Post by julius on Aug 7, 2009 20:42:52 GMT -5
001. NAME• Josque Libertine (Olin) Fridell
002. NICKNAME• Josk, Josko, Jay, J-Bird, Crow
003. AGE• 18
004. BIRTHDATE• August 15, 1989
005. WHERE YOU LIVE?• sorta homeless for now.
001. YOUR FACE• Oliver Sykes
002. HAIR• Originally blonde, but he dyed it to stand out (and is not above adding hilights), making it black, straight, and shoulder-length with fringes cutting along his forehead and into his eyes.
003. EYES• A muddled, unattractive brownish-green; his smile defines his face
004. HEIGHT• 5 feet, 10 inches [&&counting *crosses fingers*]
005. WEIGHT• 146 pounds
006. BODY MODS• Body tattoos from the wrists and up the arms, across the chest, up the neck, and down till around the hips. He also has snakebites pierced into his lower lip.
007. FASHION/STYLE• A bit of goth/scene/grunge/punk (shirts with sarcastic/witty quotes, studded belts, fingerless gloves) mixed with what is commercially street style (hoodies with zippers in the front, baseball caps or beanies, baggy pants). He will not wear skinny jeans because he thinks they look ridiculous (on most people, and he considers himself of the group who can’t pull them off) or converse, because they further diminish his height and they’re “cheap-ass kicks that bust up in a minute” (he prefers Vans).
001. LIKES•
food
- strawberries, favorite fruit and flavor
- sushi
- soup
- wine coolers
- hot tea
music
- rock/metal/screamo/indie/pop
- Bright Eyes (indie) is his favorite at the moment
- R&B/hiphop/(conscious)rap
- Lupe Fiasco is his favorite rapper at the moment
- Classical (Beethoven pwns Mozart)
other
- baking
- piano, privately
- biking
002. DISLIKES•
food
- large portions of meat
- steamed vegetables
- milk by itself
- soda (except Mountain Dew and 7UP)
music
- Soulja Boi
- Coldplay
- yodeling
- Igor Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring"
other
- taller/more muscular men
- reading/writing
- discrimination
003. FEARS•
- heights
- enclosed spaces
- breaking/losing/forgetting his iPhone
- he fears hurting (or getting hurt by) and/or losing (by either death, pain, or disappointment) a loved one, but don't most people? though, sometimes, he'll become adamant about those he cares about, and implore that they lock their windows at night, wear their seatbelts, and be careful driving. it is often with worry that he becomes nostalgic.
- sometimes, the dark
&&maybe not a fear, but he gets uncomfortable around people who are physically stronger than he is
004.STRENGTHS•
- Calm
- Outgoing
- Willful
- Honest
- Creative
005.WEAKNESSES•
- Panic Prone
- Overly Trusting
- Reckless
- Argumentative
- Self Conscious
006. ODDITIES•
- Ever since his first tattoo, he's noticed a distinct adrenaline rush that he can only get from pain -- but he'd never tell anyone that. He may be honest and open, but exposing that portion of him would too strongly make him vulnerable.
- As far as skill sets, he can bake, but has trouble with preparing and finishing meat.
- He can speak Swedish and English fluently (he knows minimal amounts of German, but could get by), the combination of which gives him a peculiar accent far removed from American English, but that doesn't stop him from incorporating their slang into his speech.
- Sweden doesn’t have their own television programs, but instead play movies (mostly American-made) as substitutes. Because of this, he’s developed an obsession or admiration over the United States, enjoying their accents, colloquialisms, and mannerisms. It’s often that he wonders what the bigger places are like – California, New York, Las Vegas – and puts them in an unreasonably glorifying light.
007. ORIENTATION• Pansexual
008. SPECIFIC MORALS• At first thought, he'd want to comment that everyone should make the effort to be kind, or at least not make the effort to be rude, but over the years he's decided that being self-indulgent, self-serving, and independent are more admirable qualities; he dislikes those who can't stand up for themselves.
He identifies most with Hobbes' theory of selfishness but also altruism, which added together equate to all conscious human action to benefit the individual either directly or through gratification, and that a truthfully altruistic act must be thoughtless or the human consciousness would create a beneficial gratification. Since selfless acts require thoughtlessness, he doesn't think the idea or someone demonstrating the idea should be revered for being thoughtless; gratification (that feel-good sensation) is needed for a drive to help others, to reach a goal, and provide necessary human interaction.
009. PERSONALITY OVERVIEW•
Calm, but Panicked?:
In stressful situations, he’s likely to keep his cool and approach the problem with a clear head, unless it involves heights or enclosed spaces. Typically, being in an elevated or crowded area doesn’t faze him, but with the addition of terror, panic attacks are probable; if someone has intention to push him off a ledge, for example, or trap him in a closet, he’ll begin sweating profusely and hyperventilate, clouding his judgment.
Outgoing, but Trusting:
He notices thoughtless boundaries people create for themselves and makes a conscious effort to break whatever useless walls he has; he isn’t shy, and has no problem starting conversations with new, interesting people, perhaps attributed to himself exchanging schools and traveling. However, this friendly attitude can lend him trouble, in that he avoids passing judgment on what most would consider questionable moral character.
Willful, but Reckless:
If he wants to get something done, he’ll put everything else on hold at the drop of a hat to achieve his goal, which is only a positive trait in the right context. There have been times when illegal graffiti, or say, destruction of governmental property, were accomplished because of his fantastic will. However, he is reluctant to do anything solo.
Honest, but Argumentative:
While not necessarily mean or blunt, he will give drop-dead-honest opinions in hopefully a way that won’t insult the questioner, but there are times when he can’t stand someone and will use venom – oh, those exhibitionist complainers? No, they don’t fly. If he catches someone commenting on how ‘fat’ or ‘ugly’ he or she is for the sake of others disagreeing, he’s going to bash you.
On another note, he’s more than happy to participate in friendly debates, but only if he likes or knows the other person. If he doesn’t, he’s likely to give a vague surface answer to avoid waves.
Creative, but Self Conscious:
Yeah, he plays piano, but he knows his limits and that his skill is exceeded by many. While the objective isn’t to be the best, he’s reluctant to show anyone anything that isn’t perfected to his standards, so no, he will not play for you
unless he genuinely, honestly feels comfortable.
001. PARENT ONE• Molly Lena (Olin) Fridell; mother, 46; baker/pastry chef
002. PARENT TWO• Alrik Olle (Ekman) Fridell; father, 44; baker/retired air force
003. SIBLINGS•
- Helmer Alrick (Olin) Fridell; male, 25
- Jacob Erik (Olin) Fridell; male, 27
004. PETS• none
005. HISTORY OVERVIEW•
There’s this small town in Sweden of around nine thousand where he grew up until ten, then because of his father’s position in the military, moved to a new, slightly larger (but still small) town. When Josk was fourteen, the family got orders to England where they remained for two years until Alrik Fridell retired, and decided to move back to their original location.
Helmer went back to their quiet village with their parents, but Jacob continued college and Josk began university.
A sob story isn’t found here, but there are definite underlines that prevented Josk from becoming close with his kin, as firstly, their parents’ firstborn is especially prized for his intelligence and the second for his strength, leaving the youngest the only title left – the baby, which is aided by his cooing mother. This added with his fascination over the North American world creates in him a longing to break away from Europe and immerse himself in all the action, glory, and poetic romance found elsewhere, partially the reason for him dying his hair (most everyone in Sweden is blond-haired and light-eyed) and gaining ink into his skin.
Yo', my name is Dei, and I've been the walking dead for 18 years, and I've been grave robbing for 6 years, I dug up lovely Crimson Kiss by means of a google search and adore it.
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001. ANYTHING ELSE?• Writing up character sheets is my least favorite thing to do, and it doesn’t help that I’ve built this character from essentially chicken-scratch (my main character is a homeless drug addict that most rpers, for some reason, don’t appreciate). It’s because of this that it was greatly delayed and I apologize.
002. ROLE PLAY SAMPLE•
August 16, 2009
Kopparberg, Sweden; Fridell Residence
TITLE: The Return of
A Nomad
draws lines in the upright piano’s dust like a man would circle around a woman’s navel and lower, lower, lower, let the tracing travel.
It starts with something just as perverse, lifting the lid and exposing what is normally unexposed; the soft delicates, the white laces, the black undergarments that suggest formality though admit seduction, temptation, but not depravity. A moan echoes to the small, cramped room, the instrument asking for just another fingered caress, just one taste of his smooth-textured tongue, or single song of his soul, but when he gives in to her allure and begins a melody, she asks for him to be bold -- ‘It’s been too long…’ she might say, or he whisper, ‘Since I have touched you, since you’ve been touched, since you’ve been alive.since I’ve breathed – since I’ve had breath
since I’ve journeyed to arrive
or slept
to wake and shy away
from where my dreams are kept
because all this time he’s been avoiding the notion of nostalgia
pinching his sides, tapping his shoulder
migrating from the southern and northern-cold hemispheres of his mind where the memories are fresh, but decayed. He thinks about Sweden like someone might think about time-travel, because those summer days and licorice-scented clothes boxed-up in boxes aren’t his anymore – crates. It’s like when he left, his room became an empty space, and his parents had methods of filling it like an attic or basement or some other baseless place; there are pots and pans, knick-knacks and old lamps, furniture disheveled over his bed, dresser, nightstand. He shakes his head, getting the hair out of his eyes (now shut tight in effort to glide away into the music) and attempting to quell the thoughts surfacing at the top of his skull and liquefying, becoming hot sweat that surpasses the nape of his neck and builds at his shoulders.
He’s playing so fast that his cheeks are flushed, legs bent and
back hunched
from the weight of something he can’t explain, or subdue, or sustain.
Everything is here, the children from his childhood, the happy, sun-baked bricks building cottages, the open windows and unlocked doors, and himself.
Crow, playing Black Bird upon the ivory or obsidian, the un-buried skeleton
like riding a bike or playing a spine with another, more hollow bone structure.
It would be obscene to mention necrophilia, but he lays with his corroded past over the hot heat of his instrument (of passion, emotion, obsession) and sound and noise and what is that rata-tat-tat? It thunders, ripples out and bounces off the walls, reverberates, smoothes and subdues the rough edges like water over rock, salt, thirst. It slakes his desire and he can almost feel her long legs quiver, moan the tone and smolder of her choir, and this is what he has always wanted. This is the height of his being, when he is only reactive to her and she only to him, and they don’t care about his clumsy fingers dotting the wrong i or missing the fundamental curvature at the backs of g and y and j.
But it’s nothing spectacular.
It’s not supposed to be. He is becoming aware that everyone can hear and is hearing, and he’s wondering what it feels like to them, if they can smell the longing, the dirt, the sex, if they can taste the piano on their lips like he can as his teeth bite down on his flesh, drawing blood, is licked over. How can they possibly demonstrate that they comprehend what it means for him to be so loud, so careless, if these are only words and he is applying action to the theories and trying to reach what every human outstretches their arms for since the dawning of condensing all that stardust? not creation, not knowledge, not even something so abstract as love, but, explicit. Understanding. Every gesture, mannerism, utterance has unfounded and indefinite definitions that vary to the point where language is impossible
and he, unable to give up the concept, asks
'Can anyone hear me like I can hear myself?’
like anyone would say ‘no’ either way.
'Can anyone hear me like I can hear myself?’
like anyone would say ‘no’ either way.
Climaxes and Crescendos are in desperation the composer hoping to impose what they mean one more time, repeating and pointing to the point and going mad with madness because no one will ever know, and we are all alone.
And he plays like this is the last time he will, because it might be.
'Maybe this is the last time I will ever feel anything this massive, frightening, completing.'
Maybe that doesn’t matter, though. Josk is just a frantic figure playing an out-of-tune device in what used to be his bedroom, and is now cargo space. It’s not groundbreaking, original, or spectacular.
He sits back on the bench, gasping, fumbling in his pockets for a lighter and cigarette so that one and one can equal two, or one lit fag in his mouth and smoke rings. He shuts the lid of the dead piano, all strings and chipped paint and timber now because he’ll be absent. He stays for the entirety of his smoke, flicking the ash at her and burning a singular, circular indentation on her arm before getting up and shuffling out to demean what she means to him.
“You were a good fuck”
and he closes the door.
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