Snowmine.'s Character Storage [No Posting]

[snowshoe.]

Street Rat

Name:
Alec Peterson
Age:
19
Gender:
Male
Birth Date:
December 2nd
Relatives:
A younger sister named Amarie.

Social Class:
Lower class. Way down there.
Occupation:
Chimney Sweep
Affiliation:
Coming soon...
Personality:
Alec isn't the cold, deceitful boy that the upper classes expect all urchins to be. Sure, keep a watchful eye on your shop if he's around, but don't go about making premature judgements while your at it.

Because even if Alec is forced to steal every now and then, he's still one of the nicest people around. He has this smile... it's just infectious, like some cold that nobody minds getting. He just can't help being happy sometimes. He might not always have enough to eat, but who could be angry when you're surrounded by life?

And even though that sounds insane, Alec's pretty level-headed and smart. His emotions influence his choices, but many of them remain sound. He knows what he can get away with and what is pushing his limits, who he can afford to make angry and who he cannot. He doesn't know a thing about math or literature, but he knows about what matters in his life, and in his opinion, that's all you need to know.
He's kind to anyone who does not hurt him or the ones he loves, and is always willing to share, no matter how little he has. Of course, it's to your advantage to be likable if you make your home on the streets of London, but it's not like he's ever trying to be nice. He wouldn't feel right if he didn't. And it seems like Alec is a pacifist for the most part, which he is, but he's also protective. When it comes to those he cares about, or even a stranger, he'll defend himself and isn't afraid to use violence if that's what it takes to do it.

Now, when it comes to the aristocracy, he has... mixed feelings about the lot. From a distance, he is absolutely enthralled by them. Their clothing, the way the walk, act and speak, the houses they live in, the parties they throw... when it comes to all those things, surface things, he's like a nine year old girl, obsessed with all the pretty that's all about. But that's kinda where the liking stops. Aristocrats are snobby, greedy people who could care less about him, and he knows it. And as long as they don't bother him, he's fine... though he might rob one just for some kicks.
Appearance:
Alec's eyes are grayish blue, capable of changing hue depending on what mood he's in. Usually, though, they look like someone just threw the clouds and to the sky into a mixing pot then painted his eyes with it.
History:
Alec's mother and father died when he was fourteen, leaving him and his six month old sister alone, on the streets, with no one to care for them.

Before the accident, they were quite a happy family. Poor and hungry at times, but still very much happy. Alec's mother was a sweet woman with honey brown curls, and pale pink lips always curved into a smile. She worked as a seamstress, mending the clothes of anyone who could spare a few coins. Her name was Alice. A beautiful name that fit her perfectly, Alec always thought. The name reminded him of a sweet summer breeze.

His father's name was Alexander, hence his own name, Alec. He helped make shoes, and worked at a small shop down the street for most of the day, but always came home for dinner. The man always smelled like coffee, wherever he went, and had a certain happy gleam in his that could make nearly anyone smile. Him and Alice were both kind, loving parents, and Alec felt like he was in heaven for the longest time.

Of course, nothing gold can last. Alec's mother and father had been riding in a wagon, going to a public adress, when something spooked the horses. They charged down the cobblestone road, hitting a loose rock that unhitched the wagon and sent it flying into the lake in the sent of town. The doctor had told Alec that the wagon had hit their heads and pinned them down in the mud... something like that. He hadn't tried to listen.

And now, as stated, Alec got left with the child and no home. He made on of the hardest choices he'd ever faced, which was leaving Amarie on the steps of a lawyer's door with the words 'take care of Amarie' scrawled on a paper and tucked into her blanket. He hid behind a tree and made sure that the man's wife took her in, though it pained him every moment he stood there. He knew he wouldn't be able to take care of her. This was a well-off family, without any children. She'd be safe there.

Alec has forgiven himself now, for the most part. But occasionally, just occasionally, he'll sit in that same tree, on the tallest branch, and watch his baby sister play on the porch steps he'd gently laid her on all those years ago.
Likes:
·Watching the stars from rooftops.
·Lemons.
·The gardens owned by the aristocrats. Sure, he doesn't get to go to any, but he'll sit on a wall and look at them if he can.
·Running.
·All kinda of animals, especially strays.
·Just looking at people walk by.
·Stealing. He knows it's bad, and he tries not to take too much, but he just loves it.
Dislikes:
·Some aristocrats.
·Drunkards.
·Whining, especially about petty things.
·Sun umbrellas.

Sexuality:
Pansexual.
Other:
None...

[snowshoe.]

Street Lights

At 11 o'clock on a Saturday evening, New York City pulsed with life.
Cars navigated through the city’s congested veins, smoke rose in great plumes to the night sky from its poisoned chest, and all around him the steady thrum and beat of the great city's inhabitants could be felt, intoxicating vibrations that shook Case’s heart. There was no rest for the weary, especially in The City That Never Sleeps. Anyone who'd stayed there for any amount of time knew it well.
And yet, something about his hometown during the darker hours of the night always managed to entrance Case, a kind of unspoken electricity in the air that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and a pleasurable shiver crawl down his spine . Darkness awakened his city. When it shed the rays of sunlight in favor of the moon's glow, a whole new face of the town was shown, a visage bathed in the warmth of neon lights and cloaked in mystery.
The young man let a smile ghost over his lips. Even he was amused at how easily his mind wandered, just on the simple commute from his workplace to his apartment. Chess would no doubt chastise him for it when he got home, throwing his arms up in despair and huffing that a fifteen minute walk through the Bronx was dangerous enough when he had his senses about him, let alone when he paused to stare at the ground blankly every thirty seconds. And he'd be right.
Case sighed, and ran one of his hands through his crimson hair. Usually it was spiked up rigid, aided by copious amounts of hairspray and gel, but he almost always rinsed out the goop at the coffee shop's back sinks at the end of his shift. He pulled the back of his hair into a small ponytail that brushed against the nape of his neck, and left the strands in the front alone as long as they stayed away from his eyes. An odd arrangement, but it worked well enough.
In the end it wasn't the fear of Chess’ admonishing that roused Case from his position leaning on the brick façade of the building, but the sound of his teeth starting to chatter. He was dressed in only a sleeveless Bad Religion t-shirt and a pair of large cargo pants with more rips than actual cloth, the chill of the night was finally beginning to settle in his bones. Case found himself regretting his morning decision to show off his muscles at work today. Edging a little closer to a flickering streetlight, he fished a lighter and cigarette from his back pocket.
After a few moments of fumbling with the wheel and flint, the flame finally sprang to life and he lowered the cigarette between his lips to the glow. His face was illuminated temporarily, and the light reflected in the gleam of his green eyes as he inhaled deeply. The familiar feeling of wisps of smoke curling in his lungs seemed to bring some sort of warmth. He let his head tilt back and he parted his pale lips, allowing the smoke to lazily slip from his mouth and twist up in ribbons into the dark sky.
Case heaved a last weary sigh, and tossed his just-lit cigarette to the ground, scattering orange embers across the grime-infested pavement of the alleyway.

[snowshoe.]

Name: Dmitri Elijah Caine (his last name is technically Ivanov, but he refrains from using it)

Gender: Male

Age: 18
» Birthday: December 15th

Blood: Half-blood

Year: 6
» House: Gryffindor
» Quidditch: Beater

Wand:
» Wandwood: Red Oak, Rowan Inlay
Red Oak: The true match for a red oak wand is possessed of unusually fast reactions, making it a perfect duelling wand. Garrick Ollivander found that its ideal master is light of touch, quick-witted and adaptable, often the creator of distinctive, trademark spells, and a good man or woman to have beside one in a fight.

Rowan Inlay: Rowan wood was a prized wand wood due to its reputation for protection, and was noted by Garrick Ollivander to generally produce powerful, hard to break Defensive Charms. Rowan was also noted for its believed disassociation with the Dark Arts. Perhaps for these reasons, rowan has become associated with pure-hearted wizards, though Ollivander noted that rowan wands can also match or even outperform others in duels.

» Core: Phoenix Tail Feather
Phoenix Tail Feather is a popular wand core due to its versatility and power. Its main strength lies in Defence Against the Dark Arts, although its adaptability can wrench it to Hexes and Jinxes if need be. As with the Dragon Heartstring core, the Phoenix core is common amongst Light Wizards, but its users are not necessarily Light Wizards. This core may specifically impede Dark spells, so it is not common amongst Slytherins. However, it is by far the most common Gryffindor wand core, and is not unusual amongst Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.

Dmitri's wand contains one Phoenix feather.
» Length: 13 inches
» Flexibility: Unyielding

Appearance:
For the most part, Dmitri has the charming physique of an overgrown puppy. His meagre eating habits combined with his harsh, constant quidditch training has allowed for him to build some lean muscle, but he has no bulk or fat to speak of. When added to his large six-foot stature, he really makes for quite the sight.

In regards to his other traits, Dmitri bears an uncanny resemblance to his father, much to his dismay. His toffee brown hair is cropped short most of the time, though lately he's been letting it grow out and become a little more disheveled. He has a hard jawline, thin dark lips, and very bright, watchful hazel eyes. His skin has always kept a decent tan during the summer, but during the winter his complexion turns considerably more pale. He's never really cared either way.

As for his body modifications and other distinguishing marks, Dmitri has more than probably is permitted at Hogwarts: he strongly believes that if indeed one's body is a temple, decorations are most certainly in order. He has many tattoos of varying size and colour covering his chest and shoulders, ranging from a small sketch of a skull to a lotus flower on his forearm. None of them really stand out while he's wearing his uniform, though a few might peek out from under his neck collar. He has three small rings adorning his ear, and a small piercing through his eyebrow as well. As for marks of... a different nature, Dmitri also has more than most. Scars litter most of his body, not covering his skin, but definitely enough to be noticeable. The most prominent are a circular burn on his collarbone, a few deep scratches close to his right wrist, and a very thin, vertical white scar that cuts into the corner of his bottom lip to the centre of his chin. The rest of them are smaller or in more inconspicuous places.

Dmitri has given up trying to hide the marks, but if he sees someone staring at them for too long he quickly becomes uneasy.

Personality:
Dmitri, at least in his opinion, is one of the less stern Gryffindors in his year.

While not a formal prankster, Dmitri's known by most for his odd combination of biting wit, easy-going spirit and kind heart. He jokes around frequently and has a positively treacherous grin, but his intentions are good and he's quick to forgive. There's no shell to chip away at, no cocoon of hatred and bitterness. He simply... is.

Dmitri's 'calm side', per say, is what a lot of people see. It's the side of him that's content to lay in a field of grass all day, smoking a few cigarettes and staring up at clouds. It's the side of him that can talk with anybody for any amount of time, about absolutely nothing at all. He's quite kind really, and as it is his sixth year, most students have managed to figure out that his crooked grin, the way he waggles his eyebrows, and his sharp tongue is just his odd way of being friendly.

First and foremost, though, Dmitri belongs to the Gryffindor house, and the Sorting Hat had near no hesitation placing him there. He is faithful and loyal to his friends, and won't hesitate to stand for what he believes is right. Though he isn't perfect by any means, and has a certain sore-spot for most Slytherins, but he tries.

In terms of his other, less specific traits, there are times when Dmitri kind of... fades out, usually after any particularly long holiday spent with his father. He becomes quiet and his eyes lose their brightness, quite an alarming sight for anyone who knows him at all. He usually returns to his normal self in a few days, though there are times when he slips back into his depression.

Background:
Dmitri was born to his parents Sarah Caine and Mikhail Ivanov on December 15th, in a rather small house near the outskirts of Brighton.

Family:
Father: Mikhail Ivanov
Mother: Sarah Caine; deceased

Pet: Owl
» Name: Doget
» Gender: Female
» Age: 5
» Description: Doget is a gentle Barn Owl Dmitri received from his father in his second year, as part of an early birthday gift. Her markings are common as any, a thin line of tawny feathers framing her face, pale breast and speckled wings, but she flies better than most and delivers messages faster than anyone could ask for. She can be a little stubborn at times, unwilling to sit in a cage for more than a few hours, but otherwise she's calm and rather kind.

Other:
·Dmitri has a distinct talent in both duelling and transfiguration.
·He's quite the fan of goofing off during quidditch practice, whether that be defined as hanging upside-down from his broomstick while he attempts to whack the bludger or daydreaming in the middle of the field. Both are equally common.
·Dmitri picked up the quaint muggle habit of smoking cigarettes a year ago, and now sneaks several packs into Hogwarts every year.

[snowshoe.]

Dmitri Elijah Cain || 24 || December 1st || Sniper || Iceni || Human

[General Appearance] Despite Dmitri's postion within the Iceni's ranks of soldiers, he does not have the built, sculpted physique of a warrior who has been through training. Any muscle he has on him is lean and slim, acquired from a combination of his meagre eating habits and the vast amount of time he's spent toiling on his uncle's farm. For the most part, he has the appearance of a scraggly puppy, all collarbones and hipbones and elbows. This, combined with his rather large 6' stature makes him quite the sight.

As for the rest of him, Dmitri's been told he closely resembles his father; A boyish face despite his rather prominent cheek bones, a small nose, thin dark lips, and short coffee brown hair.

[Distinguishing Marks] Dmitri does not have many distinguishing marks, mostly due to the fact that his position within the army sees very little hand to hand combat. Most notably, though, he has a thin vertical scar running from the left side of his bottom lip down the length of his chin, ending at his jaw line. As for distinguishing marks of his own creation, Dmitri has two piercings on the top of his right ear.

[Personality] Dmitri has always been a little odd, something that the Iceni's army never looked too favourably upon. Though he is fiercely loyal to his faction and quite good at his work, many don't think that he's mature enough for his position.

[History] Dmitri's story is somewhat uneventful for someone of his time, though certain miraculous incidences have gotten him to where he is now.

He was born and raised at the foot of the northern Rocky Mountains, near the outskirts of Iceni-claimed lands on a small plot of land his mother, ex-military father and uncle used for potato farming. A quiet, peaceful life. Dmitri was only a boy when his father was called up to the central base to help sort through affairs after the Iceni had won a major battle with the Legion.

It was nearly a month later when an officer came down the mountain with news of the Legion prisoner's escape from the base, and a report listing Dmitri's father as one of the casualties suffered during the event.

Life, as it always does, moved on. At the age of 16, Dmitri was shipped off to the central base to follow in the footsteps of his father, and was quickly taken under the wing of Commander Stevens, a close friend of his family's. It took quite a while to put him through basic training, and it was only at the Commander's pleading request that Dmitri wasn't send back to where he came from by his superiors. It was discovered during a training exercise that the boy was a surprisingly good marksman, and after many arduous months and no small amount of string-pulling on Stevens' part, Dmitri received full sniper training and slowly worked his way up to being one of the best marksmen in the Iceni.

[snowshoe.]

Dmitri was a sniper.

Firmly, most certainly and expertly situated in his rank. He was a superb marksman; on a good day he could hit a target at two thousand meters, if the conditions were right. He could run. He could fight. Hell, he could even farm potatoes if he was asked to.

One thing that Dmitri could most certainly not do, however, was reconnaissance. Casting a rather sour look down at the glass of watered down scotch in front of him, Dmitri shifted in his bar stool. Damn. Bloody. Reconnaissance.

It had been a week since the Commander had sent Dmitri and three other soldiers down from the Crowsnest Pass all the way to the New Vegas Strip. Stevens' letter to him bid him nothing more than farewell, with a vague explanation about his assignment regarding the protection of the three spies that were to accompany him.

Dmitri had smelled the crap from a mile away, but unfortunately for him, he'd been loaded onto a convoy of trucks with the other men before he'd be able to so much as open his mouth about it.

Of course, the moment he stepped foot on the chapped pavement of New Vegas, his men had vanished into thin air, completely unconcerned with whatever petty assignment Stevens had stuck him to. So here he sat, in the most rank cesspool of New Vegas' underbelly that he could find, nursing his lukewarm liquor.

He was going to kill Stevens, Commander or not. To force him to take a leave? Fine. He could use a vacation, he would visit the farm and his mother. To send him galavanting across the countryside with a non-existant assignment and cheap booze? Damn inexcusable.

Dmitri was jarred from from his dank mood and thoughts by the sound of raised voices, loud enough to draw his attention even in a place such as this. His hand flitted to his side, where his rifle would usually have been resting, and he was startled for a moment when his fingers met only empty air instead of the usual cool steel. Then his mind kicked in to gear, reminding him that his beloved gun was resting in the truck and not at his side. Apparently it was too conspicuous for his current surroundings, so he'd been forced to abandon his beloved rifle in the car in favor for a colt pistol and a knife strapped to his ankle.

Great. Dmitri settled back in his chair, swishing his drink in circles with one hand while drumming his fingertips on the wood table with the other. His lazy blue eyes finally settled on the people at the table before him, content to analyse their movements while his mind drifted off.

For a few moments, Dmitri saw red.

It blotched his vision; dark, angry spots flickering under his eyelids, scorching onto his retinas and making his blood almost unbearably hot in his veins. Every fibre of is being twisted within him, recoiled at the man's venomous words, screaming at him to rise from his seat and so something, anything to put the slave in his place.

He did not have the cool, unfeeling disposition of the Legionaries. In many regards, it was what set the Iceni apart from Caesar's soldiers. The men of Iceni were calm. Level-headed and wise. But not numb. And each poison word that slipped from the slave's lips began to shred, bit by bit at Dmitri's control.

But despite this, despite the blood boiling in his veins and the rage tearing at his heart, Dmitri was still. Perfectly, and completely still. His sharp eyes were entirely focused on the man in front of him, alight with rage, and the cigarette clutched loosely between his fingertips trailed small threads of smoke, but otherwise... there was nothing. No move to get up, no clenching of his jaw or coiling of his fists, no sign of any retaliation. No words. No movement. For if he moved, his thin veil of control would slip, and that was something he knew he couldn't afford with all the watchful eyes surrounding them.

The dogs. The damned hounds of the legion, trained to do nothing but sit at the feet of their Masters and chase down prisoners. Large, mindless beasts, slaves to the will of those above them. A mere animal image of the legionaries they served.... for a few moments, almost unwillingly, Dmitri closed his eyes, the pain of an unwanted memory ghosting over his features. The baying of the hounds were always so loud, no matter how far away they ran... their frantic barking, seconds before they descended upon their prey...

Dmitri’s eyes flew open with a slight hitch in his breath; the din of the room suddenly sounded all too similar to the sounds raging in his head. His gaze found the soldier’s again, and this time a smile refused to curve his lips. His eyes were solemn. “Aye.” He finally murmured in a dry voice, the small, hushed word shattering the taut silence that had formed between them.

And with that, Dmitri made the decision that had been lingering at the edge of his mind since he first set eyes on the soldier. He had to get out, now. And the soldier would undoubtedly follow. Now that everything was out in the open, he knew the legionary had to do something about it. And he’d deal with that problem when it surfaced. But for now, there were too many ears around that had heard far too much, from the table tender to the girl upon the man’s lap. So Dmitri would take this somewhere else.

With his usual fluid movements, Dmitri stood up and brought his cigarette to his lips. His thin hands, bony and calloused like the rest of him, found their way into the pockets of his canvas coat. “Aye,” he whispered again, already turning on his heel, “that they do.” And with that he began walking to the back-exit of Gomorrah, weaving his way through the bustling waitresses and lounging drunks.

The Legionary would follow.

[snowshoe.]

Theodore "Nibs" Blackwood || 15 || December 1st || Lost Boys || Second in Command ||

[Distinguishing Marks] Unfortunately, distinguishing marks are a rather prominent hallmark of Nibs'. The life he led before his arrival in Neverland did not treat him very kindly, and he has many scars to prove it. The unsightly ghostly white lines criss-cross most of his body, though by far the most noticeable are the two thick scars that run diagonally across his chest, and a few circular burns trailing up his left forearm. While he long ago learned to accept and deal with the marks, he still gets very uneasy if someone stares at them for too long.

[Personality] Nibs, or Theodore, as he was once called, considers himself to be one of the more gentle boys in Peter's little gang. Though he by no means has lost any of his fun-loving and carefree spirit over the years in Neverland, he is the oldest, and often finds himself acting as such. He watches over his friends as best he can, and despite being pacifistic in nature, he will fiercely protect those close to him no matter what the cost. He even struggles to teach some of the younger ones how to read and write from time to time, and has succeeded in some regards, but alas, one can only be so patient.

While Nibs does find himself acting rather motherly from time to time, he is, first and foremost, a Lost Boy, and second in command nonetheless. Mischievous to his very core, he is quite fond of playing pranks on his friends, wrestling, and playing with each and every one of them. They're boys, after all.

However, as was mentioned, Nibs can be a tad protective, and sometimes finds himself worrying about the gang during sleepless nights, especially Peter. While he is extremely gentle in nature, and would never hurt anyone without a damn good reason, he simply cannot stand to see any of the boys get hurt, and often gets uncontrollably angry as a result of it. While he's always been this way, his protective instinct has gotten quite a lot stronger ever since Pidge was killed.

[History] Nibs has never particularly enjoyed speaking about his past, and seeing as none of the boys have ever been too curious about it, very few people know of his life before he came to Neverland. Even he himself is trying to forget the ordeal, and has managed to block quite a few memories from his mind. He remembers being under the care of his father for quite some time, who was retired from the military. He remembers being unhappy, and retreating to the library after school hours to pour over book after book and calm his fraying nerves. Beyond that, he'd rather not remember.

[snowshoe.]

ＴＨＥ ＮＩＧＨＴ ＲＯＬＬＳ ＯＮ
like the beat of a drum.
───────── ★ ─────────

───────── ★ ─────────

ＢＡＮＧXXXXXXXXXＢＡＮＧXXXXXXXXXＢＡＮＧ

───────── ★ ─────────

───────── ★ ─────────

╒════════════╕
Name: Adrien Tarrow
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Age: 22
Realm: Terrae
Status: Commoner
» Occupation: Soldier
Appearance:
» Hair: dark coffee brown; fine; short; unruly
» Eyes: vivid blue; intense
» Skin: fair; bruised and scarred
» Face: square; hard jawline; clean-shaven
» Body: 5'9; lean; athletic; agile
» Style: simple; no shoes; light
» Voice: medium
» Impression: strong; at peace
╘════════════╛

-------------------------------------------------------------------
Personality: content; strong; quiet; kind; composed; protective; loyal; strong sense of duty/right and wrong
Description: More than anything else, Adrien Tarrow is a tranquil individual. While not composed to the point of unfeeling, Adrien has long since made peace with both himself and the world around him, content in his strong will and harmony with nature. Adrien is usually considered more quiet than his boisterous and foul-mouthed military companions, but is by no means unsociable. He is kind to most everyone he meets, and is quite loyal and protective over those who have proven themselves to be his friends. He shows similar dedication to the army and his realm, as well as honouring the memory of his late father.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
coding and format belongs to mina.

[snowshoe.]

╒════════════╕
Name: Vancha Aleski Harst
Species: Vampire
Gender: Male
Age: 21 when he turned, and is now
somewhere around his 200th birthday.
+ Traits: Loyal, strong
- Traits: Blunt, traditional
Side: Supernatural
Power: Remarkable agility, strength,
and speed
╘════════════╛

-------------------------------------------------------------------
Standing at 6'0'', and 180 pounds of solid muscle, Vancha can be an intimidating character. He has a wide range of tattoos and scars alike criss crossing his body, the most prominent of which being a sparrow on the side of his neck, and a two inch vertical cicatrice that slices from the left corner of his pale lips all the way down to his jaw. He carries himself with a certain careless confidence; he has a devil-may-care attitude and it definitely shows, especially in his sly smile and vibrant, roguish green eyes.
He is unwaveringly loyal, confident in his abilities, and while sometimes stoic, he actually has quite a dry, mischievous sense of humor. Though Vancha's blunt and matter-of-fact demeanor can cause some tension, he gets along with most. Unlike many vampires of his age, he never quite really developed the typical disinterested disdain that many of his kind seem to harbor for humans, and instead quite often finds himself involved in all types of human affairs. His level temper and eye for strategy make him an ideal leader, even if he is not always keen to take up the position.
Born to a single mother in Russia, Vancha lived most of his life in his motherland and travelling Europe and Asia before recently moving to the United States. He has only lived in the country for five years, and has spend most of it travelling around the coasts and into Canada.

-------------------------------------------------------------------
coding and format belongs to mina.