yayy!

[name / nick;;]Reck

[lj name;;] darlingreckless

[other characters currently played;;]none

[e-mail;;] kiss_the_one.you_love@yahoo.com

[aim / messenger;;] aim;; ReadySetReckless

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[character;;]Kazeielan Caenust [madmansabsinthe]

[abilities;;] Kazeielan is an immortal creature, due to a sort of twisted genetic anomaly, and a bit of magic. It was passed from his father to him- and, later, from Kazeielan to his own son.  He can be injured- and usually is- and he can “die.” However, he’ll always pop up again somewhere, fatal wounds healed but otherwise still just as beat up as when he “died.” He is a vampire as well, but that only makes his cravings for blood stronger.  He’s also a very rational and very, very clever man, no matter how his temper gets to him sometimes. He is extremely artistically and musically skilled, as well as fluent in Greek, French, German, Finnish, Norwegian, Italian and Mandarin. 

[flaws / weaknesses;;] He has a hair-trigger temper, one that can get him into trouble. Kazeielan is the antisocial type, and he keeps his emotions locked far, far away in the back of his mind. He is horrible when placed into a social situation, and he honestly doesn’t know how to behave around people. Though he cannot be killed by any sort of injury or infection, he heals slowly and is usually bedridden for months longer than a person would normally be.

[history / background;;]

Kazeielan was born in Greece, more specifically Sparta. His mother was young, as most were in that day and age, but she was a good mother, despite the fact that she had to raise him alone for quite some time. You see, his father was in the military- as most men were then- and was gone more often than he was not. When Kazeielan was eighteen months old, his father was killed. His mother remarried when he was two and she had four other children, a boy and three girls.

When he was six, something happened that altered the course of his life. (Funny how things like that tend to happen in childhood isn’t it?) Men came to his house, late at night. There were eight of them. They killed his mother and his sisters on sight, but his brother they planned to save, st least, until the four-year-old fought back. They killed the boy, and Kazeielan- a fighter just as his brother was- attempted to save his only brother. He thrashed and he screamed, he even threw a cup at them- but it was in vain. One of the men put a scar across Kazeielan’s face, blinding him in his right eye and knocking him unconscious.

When Kazeielan woke, he was bloodied and in the back of a cart with three other boys, each just about his age. He was in that cart for quite some time, fed on table scraps until they reached a cavernous maw in the side of a mountain. This was the place he would call home for the next hundred years, home and hell. There, he was taught to fight and to kill. Branded, collared and shackled and thrown into a pit with seventy other men. Well, monsters really. They couldn’t be called men, after all, they were out to kill and devour the boy. Only one saved him. Romius fought them off over the course of the time it took for Kazeielan to recover from his wounds. The two quickly became friends, brothers even.

But Kazeielan’s fighting skills quickly surpassed those of any in the first level of the pit. After one fight in the arena aboveground, he was taken lower, into a hole where Romius was not there to defend him. He fought for himself then, and he fought well. Soon, it was considered foolish to meddle with the seventeen-year-old.

One looses track of time when they are buried in total darkness. He could not gauge the passing of seasons, or even the passing of days. He was there for forty years, his body never growing older than that of a twenty-three year old. And, no matter the severity of his wounds or infections, it never killed him. Oh, he’d be weak and reduced to the makeshift bed in his pit for weeks, though. And yet, he’d still have to fight whenever his number came up.

Eventually, he was deemed too skilled of a warrior to be housed in the second level. He was brought to the third. It was a quiet place, really. There were no screams of pain or rage here. Those that were in this place were content with where they were. They were the true madmen of the world.

And yet, Kazeielan was not content. He wanted freedom, wanted to remember the feeling of the breeze on his face, not this rank and stale air. He wanted to remember what sunlight looked like instead of his perpetual darkness. He was clever, and always had been. Quietly, in his tiny cage in a black pit deep within the earth, Kazeielan devised a plan of escape. He wouldn’t be gone long. He’d promised Romius that he’d be back.

Amazingly enough, the plan worked, flawlessly. He’d planned it perfectly from the beginning and he knew it. Fake death and be tossed to the Dogs, then make a run for it. Yes, yes, it had been perfect. But, soon, people began to talk. He was well known for his less-than-inconspicuous appearance, as well as the fact that so many had seen him fight. Eventually, people began to hunt him.

It was during one of these hunts that Kazeielan came to the edge of a village. He was severely wounded- to anyone would have looked to the point of death. Fifteen men had hunted him, and each lay dead around him. A woman came to him soon after the last of his pursuers had breathed their final breath. Kazeielan was leaning against the edge of a statue, bleeding and gasping for breath. It was that woman- her name was Arra- that gave him his humanity back. Kazeielan learned to love and to be loved. They were married and she bore him a child.

But as with everything in Kazeielan’s life, his marriage to Arra does not have a happy ending. For the four years they were together, he was constantly watched by the very same man that had kidnapped him. While he was gone one evening, the minions of The Pit came for him. Instead, they found Arra. She was murdered, brutally.

With Arra died Kazeielan’s humanity as well. He was overwhelmed with rage and grief, and his strong sense of reason and logic left him. Kazeielan left his son Adeni with Arra’s brother and sister, and went to seek revenge.

Needless to say, Kazeielan accomplished his goal. The man was killed, immortal he may have been, and Kazeielan’s brothers-in-arms were set free. Romius went with Kazeielan back to where Adeni had been left. The boy was fifteen now, and he disowned and denied any existence of Kazeielan or the fact that he was the son of the man.

Again distraught, Kazeielan left, Romius close to his side. After that point in his life, there were no other lovers. He wouldn’t left himself feel that way again. He gained a degree of emotional control that was inhuman. He could somehow control the chemical release in his brain that made him feel those emotions he so damned. Kazeielan and Romius wandered, barely spending minutes apart. Kazeielan seemed lost though, too far buried in his sadistic nature and grief to be responsive to anything.

Being so skilled at killing, Kazeielan became an assassin-for-hire, and he quickly and almost completely monopolized that market. He became the holder of an immense fortune, one that he quickly lost count at, due to the fact he never was good with numbers. He traveled to quite a few places, and was an acrobat with a dancing troupe for quite some time, and an actor in more than one of Shakespeare’s plays.

Over the centuries, there were few that he trusted. Alexander, Romius and Xander were the only, and the four men built a house on an island off of the coast. Kazeielan kept with his job as an assassin, until the fateful day he wandered into The City.

 [personality;;]

 The first thing that one notices about Kazeielan is his sadistic trickster’s nature. He relishes playing mind games with people and is skilled enough with his words to do so effortlessly. Kazeielan enjoys killing almost as much as he loves the pre-kill game. He loves it with every fiber of his black little heart. Killing has always brought him peace, always brought him some kind of sick pleasure; it is all he has really known. Often he will be seen with a dark gleam in his eyes and a wild smirk on his face, one that makes one think that maybe- just maybe- he's escaped from an insane asylum.

And yet, he is still a man. He has a heart, black and twisted and jaded as it might be. Yet, he still has a heart. The way that people stare at him is hurtful, even to one who acts as stone-to-the-core as Kazeielan does. The loneliness that so often creeps up on him is slowly executing him, and he knows it. One day, even this immortal- one that seems so hell-bent upon surviving and being the little devil that he is- may be desperate enough to find a way to take an Immortal life.

His greatest fear in life is love. Kazeielan knows what can end his loneliness, but he is so completely horrified of what may happen that he cannot bring himself to take the chance. He pines for love, and is yet too much of a coward to do a thing about it. He blames himself for Arra’s death, though his heart has resigned itself to the fact that Kazeielan does not-cannot- love her anymore. In a way, he’s condemned himself to a slow and painful deterioration to madness- if he cannot be called mad already.

Kazeielan is also an extremely passionate man. He is a passionate lover, indeed; he threw his entire heart into those few brief years with Arra. And, if there is one thing that he would truly be institutionalized without, it is his art and his performing. He is a cellist by nature, and a pianist as well, but his voice and his skills as an acrobat were famed in his day. But he knows now that he must be careful to keep his Immortal condition a secret. Many mornings when his brothers wander his house, they can hear Kazeielan’s mournful cello ringing out from his upstairs bedchamber.

Somewhere deep down, Kazeielan is truly good at heart. Sometimes it can be shown- the few acts of mercy he shows, the kindness that is so rarely seen in his eyes. Most often, though, it is shown in his art and his music. The notes he plays on his piano dictate his life more clearly than even the most silver of tongues could. Buried within the fast-paced notes or the beautiful paintings of things only his mind could imagine, are the notions of a child. In some ways, he is still a six-year-old boy, missing his family and especially his only brother. He blames himself for their deaths as well, but only because he was the only one that survived.

He is the quiet, say-what-only-needs-to-be-said type, partly because he does not want to make a fool of himself with his less-than-perfect English, mostly because his own voice is painful to his ears. The manner with which he conducts himself is that of a performer, and that is what he is, down to the marrow of his bones. He absolutely loves being on stage, no matter how self conscious he is. The approving stares of an audience are greatly preferred to the condescending stares of people that he sees during his daily life.

It is those stares that force him indoors. He spends more time than any person should on his island mansion, away from the disapproving stares of the world. Their condescending looks at the tattoos on his jaw- ones he didn’t want in the first place- their gawking as though he were some kind of circus attraction. He thinks more than the amount that is healthy for a person. Much of his alone time is spent in thought. If one were to ask him a question, they might think him deaf or simply being rude because it takes him so long to answer. This is because each of his answers are clearly thought out whenever he does speak. But, now that he’s part of The City, he’s going to learn how to get along with people or go mad because of that incessant ticking, isn’t he?

One of his many quirks is that he is extremely hygienic. He usually showers once or twice a day and washes his hands to the point where it is almost obsessive-compulsive. He is also a bit of an alcoholic; his drink of choice is French wine and the occasional glass of absinthe. He is, in an almost literal sense, addicted to chocolate. Kazeielan is rarely seen without a piece of the stuff either in his hand or in his mouth.

[background setting;;]

Kazeielan spent his time in absolute riches, living the life of those who haven’t a care in the world- before he came to The City.

[physical description;;]

Kazeielan is unnaturally tall- seven feet, four inches. His build is slight, naturally- very nearly anorexic and because he has trouble gaining weight, Kazeielan only weighs two-hundred forty pounds, which isn’t very much if his height is considered. Despite the fact that he appears thin, Kazeielan is inhumanly strong,; though he hasn’t ever tested the full limits of his strength, he once ripped the arm off of a man. He can also easily stomach more food in less time than most men could.

His hair is naturally a deep red color, bright and very like that of blood. It is naturally thick and curled, and, once, he wore it down to his knees. Lately, though- in fact, just before he became trapped here- Kazeielan got a haircut. Now, the longest parts of his hair are just about his eye, when he is not wearing it greased back. He takes painstaking care of his hair, often washing it twice a day. His skin is a stark contrast to the lush red hair; his flesh is the color of white marble and is heavily scarred. If he were not so scarred, though, his skin would be flawless as flawless as it is cold.

 

His hands ought to get a paragraph of their own. They’re rather large, even for his height. But they’re also as thin as the rest of him, spindly and looking as though they can easily break, Kazeielan obviously has a pianist’s hands. His nails are surprisingly long, and are well-manicured, and yet, he is still a very accomplished violinist. All in all, he’s got some seriously creepy hands.

Kazeielan has a young man’s face- he doesn’t look a day over twenty-three- but he’s got ancient eyes. Once glance and it’s more than obvious that he’s seen more than any person ever should. He has a strong jaw, only more clearly defined by the scorpion-tail-like tattoos on either side. His nose is straight- despite the fact that it’s been broken hundreds of times. His eyes are large, in an odd way almost childlike. His left eye is a deep, dark green, nearly black, and the iris is larger than that of most people. His right, however, is a clouded milky-blue, completely blind. A scar runs the length of the right side of his face, causing the blindness in his right eye- and over the right corner of his lip, slightly inhibiting his speech.

As for his clothing, Kazeielan tends to stick with well-made, perfectly fitting suits, black as coal. To him, black is a calming color, and the calmer he stays, the less likely he is to snap.

[sample rp;;]

Oh, what is there to say about my life? I finished a sculpture today, one I have been working on for ages. I ought to have Alexander take a photograph and post it. . . And I believe inspiration has struck me enough to write a symphony. . . What to call it, though. I can hear the piece now, reverberating in the space between my ears. . .

But enough. I will not bore you with that. I may play a section of it, once all is written and finished. For now, it will remain where it is, the beauty of it winding through my brain.

Adieu, adieu,

- K.C.

[sample post;;]

He leaned against the headboard of the bed, eyes half-closed, arms behind his head, his chest rising and falling slowly to the time of his deep breathing. This was his pre-hunt composure, this calm before the storm. He could feel it now, the powerful urge building within his chest. His urge to kill, to be cunning as the fox and deadly as the crocodile was very profound now, was beginning to get difficult to control. He stopped, forcing the thoughts from his mind. It was not yet time to start his game; he had yet to receive the call from his client, the call that would throw down his walls against this yearning like the gates opening at a horserace. Slowly, the white lids of his eyes lifted, revealing eyes that shouldn’t belong to a man at all, but to a monster, an animal, a beast. And he knew that his eyes were so.  Languidly, a spindly hand reached for one of the chocolates that perpetually sat next to his bed and opened it, placing it on his tongue in the same fashion he always did.

A cell phone lying on the bedside table rang and vibrated. His hand lashed out and his spidery fingers flipped the device he so loathed open, holding it to his ear. “Yes?” he murmured, barely glancing at the number. Only the Order would call him at such an hour. The reply came from a gruff voice he recognized as Marius, and Kazeielan’s answer was nearly instant. “Yes. I remember.” Again, he paused for a beat before he answered. “It will be done.” The phone was flipped shut, no words of goodbye from either man.

Kazeielan stood, silent as he ever was, and dressed. A pair of black slacks, a white shirt- carefully tucked in, of course- a black vest and tie, and a black jacket were typical of him, and this is what he wore while he was playing his game. His heart was thudding now, pounding away the beats until another life would be his. Oh, wondrous, wondrous anticipation! It filled him now, swelling out from his heart to the tips of his fingers and his toes, calming him, soothing him, <i>exciting </i> him, enlivening him. It was so much harder to control as he put on a pair of black oxfords and a duster as black as his suit. But he was yet to be finished. Moving to the armoire, he opened the doors and pulled out a slender, oaken box. He cradled the long case in his massive hands as though it were the figuring of a god.

As he balanced it on one hand, his spidery fingers flicked the hasp of the lock and gently pushed back the lid. Lying within a claret velvet mold, a scalpel glittered murderously. Temptingly. He trailed the tips of his fingers along the glossy whitewood handle, willing himself not to tease it from its mold. He sighed at the sight of the archaic instrument. Pity they were all made of metal now, the older ones were so much more beautiful. Desire for blood reared up in him again like a beast. Not yet, my dearest friend. Not yet, not yet. He shut the box and flipped the hasp closed again. Oh, he would indeed have fun tonight.

Not much later, his dark deed had been done. As he moved down the steps of the man’s house, Kazeielan wiped blood off of his face with a smile. Oh, how wonderfully his desire had been satisfied! He popped a chocolate into his mouth and rolled it around on his tongue. He tasted blood and his smile grew. As he strolled casually out to the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud sitting down the way from the house, parked in the driveway of the very person who had wanted the man dead, he pulled his keys out of a pocket in his jet black duster. First, though, he went to the client, bowed deeply, said that the deed had been done and he collect his tip- The Order would pay him formal salary later. Kazeielan slid into the big car and fired the immense engine. He pulled a handkerchief- well stained with red and pink- from another pocket and cleaned his scalpel lovingly. The case sat closed on the dashboard, and he brought it into his lap and gently placed the beloved instrument inside.

Now, the car was speeding down the road, rocketing across state lines back toward New York and his island mansion. He only took out of state calls; Zeus knows he didn’t want to have to run again.