Post by Byrne Thatcher on Jan 30, 2012 16:38:46 GMT -8
Byrne James Thatcher
Sometimes there's airplanes I can' t jump out
Sometimes there's bullshit that don't work now
We are God of stories, but please tell me
What there is to complain about?
-OneRepublic
Full Name: Byrne James Thatcher
Nickname(s): Prefers first name, but will let people call him James.
Aliases: James Crawford - pen name
Physical Age: 25
Date of Birth: 5/19/1987
Place of Birth: Alturas, California
Character Race: Mage, or at least he was told so. He was also told his magic was extremely dilute, meaning he would be unable to make it have a physical form and use it as such. Instead it works to show him glimpses of the past and future, usually in his sleep, and it usually makes no sense. Well, until he decides it would look nice in a novel.
Ethnicity: American, Irish background
Occupation: The writer of several obscure novels using the pen name James Crawford, as he likes his rather quiet life. Also works in a small coffee café.
Marital/Relationship Status: Single
Hometown: Alturas, California
Alignment: Neutral
Gender: Male
Height: 5’9”
Weight: 145 lb
Body Build: Average; he’s not exactly athletic, but he is in shape
Eyes: Deep set dark brown eyes.
Hair: Dark brown hair that he keeps a little longer than ear length. His mood depends on how much effort he puts into it; when lazy he’ll do nothing at all, and at most he’ll stick his head in his sink and wet it down before combing it.
Sexuality: Straight
Personal Style: Byrne likes more professional looking clothes, for whatever the reason. The more layers he has, usually the more comfortable he is. For whatever reason he loves scarves and has far more than he’s willing to admit.
Distinguishing Features: His hands often have some type of ink on them, due to his tendency to accidentally write on himself and that he refuses to write in anything but pens. Also sometimes has ink on his clothing or face, but this only happens when he falls asleep writing. Also has a lot of coffee stains on things.
Best Feature: His friendliness. He talks to pretty much everyone and gets along with a lot of people.
Worst Feature: His more than occasional broodiness, especially when he has a novel in the works.
Face Claim: John Patrick Amedori
Personality: Byrne is one of those people who can go up to almost everyone and start a conversation. He thinks this came from his parents, who he remembers being much the same way. While he doesn’t go up to many people he makes a point to talk to those he sees at the coffee shop (to encourage a larger tip which helps him write) and those he sees with any of his novels (under the guise of being a big fan of the author). Being one of those people and against judging on first (or even second) meetings, he tends to have far more friends than enemies and gets along with almost everyone.
As a general rule, he doesn’t take much seriously. Well, other than deaths and car accidents and the like. Day to day drama? He doesn’t really care, nor does he exactly want to hear about it. While sometimes he does believe people deserve it, he believes that most of drama is created by one or both parties and not actually the situation itself. To him there’s little to complain about, as there is always someone who is enduring something worse.
His writing has allowed him to analyze people to a certain extent. He can tell when to say something and when to compliment, which makes him rather charming. Well, when he times it right. More of this ability is him thinking he can do it, and if he misses giving a small smile, saying he has to get back to work and sending the person winks from across the café.
Occasionally he is rather broody, though only if something bothers him or if he’s in the middle of working on a novel. In these times his timing and focus are completely off and nothing turns out well. It’s gotten to the point where he usually calls in sick so he can work on the novel, as it’s not a good idea for him to be flinging around hot coffee while he’s off in fantasy land.
Weapon:
Talent(s): Writing. He has a natural ability for it. He’s also really comfortable in a kitchen.
Flaw(s): Tends to be way too relaxed for his own good. Somewhat believes that life is another novel of his.
Likes: (list 5-6)
- Writing
- Reading
- Cooking
- Food in general
- Classical music
- Scarves
- Cats (though he has an extreme fondness of chocolate labs)
- Coffee
Dislikes: (list 5-6)
- Drama
- Overly loud noises/voices/music
- Long car rides
- Trips; he likes to be near somewhere familiar at all times.
- People making up rumors about James Crawford (which is rare).
Strengths: (list 5-6)
- His (somewhat) charm
- That he doesn’t let a lot get to him
- Ability to talk to almost everyone
- His kindness
- His dreams
Weaknesses: (list 5-6)
- The whole pen name thing makes him have to watch what he says, which he doesn't exactly do well
- Hates long car rides; they make him nervous
- Lacks some of the ambition to become a professional writer. He wants it but isn’t willing to fight for it.
- Extremely allergic to chocolate.
- Broodiness
- Commitment
Powers: His dreams could count as a power. They show him glimpses of past and future events, usually nothing more than an object or part of an object or a room. Rarely he will see a person or part of a person. He was told it’s from the dilute magic in him manifesting itself in whatever way it can, since he can’t let it our by himself. They are completely random and he can’t control what he sees or when he sees something.
Other: His natural writing abilities. He picked up the interest reading as a kid and has always had a voice and fairly good vocabulary. Now he’s a rather obscure author who only has one really well known book.
Mother: Mary Thatcher, 56. Mary is currently living with a family member a few hours away since she can’t afford a home and refuses to let her son take care of her. They have a rather good relationship, but don’t see each other a lot due to Byrne’s dislike of car rides.
Father: Christopher Thatcher, died when he was 45. Christopher died at 45 of a heart attack, which surprised literally no one in the family. He was a heavy drinker and smoker, and his family really wasn’t expecting him to last as long as he did. Byrne never really cared for his father, as the man never seemed proud of his son and kept saying how writing was a “girl’s hobby” and how he should “do something manly like hunting”.
Sibling(s): None
Childern: None; not interested in children
Others: A small orange tabby named Feles.
History: Byrne had a rather quiet childhood. Got into writing at a young age, in which his parents argued over letting him keep doing it. As he grew older his mother became more supportive and pushed his father away. He was fourteen when his father died and he wasn’t sure whether he and his mom were upset of secretly glad.
Several years later, at seventeen, he learned of the source of his odd dreams from an old fortune teller who claimed to have a penchant for seeing magical abilities. He didn’t exactly believe her, but it did explain a few things. He went on to graduate from school at fifth in his class, which wasn’t extremely hard as the school was small.
He went on to get a job at a local coffee shop that was almost his home away from home and where he had written a majority of his, at the time, unedited and unpublished manuscripts. After cleaning them up he sent them out, trying to find a publisher. He found one willing to publish him and he began the line, sending in a cleaned novel every year or two and keeping working. This system works well for him and he’s continued it since then. After all, he has a steady salary from the café, which takes care of most of his needs, and the extra from whatever profit he gets on the books goes into a savings fund, which he saves “for a rainy day” or when he needs it.
Role Play Sample: ( a thing I wrote a month or so ago. while i do have a smaller, more recent sample it kind of lacks the usual details i put in my writing because it was meant to be simple and not describe the two shady characters in their business transaction. this one is a bit longer and meant to be an introduction into a longer piece, but i think it's closer to my usual writing style. it hasn't really been edited so oops.)
Caleo couldn’t remember a time when he was so miserable. Granted, it wasn’t often that he was outside when it was cold and raining. Actually, it wasn’t often that his hands were bound and he was being led to his execution by a big burly man with an ax twice Caleo’s size. Neither of those thoughts did much to raise his spirits.
His guard escorted him slowly, making sure to hit him whenever he was walking too fast or too slow. The second of the two options happened most. Caleo could feel every pebble through the inadequate boots they’d given him upon arrival to the prison and stone roads were so uneven that he felt around for the most level spot before stepping. He already knew he was going to die. Why not save him a little pain on the way there?
Unfortunately, saving himself the pain was not worth the effort. The rain still made him uncomfortable as it soaked into his clothing and made it stick to his skin. The sound of the droplets hitting the gray stone roads and buildings didn’t make him any more comfortable either. It reminded him how close his prison was and how far away his freedom happened to be.
He had been lucky enough to be given a small barred window in his holding cell, so he knew what to expect upon going outside. High walls surrounded the platform where they preformed executions. From the dark stains on the ground he knew they mostly did beheadings, but as he was led outside he noticed a structure before him. Apparently it was too much work to behead a small college of mages. Either that or the executioner wouldn’t do it. No, they were going to hang him. And there was no way for him to get out.
Well, that was an exaggeration. He could make a break for it and try running down an alley and hiding, but it wouldn’t do him any good. If they found him, and he was sure they would, he had no meant to protect himself. Other than magic, of course, but that required proper rest and nutrition and time and preparation, none of which Caleo had access to. He wasn’t going to attempt something completely and totally foolish only to face the same fate as before.
The process to his death was slow, but as he approached he noticed why. They were trying to lug away the bodies before the next mage came. For whatever reason Caleo couldn’t figure out. He didn’t care to figure out. It was raining too hard to notice anything about the person before him except for the long, flaming hair and when it processed his heart dropped into his stomach. There was only one mage with hair like that. He hadn’t known her well, but she was a bright girl. A young girl. Someone who didn’t deserve death.
For a moment he was glad that they hadn’t allowed him more than a few hours of sleep and a few pieces of bread. If he’d had access to his abilities he’d be lighting things on fire. He couldn’t think of where he’d start: the noose or the man standing on the platform that was obviously in charge. It has a hard decision.
One that he was spared from making when he was given a rough shove from behind, sending him to the wooden steps. Well, this was it then. He stepped up them, unable to stop himself from hurrying and then cursing the habit. So much for delaying his death as much as possible. Another hard shove sent him to the noose and then two large meaty hands were on his shoulders, making sure he was in an ideal spot he was sure.
The man that was in charge laughed. “’Hat’s with ‘em all bein’ so tiny?” he laughed, moving to poke Caleo in the ribs. He reconsidered after seeing the spark in the mage’s eyes, one that spoke of unpleasant things happening if the captain did. After staring at the mage for a few moments he did, moving to look at the script he would have to read before they could kill him.
The two meaty hands settled the noose around his neck as the captain began talking, and Caleo let out a hiss when it was tightened. It was not very comfortable. Then again, this was death. Death was not comfortable.
A few lines into the speech, there was moment on the top of the building he was facing. Halfway through Caleo noticed another movement and then a sentence later saw what could be a person. An oddly shaped person. He tried not to show his interest but it was difficult. What in the world was it?
He was trying to reason over it when the captain looked up at Caleo. “’Hat’re your last words?”
Caleo met his eyes steadily, without any previous fear he’d been feeling. “Killing what you fear isn’t going to help you.”
The captain looked away quickly and yelled at one of the men to hurry up and pull the lever. That was also the moment that Caleo was certain that the thing on the roof was a person with a bow, as it sprang up with the weapon pointed down. And a second later the captain was leaning over his table, an arrow lodged into his back.
