Palpatine

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About Palpatine

  • Rank
    Rookie/Broken-Hearted
  • Birthday April 01

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  • AIM Palpatine#3165

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  • Gender Female
  • Location Washington, D.C.
  1. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun "Ah." Ira said, the apple of his throat bobbing just enough to gently nick the blade Dawson was pushing into his throat. A thin stream of blood bloomed and collected at the edge of the cut, trickling down in a crooked line as it fought against shaving cream.  He'd been wondering when the amusement would dwindle away to violence again. He hadn't expected a man like Dawson to hold his interest over a man like himself for long. Dawson like power too much, he realized. The moment Ira gave an inkling he was comfortable, the struggle would resume.  Were this anyone else, he may have tried words. May have pointed out how killing him would be a waste after so much investment. But for Dawson he knew this was hardly even a drop in the bucket. He'd have no qualms killing Ira then and there should he do anything other than agree.  And so agree he did.  "Tell me what you want, and I'll see to it." He said, trying to keep a straight face as the razor bore into him. Each word made it press further into his throat, leaving the Irishman reluctant to say more than what was necessary. Eyes found Dawson's in the reflection of the mirror before them and lingered on his smile. He knew that smile well, having worn it himself. The man was enjoying  this. Of course he would be. Ira could hardly blame him, knowing how much he'd relish having their positions swapped. So he gave Dawson his purposeful mask.  It had an emptiness to it, this mask. But it was good for expressing a neutral, level-headed sort of compliance. A face that conveyed he understood where he was in the pecking order, and that he knew Dawson would kill him. Not only here, should he refuse, but also acknowledging that he'd never see a tomorrow should he botch whatever task Dawson was testing him with.  MONTY @Mariah.
  2. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun Ira could feel Dawson's eyes flicking over to him every so often, even as he continued to keep his own gaze locked to the window of the car. It was an odd sensation, breezing through the streets of the city from the lap of luxury. The differences between the fine upholstery and the ruined, stained pavement outside were stark. He half wondered if Dawson didn't steal those glances much in the way he stole glances at the pedestrians. Both peering over their little toys.  He figured the man was likely sizing him up, or trying to get a better read on him. He'd shown him quite a few masks, in their short time together. It could be dizzying for those who knew he even had a temper underneath his flippancy. He liked to keep the mask of the jester screwed most tightly. Preferred to be the clown. The hapless buffoon. The chuckling fool.  Ira continued to keep his head turned to the window, only bothering to move once they'd arrived. The usual smirk found way to his face by the time they passed the valet and entered the hall. Dawson clapping him on the back all but sealed the illusion of friendship and mirth, and he returned the gesture with a small nod and a smile. He got more of those equally fascinated and disgusted glances as they lingered, however briefly, in the lobby. Continued his usual cheers with his hands slipped into his pockets and a small, innocent rock to his feet as he waited behind Dawson. Even let out a low whistle as they made their way down the hall to the private elevator. He was playing the role of amused, amazed, grateful scamp well.  He hadn't expected so much black in the man's apartment. His reflection in the marble, sauntering behind Dawson as though he belonged, revealed the truth of the matter. The man wasn't wrong, though he wondered if a shower would be enough to wash the streets from him.  "Alright, alright. I'm mov'n yer Highness." He said, small mocking bow and all. He wasn't fond of being bossed around, but a lifetime of being pushed into positions of servitude had let him learn how to tolerate it. The man didn't even catch it though—already moving onto the next thing that piqued his interest. Ira all but dropped the smile once he'd turned away. He didn't care for vices that stripped away will. Sank mind. Became no more than a crutch that left you babbling for more. He'd drink if the man forced him to. Slowly, or spit it out somehow. The very smell of it made his blood boil. But there were masks for that.  The bathroom was about as elegant as he imagined. He undressed before the full length mirror, reaching a hand out to nearly smudge the glass as he admired the bruises, cuts, and scars that layered his thin and sunken chest.  He was miserably underweight and lacking hardly any muscle. A lifetime of pissing people off had been beaten into him, telling a small story with each imperfection and scar. Ira couldn't help but wonder if this was what death looked like, as he bore furious eyes into his own. He didn't care to be beautiful, or attractive even. He certainly wasn't ugly, though he always seemed to have that air of wrongness to him. It made him come across as off-putting. In-genuine. Flippant. Incapable of being serious, but somehow seriously unsettling. He spent nearly twenty minutes washing the filth of his status off. He pulled on the robe quickly, noting that even with its fineness, he looked no better than a finely dressed spider. A rat in a mink coat was still a rat, he reminded himself bitterly as he made for the next trial of his patience—the barber. "Alright, yer pet project is ready fer phase two. Color me intrigued ta see how ye manage to clean up this mug." He chuckled, putting the airs on again as he made for the chair, crashing into it and causing it to spin slightly on its hinges.  "I'm fix'n fer a bob, what'cha say?" He smirked to the barber, hair still wet and slicked back, away from his forehead. MONTY @Mariah.
  3. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun In his life, Ira had seen quite a few things. Bodies. Poverty. Prostitution. Racism. What he had had not seen, however, was a car anything close to Dawson's. He'd almost be impressed if he gave a fuck about flashy shows of money.  As much as Ira and Dawson were similar in their hate, they were near polar opposites in every other respect. Poor. Rich. Built. Thin. White. Asian. The list was nearly endless. But perhaps the greatest difference between them was their opinion on wealth, and the show of.  Having none largely meant he'd never had a chance to be showy with anything other than his personality. It grew a bitter distaste in him for those who could throw cash around for recognition. He knew it was a principle of life, but he couldn't help to find it a terribly shallow and boring one.  "Aw, do I smell that bad?" Ira chuckled as they rolled off. Internally he figured the man didn't want to be seen with a street rat like himself. Sure, he was bloody, sweaty, and all around a mess, but he was like that usually. He didn't have the best luck when it came to altercations.  His attention drifted as the model of a man continued on about supporting his friends and how Ira'd never want for anything now that they were in agreement. Ira didn't care much until he'd gotten to the weapons side of things. A dark, crooked smile came to his face as he indicated for the dashboard.  Maybe the shallow brat wasn't so bad after all.  He opened them quickly, checking the piece with middling interest. His true prize were the knives. His eyes glowed as he inspected each one, tossing it back and forth in his hands to get used to the weight. He'd always preferred knives. Guns, well, too much could go wrong. Knives? You could only blame yourself for failure. "Yeh, I think I'll be taking these." He smirked viciously, choosing one of the smaller handguns, but taking all three of the knives. He had a habit of throwing them when he was under pressure.  He turned his attention to the radio next, raising an eyebrow curiously. He chuckled. "I like most music. Opera. Rock. Classics. Hip-Hop. Ev'n this has a charm." He said wistfully, thinking back to his performance days.  "Some more than others. Jus like ev'ery person has a use, aye?" He turned to look out the window, smile dropping as the cruised past pedestrians. His eyes narrowed in flickering hatred as he watched them.  "Some more than others." He added with a sinister undertone, humors all but dropping from his voice. MONTY @Mariah.
  4. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun Beautiful. He'd never gotten that before. Bastard. Fuckwad. Asshole. Those were more familiar than beautiful. He'd only ever had one beautiful thing in his life, and she wouldn't speak to him. To be called that now genuinely surprised him. He was always told he was too mean growing up. He'd had a glare to him as a child—back when he hadn't quite mastered wearing his faces. Even as a child he'd been spared the word cute. It had never quite suited him, delicate as his features may have been. Delicate as he may have been, or rather even still was. He was still in the midst of these thoughts when Dawson beckoned him from the table. He found himself rising to his feet despite himself. Dawson's cool gaze casting the sort of spell he was used to casting himself. He couldn't help but follow the man. Felt compelled to on some primal level. Two kindred spirits being pulled together—yin and yang. They complimented each other, whether he cared to admit it or not. And so follow he did. Leaned in when the pat crossed his shoulder, drawing him back to some level of consciousness. Not that he'd been passing out, but rather he found his mind drifting, as it was prone to do. He had what felt like a hundred voices in his head, screaming out chess moves with each turn he made. He hardly noticed when they'd landed outside. The cool air caught him by surprise. He hadn't expected to be feeling it against his skin so soon. It reminded him of the river, from when he was a child. Of his mortality, in a way. "What do you think?" He asked as they approached the car, finally finding his voice again as the disassociation gave way. He didn't much care for cars. Found them useful only for getting from A to B. Beyond that, speed was only important if you were running from something. And Ira preferred to chase. "Go on then." He chuckled, waiting for him to unlock the car so he could hop in the passenger. He admired that Dawson had his toys, however cliche as they may be. He himself preferred living people—eager to find ways to poke and prod them until eventually they bent to his whims. It was a hobby. "A million, really?" He asked, feigning some interest. He was at least impressed by the price. Though he knew fuck all about cars. Or being rich, for that matter. MONTY @Mariah.
  5. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun Ira leaned back in his chair, listening to Dawson as he dove headfirst into the depths of his personal tragedies. He had nearly suffered death a few times in his life. Had almost drowned as a child, in fact. The event had...changed him in a way. Made him colder. More distant from the world and the people in it. He often wondered if he hadn't survived the event only be reborn as something else. Something that lacked the compassion and empathy so many of his peers seemed to possess. At least he was good at faking it. "You want me to kill, is it?" He finally said once Dawson had finished, snapping his body up to sit rigid and give the man his full attention. He could feel a chill creep over him at the expression Dawson wore as he looked him over. The man was a killer, that much was true. Ira always had played with his prey, then let it back loose with a few extra wounds and debts. But murder? He hadn't considered it. Wasn't the type to get his hands dirty with violence of the physical kind. Still, he was in this deep already. He couldn't well tell the man he was scared of getting a bit of blood on his hands. They were filthy enough. What was a bit more? Yes, he supposed. Maybe he should take that turn after all. Should the need arise. "Ye see, I was always one to think people got their uses." He started. "However, sometimes their use jus be dying at the right time." He found a smirk to match the icy look of Dawson's, meeting his eyes to his so they knew they were being level with one another. The twisting shadows of the puppetmaster faded away to reveal his raw fury. The unending hate that burned inside him and kept him going. How he hated all the puppets of the world. And how he so wanted to toy with them until they broke. "No, it don' surprise me. You're a powerful man, aye? I'm shore some people jus gotta up an' disappear sometimes." He shrugged. "You tell me what you need done. An' I'll see what can be done." MONTY @Mariah.
  6. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun He'd been sitting patiently, listening to the man speak for some time now. He couldn't help but blink back in surprise at first when he was addressed—brow wrinkling curiously as though he wasn't sure what to say. His mouth nearly opened once or twice, but nothing came out. For once, Ira was caught speechless. He hadn't been anticipating a confession from Dawson. Then again, he hadn't been expecting this conversation at all. His perplexion gave way to a small smirk as he shook his head. "I don' know why I'm even shocked, really." He said, plopping an elbow down onto the table and leaning his head into his palm. His cheek bunched up slightly, causing the small spots of stained blood by his nose to crinkle and fall away. The guards hadn't even been rough with him, but they'd surely at least broken his nose and granted the frail man a fat lip. It was almost funny, in a way, how utterly contrasted the two were. Ira, the grubby welfare case to Dawson's impecable wealth and privilage. "You shore are somethin' else. Hardly expected a show, but 'ere we are. Honored, really." He said, still peering over at him bemusedly. "Welp, I'll tell ya. Didn' expect this price, but I'll pay yer toll." He nodded, sitting upright just enough so he could lean both elbows up and fold his hands before his mouth. He peered at Dawson curiously—studying his audience before he began. "Mum didn' take to the city." He began dryly. "I couldn' say what it were. Things turned up when she found Rory, my stepdad. Then they went back down when he went off to prison. Whored 'erself out a bit to get by. Dumb kid that I were, I wen' look'n fer her time ta time. Wound up snatched by cops usually. Off'n ta foster care after a brief 'night mum with her in the drunker." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Ahhh, can' be mad though. 'Cos that's how I met me Lizzie." At the name he let out a low sigh, features softening slightly as the memory carried him. "You can tell tha face of a man in love, Clarke. No use lying to you about how I feel, so yeah, I do hold 'er up if that's what you mean." He snapped quickly before the daydream-like aura returned. "Her dah was some cop that busted me mum and found me as well. Gave me a bit of time with 'er while he went to calling social services. Usual routine of course. But, then he changed his mind. It was near Christmas, and I guess he took pity on me. Either way, he brought me back fer a sleep in'a bed and some supper. Breakfast as well. His wife were right pissed, thought I was a burglar. But his daughter was close to my age." He laughed again, pausing to grip the side of the table in a building rage. "You can guess what happened. We became friends." He spat. "Grew up together, ay? Even helped me with a few acts right as I started getting into ventriloquism. Shame, really." He sighed. "Shame, 'cos 'ere mum always hated me. I was never good enough. Caused me loads of problems when I was try'n to play things straight, work out performing a bit. Got me blacklisted, tha fook'n cunt." He scowls. "So, I goes to have a word with 'ere, yeah? Things got a bit....well, she got hurt. I didn' hurt 'er. But she damn well made shore everyone thought I fook'n did." He grumbled, knuckles near white as he continued to grip the side of the table. "Been near six years. Lizzie won' talk to me. Won' even look at me. Wants me dead, really. She could be so....fook'n gullible." He sighed, releasing his hands and hanging his head towards the floor. "Yet, 'ere I am, loving her still. I was gonna marry that fook'n girl, cops daughter an' all." He laughs bitterly. "Imagine that, ay? Me, an honest man." His laughter turned hollow until it all but disappeared. "I don' know what happened to you. But I've been kicked around me whole fook'n life jus for being born. Whatever ye heard about me is jus my way of kicking back." He said as he lifted his head, that same fury and hate from before spreading like an infection. "But anyway, back to business. Ira said as he bore into him from across the table. I think we could do a bit of damage together, you and I. I like yer....enthusiasm for life." He smirked viciously. MONTY @Mariah.
  7. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun Ira raised an eyebrow at the princeling waving cool threats before him, as though they were merely extending pleasantries. He had to give the man credit, at least. It was certainly something he rather enjoyed doing himself—though never much with the implied violence and viciousness that Dawson so elegantly put forwards. No, Ira didn’t care to let any power he had be felt. He was subtle in that way. Subtle, and uneager to make himself seem like any sort or threat or target. He wasn’t physically strong. Tall, perhaps, but stretched to the sky like some kind of thin, sickly tree starving for light. Or perhaps he was more like a vine—crawling up gently like an old friend, until the embrace left one suffocated and trapped. Either way, powerful was not something that came to mind when looking at the shabby Irishman. His descriptors lay where much of his life, his family, and his personal connections did—down in the gutters. Somewhere festering and dark where rats like them fought for scraps in the filth and spiders like him watched in their damp corners—trying to remain unseen lest they be dragged in and devoured in the fever of it all. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, but he kept a neutral expression as the threats hit his ears. He didn’t want to seem amused, or worse yet—as though he didn’t take the man seriously. This was, after all, Dawson-bleeding-Clarke and he was… ...well, and he wasn’t. Not by a longshot. ”Aye, Cill Maodhóg. Small village in Kildare ta save you the time, though I’m ‘fraid I don’ have much in the way you could hurt that could cause m—” He began, but stopped quickly once he realized the lie slipping from his mouth. He did have someone. Someone he would do most anything for, without even asking for one of his "favors" in return. He couldn’t stop himself from pausing and scowling at the realization of it. She would always be his soft spot, and he almost wanted to hate her for it. Almost. ”—point taken.” He finally said, smile all but gone from his face. He had hunched his shoulders forwards by now, leaning over his collected hands and looking at Dawson with a quietly smoldering anger. His previous humors had all but faded, leaving only now what seemed to be a flickering hatefulness. The hate that radiated from him was not directed at Dawson. It grew from deep within him... ...from his love for Elizabeth. From knowing their likely fate. From being reminded of his place and powerlessness. From just existing in the world in many respects. It was that old festering kind of hate born from betrayal and loss of innocence—a hate Dawson would likely know and recognize in himself. ”I hate my family. You could fook me mum and I’d still come ‘round to do yer bidding.” He said  once he found his words again. He let out a low chuckle, picking himself up more in his chair to look at Dawson again. He titled his head ever so slightly to the side—his usual amusement returning to mix with the darkness that hung about him. That smoldering hate again. That unsmiling man beneath the jester’s veil. ”I heard she’s a real good lay. Cheapest arse this side’a Olympia.” He said, smirking furiously from beneath his emotional swirling cloud of black. ”I have no pride.” He says finally, leaning forwards and holding up two fingers from across the table. ”I had two joys in this world, an’ they were taken from me. Taken by things I took fer granted. By things I trusted.” He said, putting particular emphasis on the last word as he spat it out. He laughed miserably, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. ”Trust. Truth. Fickle things, they be." He said musingly, shaking his head a bit with a shrug. "Them are things ye can’ buy. Can’ threaten me for. Nah, rather, I see we may learn to speak each other’s language jus ‘cos we have a bit more in common than we may realize. Til then, I got no reason to give you reason to be unreasonable." Ira smiled a bit as he leaned back over the table, bringing his reddish-brown eyes to meet Dawson's own blue. "We all been burned before ay? Why not save ourselves all some grief an jus try to cooperate on the merits that ye got me out of this mess.” He offered. "Least I could do to pay back the favor, ay?" He added, leaning back with his hands folded behind his head. The time for being serious had come and past, and Ira preferred to keep to his more lighthearted antics. It helped to keep people seeing him for the harmless, weak, uneducated clown he so liked to be perceived as. Nobody ever suspects the Fool, after all. MONTY @Mariah.
  8. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun "That so?" He whistled as Dawson laid everything out on the table. He let out another small laugh—not at the man himself, but rather at the situation. He lowered his head quickly, facing the table and bringing his hands up to try to quiet his giggling. ”Ye’ll have to-ahha-forgive me Sir. It’s jus—” He managed as his light laughter subsided. The echo of it still lingered about the room as he brought his hands together, folding them before him and lifting his head. He still had a crook of a smile on his face, but his personality had shifted well enough. The mirth and laziness thinned away just enough to allow a peek at the man behind the veil. That man didn’t seem to be smiling at all. But the man before Dawson was smiling. And he did seem eager, if a bit incredulous. Which could be expected, in his situation. He was a near nobody, and Dawson was well, practically the most well known name in the city, if not the country. Ira hadn’t expected this of all scenarios when he’d been booked. And despite his cheerful demeanor, he was ill at ease over the unexpected turn. Things had been laying in his court before the door had opened. He knew where he was and what the stakes had been. Could have twisted it either way. But now? Now he was just another pawn. And it made his skin itch. ”—jus that, well, I'm not used to being the one on the string end of things. It's a bit funny, really.” He smirked. Ira knew he had no power here. Felt that toying with the man would be useless. No, Dawson was big game. Too big for him. So, he played it straight and laid everything back out for the man in return. ”I’m in no position to refuse ya. An’ in fact, I’ll even level with ya here. I’m not much far as totem poles go. You say ya wan’ me? Yer Dawnson-bloody-Clarke, shore thing.” He said somewhat sarcastically. He leaned in from across the table, sliding his hands forwards until they just about touched Dawson’s. A smile was still thinly layered onto his face as he bore his eyes into him—as though probing for something just beyond the surface. A pause lingered between them until he leaned back, seemingly satisfied with something. ”Yeah, you've got me, so here it is—I deal in information, Counselor Clarke. Or do ye prefer Mister?” He thought to ask. He was an uneducated man, but he wasn't without some politeness. ”Either way, ye want something found out, ye send me. You wan something snuffed out? Ye pay me.” He stopped once more, smirk growing a bit as a chuckle escaped him. ”An, you wan’ something a bit more…..creative done with some information, well…” He leaned back into his chair once more, folding his hands over his chest as he got back to lounging. He was usually more theatrical in his presentations, but an interrogation room with the former Vice-President’s son didn’t seem to be the place for it. ”....you could call me almost a social engineer. Bit like rumors, but with more pizzazz.” He smiled lazily with a bit of a wink. MONTY @Mariah.
  9. Rain King

    .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } Henderson is waiting for the sun It had really only been a matter of time, Ira supposed. He'd been in this position more times than he'd like to admit. Men like him didn't have "get out of jail free" cards. Didn't have more than just their wit and their luck in most cases. And his luck had about run its course. That just left wit— and he wasn't feeling particularly witty. The police had dragged him in on some trumped up charges. Possession of a firearm. Criminal Mischief. Anything they could think to slap at him to get him booked. He'd probably pissed somebody off, come to think of it. Well, good for him. If a nobody like him had caused enough mischief to land him in an interrogation room then he must be doing something right. After all, he was careful. He didn't dabble in drugs. Hated alcohol. Only gambled in favors and morals. Any debts he had were the kind that would land him in a ditch, not a jail cell. No, it seemed that his little hobbies had finally caught up to him. And he hadn't been able to stop smiling once he realized they were the only likely culprit for his current predicament. He'd been all cheers when the cruiser came around one of his usual corners. Laughed even when they slammed his fragile ass into the pavement as they cuffed him. Joked with the detectives who came to interview him, no matter what they tried to say. It was funny, really. All his hard work and effort to make a splash and he'd gotten his wish. Just not in the way he'd hoped. He was leaning up on the back legs on his chair when the suit had walked in— legs crossed under the table with his arms propped lazily behind his head. It didn't matter what the cops decided to hassle him about, after all. He was a poor, uneducated immigrant— too low on the totem pole to fight anything. So he just relaxed and waited for the book to be thrown at him. He didn't expect the book to wind up being Dawson-Fucking-Clarke, however. He looked the man up and down as he entered, crooked smile forming. He snapped his chair's two front legs back to the ground and tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. A chuckle in both disbelief and amusement escaped him as Dawson found his seat. "An' to jus what do I owe this pleasure, then?" He asked, words licked by his slight Irish brogue. He continued his lazy lounging, propping his head up on an elbow as he stole a look at the man. He tried to seem fairly nonplussed about the sudden arrival of one of the city's biggest players. "If yer look'n for a clown 'fraid I don' do puppet shows anymore. Might try some of the detectives, though. They're right hilarious." MONTY @Mariah.
  10. Ira Brennan | Dolos | Keanu Reeves

      Ira Riiji Brennan   face claim: Keanu Reeves canon name: Dolos, God of Trickery associations: Lies, Deception, Guile, Craftiness, Treachery alias: That Irish Bastard, Puppetmaster age / apparent age: 30 zodiac: Pisces date of birth: 02/29/1969 place of birth: Village of Killmeague, County Kildare, Republic of Ireland  pronouns: He/Him/His sexuality: Asexual moral alignment: Chaotic Evil character traits: Crafty, Agile, Willful, Comedic, Manipulative, Secretive, Persuasive, Sociopathic, Theatrical, Stubborn, Arrogant, Vicious, Scheming, Beguiling, Sickly world views: Ira views the world as his plaything and has a difficult time caring for people. He views the world as a game to play or a film to act out, with many of the supporting cast his puppets to direct. He thinks people are naturally selfish creatures and will take special interest in those he sees breaking from his molded view. He has a strong dislike of drunks and junkies, viewing them entirely as no fun and an absolute waste. physical attributes: Black eyes with a tinge of red to them. Thin, sickly/fragile body. Slight Asian heritage (half-Japanese), about 6’1”, clean shaven, usually dresses in black. Always has a rather mischievous smile plastered to his face. When very angry or upset he is a cold neutral without the usual smiling or cracking jokes. musical taste: Theatrical progressive rock, broadway/showtunes, Jazz, Nu-Jazz. Opera. Tom Waits. Anything that tells a story. aesthetic: Ira prefers to wear dark colors with no designs or labels on them. Dark jeans or slacks, a generic black shirt, and some kind of black sweater. He is usually accompanied by a hooded jacket or hoodie of some kind with a fur-lined hood as he is usually cold. He is skilled at puppetry and working with his hands, and can often be seen tapping them against surfaces when he’s being impatient. lifestyle: Ira spends most of his time skulking about the downtown areas, looking for mischief or information. While he doesn’t have many friends, he does have a tendency to grow on people like a tumor. He’ll usually be seen wandering the streets, offering up knowledge for a price, or running errands/jobs for his various benefactors—usually mob related. He doesn’t know where his father is and he left his mother behind to drink herself to death. He’s sure he has half siblings but he doesn’t care to find them. occupation: Information Broker/Gang Affiliation. Though not muscle, Ira generally supplies information and has his fingers in a few operations. Ventriloquist. Ira is skilled in throwing his voice, IMITATIONS, and basic puppetry, though his days of shows are long behind  him. class: Lower Class genealogy: Moira Brennan: Mother (In Rehab), Riichi Koga: Father (Left when he was 5 for California or Japan), Rory Johnson: Stepdad (Incarcerated) BIOGRAPHY: Ira was born in a small village in Ireland to a Japanese father and Irish mother. His mother was only 17 at the time while his father was a 28-year old Yakuza member laying low on vacation. He all but vanished when Ira was five. They never married. Sure he’d left for America, Moira took what money she had left and moved the two to California to look for him. While there she fell in with a few Irish mafia that had made their way West, eventually marrying Rory when Ira was about 8. Things were fine for a brief period of time, with Rory showing Ira some of the ropes of the business. When Ira was 10 Rory was made to be a fall man and was incarcerated. Moira and him divorced shortly afterwards, but Rory always remained an important figure in Ira’s life.   With Rory gone and no steady income Moira turned to prostitution while Ira found himself wandering the streets more and more. He picked up ventriloquism and started doing small sidewalk performances for pocket change to help his mother out. He loved the thrill of deceiving people with his voice and soon grew to be quite good an impressions. He was offered a mentorship with a small theater and thought things were finally looking up. Unfortunately for Ira it wouldn’t come to be. His days of skipping classes and wandering the streets had finally caught up with him, and he was placed into foster care. He frequently broke out or ran away in hopes of finding his mother and staying with what little family he had. After a few stunts like that he was eventually placed into a state-run facility and threatened with legal repercussions unless he stayed put. He remained there, growing bitter and hateful, until he was 18. Once freed, he went to Rory to look for work. While he still does side shows for fun, he’s mainly spent the past 12 years running odd jobs and burying his fingers in anything he can. He lives with his hate and disgust of mankind through his small deceptions and manipulative tactics to get his information, often holding it against them to push for more and more favors. PLATONIC: Though he holds a great anger inside him, Ira is always looking for those who can match his disdain. When he finds someone either resistant to the temptations of vice, or who burns with the same fury as him, he’ll often try to mold it to his advantage, hoping to have a new puppet or tool for the future. He’s also never one to shy from playing the sidekick, only to turn around and flip the tables after years of trust and dependability. ANTAGONISTIC: Being a villain, Ira is eager to win over or terrorize anyone unfortunate enough to become entangled with him. Think of him as both the devil in your ear and a rich resource of criminal information. Though it should be noted he does not drink, and finds alcoholics and junkies much too easy prey for him to antagonize. He’s much more apt to string them along for a ride then leave them in worse straits.  ROMANTIC: Ira is asexual and has no interest in romantic relationships. He has only ever loved one woman, but sadly she scorned him after her mother framed him for a burglary. He’s obsessed with “his Elizabeth” and has eyes only for her, as she was the only one to treat him with any kindness when he was growing up. She is his achilles heel. Though she still loves him, she would not love what he has become. OTHER: Ira may be a villain, but he has a hurt and troubled past to account for his feelings. He is generally charismatic and a bit of a jokester if only to mask his true intentions. He prefers to use his fragile appearance to his benefit, often trying to come across as weak and uneducated. He has a strong Irish accent despite being in America for most of his life—largely so that when he mimics someone or uses his ventriloquism to his advantage they don’t believe it was him.  triggers: N/A, age: 28, timezone: EST, preferred contact method: Discord - Palpatine#3165   .ama::-webkit-scrollbar { width: 5px; } .ama::-webkit-scrollbar-track { background-color: #fff; } .ama::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb { background-color: #e59277; } .ama { background-color: #fff; border: #eee solid 1px; padding: 10px; height: 250px; overflow: auto; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; line-height: 100%; font-size: 10px; color: #000; } .amatitle { padding: 20px; background-color: #e59277; font-family: calibri; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 8px; letter-spacing: 3px; color: #fff; } .amafields1 { padding: 10px; background-color: #e59277; font-family: calibri; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 8px; letter-spacing: 1px; color: #fff; } .amafields2 { padding: 10px; background-color: #e59277; font-family: calibri; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; font-size: 8px; letter-spacing: 1px; color: #fff; margin-top: 1px; }