Post by gaia on Feb 5, 2008 17:26:57 GMT -5
Name: Oz
Age: 17
Location: Georgia, USA
How long have you been rping: Erm. I'm coming up on 8 years, which is ridiculous.
Favourite Thing: I'm a musician for the most part, so music tends to be my favorite. I like roleplaying too, though. ;]
Way for me to contact you: extemporaneum[attt]gmail
Roleplay Sample:
Sanglignée in winter was a sight to rival the snow-dusted countryside of his natal Canterbury. Christophe had a strange love for most any sort of weather Nature could think to throw at him-- well, besides the catastrophic sort, perhaps, but his appreciation of various climatic states was still impressively wide-ranging. Snow persisted as one of his favorites. It had a flavor and an odor all its own, and a purifying effect which made everything seem marvelously clear and bright. He was glad to have come here, to this little suburban villa of Marseille. Dr. Lefevre was still quite new in town-- he hadn't really found a permanent place to live, and was still conducting small explorations of the town when his shoulder and his schedule permitted. Now was not precisely such a time, as the decade-old wound throbbed bluntly beneath his leather jacket and sweater. Still, it wasn't that bad, and the park was beautiful enough to recompense for any pain he might endure.
Christophe had never really lived anywhere but Marseille and Canterbury, and was accustomed to knowing the city he resided in like the back of his hand. Thus, he had studied the little map of Sanglignée he kept in his notebook like a dying sinner studies his Bible; but it was too little, too late, as far as he could tell. He had found his way from his hotel to the hospital and back, and had located a Champion grocery a few blocks from where he was staying, but when he got on a bus, all his diligent studies seemed to go to pot. Yesterday he had gotten into one and rode for something like an hour until he realized that his destination was in walking distance of where he had gotten onto the bus in the first place. It wasn't that Christophe was unintelligent-- he was a doctor after all, and a good one, but he was a little absent minded, the sort of person who often overlooks small details for the bigger picture. Perhaps it was time he started focusing on the little things. The doctor pulled an ungloved hand out of it's warm coat pocket and nabbed a slow, lonely snowflake from the air to study as he walked.
He was dressed like a man more familiar with the climate of England than the climate of southern France, but he was newly returned from the former, so surely he couldn't be much blamed. Doc Martens, jeans and a green sweater with a bomber-style jacket and gray scarf kept him warm, if a little dated. He wore his glasses as a gesture of laziness, though Christophe's hair was as neatly coiffed as ever. Dr. Lefevre was a tidy man, as far as men go, in most areas of his life. Perhaps not his love life, he mused cynically as the snowflake turned back to water on his fingertip, but in most ways. Chris turned his eyes back to the beautiful little park. It was pleasantly quiet here. There weren't too many people around, and the ones that were out didn't make much noise. It was as if the snow blanketed not only the sights, but the sounds as well. This had great appeal, but he wanted to sit for a moment. Chris had been meandering around town for a while now, and fit as he was, he wanted to rest his feet.
A few yards ahead, there was a bench, though some lone man occupied part of it. Surely he wouldn't mind if the doctor sat next to him for a moment? As he neared, he saw that the man was his age, dressed a bit thinly and, well, talking to himself. Not that this was cause for alarm; most people talked to themselves on occasion when they thought they were alone. Thankfully, the man seemed to stop before Christophe reached him, and all he heard was a distinctly English accent muttering something along the lines of "... this place truly is, then, shall we?" Surprised a bit to find an Englishman so far south, Christophe paused for a moment in front of the bit of the bench he intended to sit on, then proceeded to ask, "Er, do you mind if I sit here?" His accent, after having grown up in the country, was nearly impeccable, save for a French lilt to the rhythm of his speech.
Is it an Intro or Post: It was the first post I made with this character..?
Average post length: Erm. 2-3 paragraphs are the norm, but I'll occasionally get on a roll and write way more than anyone wants to read for days at a time.
Age: 17
Location: Georgia, USA
How long have you been rping: Erm. I'm coming up on 8 years, which is ridiculous.
Favourite Thing: I'm a musician for the most part, so music tends to be my favorite. I like roleplaying too, though. ;]
Way for me to contact you: extemporaneum[attt]gmail
Roleplay Sample:
Sanglignée in winter was a sight to rival the snow-dusted countryside of his natal Canterbury. Christophe had a strange love for most any sort of weather Nature could think to throw at him-- well, besides the catastrophic sort, perhaps, but his appreciation of various climatic states was still impressively wide-ranging. Snow persisted as one of his favorites. It had a flavor and an odor all its own, and a purifying effect which made everything seem marvelously clear and bright. He was glad to have come here, to this little suburban villa of Marseille. Dr. Lefevre was still quite new in town-- he hadn't really found a permanent place to live, and was still conducting small explorations of the town when his shoulder and his schedule permitted. Now was not precisely such a time, as the decade-old wound throbbed bluntly beneath his leather jacket and sweater. Still, it wasn't that bad, and the park was beautiful enough to recompense for any pain he might endure.
Christophe had never really lived anywhere but Marseille and Canterbury, and was accustomed to knowing the city he resided in like the back of his hand. Thus, he had studied the little map of Sanglignée he kept in his notebook like a dying sinner studies his Bible; but it was too little, too late, as far as he could tell. He had found his way from his hotel to the hospital and back, and had located a Champion grocery a few blocks from where he was staying, but when he got on a bus, all his diligent studies seemed to go to pot. Yesterday he had gotten into one and rode for something like an hour until he realized that his destination was in walking distance of where he had gotten onto the bus in the first place. It wasn't that Christophe was unintelligent-- he was a doctor after all, and a good one, but he was a little absent minded, the sort of person who often overlooks small details for the bigger picture. Perhaps it was time he started focusing on the little things. The doctor pulled an ungloved hand out of it's warm coat pocket and nabbed a slow, lonely snowflake from the air to study as he walked.
He was dressed like a man more familiar with the climate of England than the climate of southern France, but he was newly returned from the former, so surely he couldn't be much blamed. Doc Martens, jeans and a green sweater with a bomber-style jacket and gray scarf kept him warm, if a little dated. He wore his glasses as a gesture of laziness, though Christophe's hair was as neatly coiffed as ever. Dr. Lefevre was a tidy man, as far as men go, in most areas of his life. Perhaps not his love life, he mused cynically as the snowflake turned back to water on his fingertip, but in most ways. Chris turned his eyes back to the beautiful little park. It was pleasantly quiet here. There weren't too many people around, and the ones that were out didn't make much noise. It was as if the snow blanketed not only the sights, but the sounds as well. This had great appeal, but he wanted to sit for a moment. Chris had been meandering around town for a while now, and fit as he was, he wanted to rest his feet.
A few yards ahead, there was a bench, though some lone man occupied part of it. Surely he wouldn't mind if the doctor sat next to him for a moment? As he neared, he saw that the man was his age, dressed a bit thinly and, well, talking to himself. Not that this was cause for alarm; most people talked to themselves on occasion when they thought they were alone. Thankfully, the man seemed to stop before Christophe reached him, and all he heard was a distinctly English accent muttering something along the lines of "... this place truly is, then, shall we?" Surprised a bit to find an Englishman so far south, Christophe paused for a moment in front of the bit of the bench he intended to sit on, then proceeded to ask, "Er, do you mind if I sit here?" His accent, after having grown up in the country, was nearly impeccable, save for a French lilt to the rhythm of his speech.
Is it an Intro or Post: It was the first post I made with this character..?
Average post length: Erm. 2-3 paragraphs are the norm, but I'll occasionally get on a roll and write way more than anyone wants to read for days at a time.
