keeps talking to me."
"Oh, Ollie, please don't..."
"He keeps yelling at me, all night, all day; I can't stand to seem him without eyes, I can't stand to listen to him cry over the life he could have had... I can't take it anymore."
"Ollie, stop," She cried softly, pushing her hand against her eyes.
"He says he misses you reading huckleberry to him," Olive started, and she blinked softly, stunned, "He says he misses how you two laughed when someone walked by his door because you didn't feel like reading a book to all the kids. He says.. he says he would have accepted the adoption papers if he hadn't died. It had been his ultimatum, if he died he'd die, if he didn't he'd accept the adoption..."
A painful wail fell out of his grandmother, and she cradled her grandson. He laughed softly, and tried to pat her shoulder, but he had had too many pills.
"Oh! Oliver, I'm so sorry..."
Life was better from there out. His grandmother believed him, so he got to talk to her about the things he saw... which weren't good. Some of the ghosts looked like they did in life, some of them what they looked like when they died. The way some people die, you don't want to see it. Having someone to tell helped him deal with it, until he realized that she couldn't handle it either. That was when he decided he'd deal with his own problems, not let someone else have to suffer through anything because he wasn't strong enough.
Life with the mentally unstable was an interesting one. His little sister, whom he adored with all his heart, talked to inanimate objects; she believed souls were stuck in them and provided them company. A teenage boy named Marcus was OCD and frequently cleaned and organized the house to the point where Olive would walk into his room and find his underwear neatly folded in the oddest places... Places that made sense to Marcus, but not to him. Such was the life he lead.
Olive's life was no where near normal, and as such he lived it oddly. He left home at seventeen, graduating high school on his birthday. He then moved out, got a job, and began to hitchhike across the United States. During this time he picked up photography and carpentry, and then came back to New Ore leans to settle down for a while. By the time he got back his grandmother had died. Olive selfishly hopes to find his grandmother wandering her house one day, and bought it. Now he works as a free-lance photographer, with a hundred different, insane stories to tell.
 Yo', my name is Narwhal, and I've been the walking dead for eighteen years, and I've been grave robbing for five years, I dug up lovely Crimson Kiss by means of a friend and adore it.
001. ANYTHING ELSE?• I'm on a boat...
002. ROLE PLAY SAMPLE• I'm lazy, refer to Emmet? c:
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