Post by Jasper Greymark on Mar 30, 2018 18:42:04 GMT
Jasper Taltos Greymarkage ;;
Nothing Permanent Yetclass ;;
******physical appearance ;;
Jasper isn't necessarily impressively tall, standing a respectable but rather ordinairy five feet and ten inches, but he makes up for it in his stance and the manner he carries himself. Stiff, straight, and formal, he carries and air of dignity to him, and has a decidedly noticeable presence where he stands. Maybe its in the way he always seems calm and controlled no matter the situation, a stern and impassive set of features finely etched onto pale skin with jet-black hair cut short and combed back, sharp brows, and an angular bone set. Long-legged, he's willowy, thin to the point of it being visible in the way his cheeks are sunken slightly and his limbs stick-like with thin wrists, his long arms ending in fine artists fingers. These fingers are all too fond of small gestures, seemingly never without a cigarette or always busy fixing a tie, drumming a chair, or tapping thoughtfully. Well-built and surprisingly agile for his age, his is one more of tone and reflex then definition and brute force. When he walks he moves like a cat, steps purposeful and graceful, and he seems to be very aware of himself, and when he speaks his voice is low, though still a sweet baritone with a musical lilt to it.clothing ;;
Jasper is always dressed to the nines, and it is an extroidinairly rare day that one can find him in anything less then his best dress. Which is to say, his only real dress. At base he always wears at least a pair of finely pressed slacks, dark blue or black with optional striping, dress shoes, and a crisp business shirt. But often however, a vest and tie, the former matching his slacks, or sometimes a bold blue or red, and the latter a solid generally slightly more vivid hue of such or crisp black, are matched with this, and its uncommon to see him without gloves to match his vest as well. On occasion a fedora will grace his business-like hair, and when pressed on need to be even more professional then usual he will don a coat or suit to top off the outfit. When working his job he often wears a balaclava to hide most of his features, and while it ruffles his hair something awful, one will never catch his face in full while skirting the law or doing things best left to be unknown.misc. ;;
Minor scars mark Jasper's limbs and torso, but only a few lines are really noticeable across his forearms and back with a single marring his chest rather clearly. He also has a burn mark across much of his left forearm, and the skin is noticeably lighter there. He also tends to roll his sleeves back to his elbows, and carries more then one pair of gloves on him, though almost all are fine suede leather. He's also a habitual smoker, and never goes anywhere without a pack of rather nice cigarettes stashed on his person, refusing to use more common brands for their taste. When he can't smoke though for extended periods of time, it will tend to show, his hands become more shaky and he's irritable, with a higher temper then usual.face claim ;;
Spy from Team Fortress 2
|likes ;; |
- A clean job
- Beautiful things
- Brute aggresion
- Being dirty
- Unintelligent People
- Senseless destruction
- Being touched
- Extreme emotions
- Lacks pure strenth
- Easily bothered/annoyed
- Overestimates himself
- Works solo
Jasper is a professional before all else. It's not necessarily that he is cold, he will smile and on occasion laugh, and will show concern towards others, certainly he is not without emotion, a great deal of things tend to satisfy or annoy him to degrees enough to produce happiness or frustration, but there is often a subtle ground to it, a reservation. His smiles often don't reach his eyes, and rarely do they show more then the barest sliver of teeth, and rarely will his anger truly break through enough for him to raise his voice. He prides himself on his appearance and outward attitude, and one who knows him well enough gets the feeling he is a man of many masks and deceptions, and that he keeps much to himself, a secretive and furtive person. He never talks about himself, and while more then happy enough to engage in conversation, seems to enjoy the silence much more, and will often do things on his own, avoiding teamwork and partners whenever possible. If given an option, he plays to trickery and stealth, subtlety and lies, rather then the path of aggression. Its hard to ever discern whether he is honest or not when he speaks, he seems always to be playing towards his own game, but is almost always civil, polite, and pleasant in confrontation, never giving ground to those trying to root him out and never letting suspicion cross the minds of those who do not know the cunning fox that hides beneath.
Jasper admires elegance and intelligence, and believes himself to be a very learned man, spending much of his free time not training his team or pursuing side projects, reading a book or poetry, or listening to music, and he has been known to play several instruments. He is a bit of a neat-freak, and likely a touch OCD, his things are always organized, his dress is always crisp and clean, and he almost never takes his gloves off for anything. On the flip side of the coin, Jasper detests anything not to his standard, and looks down upon those he feels less intelligent or less composed. Nothing aggravates him faster then a dull-witted brute, save perhaps someone messing up his outfit. Its not always obvious though that he despises one, especially if it is to his advantage to keep neutral or good relations to them, but when there becomes no point any longer for pretense, his hatred is a cold and menacing thing. Still, much as how he approaches a task, he never approaches a person directly, playing always to cloak and dagger first.
Castelia city was always a big city. It attracked to its gleaming walls and sparkling towers the businessmen, the artists, the writers and the entrepaneurs. It was a place where one either rose and thrived or was found wanting and slipped beneath the trash and struggled it out in the alleys and slums. It was beautiful and wonderous, but unforgiving and harsh, despite the bright and welcoming appearance it may have exuded outwards. Growing up to a business family, Jasper was an only child of two very corporate minded people, and it wasn't long before he was being given special tutoring and being reared to take after their life. They were not the richest but they were still wealthier beyond most people's means, and it meant that Jasper got generally, what Jasper wanted. It also meant he was held to a standard of excellence, from music lessons to private tutoring and education, to how he presented himself to others, even as a child he was expected to be perfect. He was their pride and joy that they would parade to others, a gentleman destined for great things, intelligent and talented at such a young age.
The truth was Jasper was a little talented, but not nearly as much as it would seem. He was pushed hard to be perfect, and there was no room or excuse for failure. Always there were harsh consequences when he underperformed, and he lived in fear of his parent's wrath. Night and again he would stay up till he nearly collapsed with exhaustion to practice what he had been taught until he could manage it perfectly. As perfectly as they wanted him to. It was tiring, and miserable, but it was merely what was expected, and he would never fail to work himself weary only to rise the next morning at dawn. It was miserable, but he hardened himself to it. He was, after all, more accomplished for it. He sneered at those below him, and dedicated himself to the mastery of everything set before him. He became elegant, refined, an intelligent and sharp eyed boy, not held down by weaknesses of the heart or held back by inconveniences of the body, his mind dominating all with cool precision and will.
Jasper would be only fourteen when he was introduced to the underworld of society by his father. A domineering businessman, his father understood that one of the keys to true success above was to have connections below, and it was to these shady people he would entrust his son to learn the ways of deception, how to defend himself, and how to get where he needed and what he needed done, no matter the obstacles. A grunt for the criminal organization that ran through Castelia, Jasper quickly adapted, his nimble fingers quick to learn the arts of using a pocket knife or wielding a pocket knife, agile form quickly adapting itself to work to learn how to move silently, how to scale buildings, how to jump and slide over and under obstacles. Most importantly though, he learned there the beginnings of how to handle a Pokemon. He went from polite and reserved to deceptive, clever, vicious. He found it was often easier to handle things under-handed then directly, and that deals in the dark could speed things along far more then any attempts to charm or convince. And he learned that pokemon were power. He had grown up around pokemon, too be sure, but in his home they had been elegant things, pets that were respected but not deadly tools. No he had never been taught how to train before, but now he saw, a strong team could wield power, and a rare pokemon could hold wealth and influence.
That was likely the start of Jasper's interest in hunting, but he wouldn't start to pursue it for some time yet.
Jasper was twenty-four, and already starting to be groomed into office, he held a job in the business and on the side was a respected member of the gang. Then the whole thing collapsed. They were rooted out, exposed, and torn down. His parents were both tried and arrested as criminals, from extortion to black mail to the cause of violent crimes. Jasper got away though, he broke his ties early and ditched Unova. It was too late anyways, and staying with his family for no more reason then sentiment and blood ties was only going to drag him down. For a couple years he travelled, hopping region to region, but he was restless, finding little to interest him, only petty crime organizations full of idiots and common thieves, and crowded dirty cities surrounded by quaint and boring towns. He heard menacing promise from a place known as Kinji however, a region whispering of refined gleaming cities and murmuring of dark currents underground.
So Jasper made it his goal to see if he couldn't find a fresh start and a firm footing in a place worthy of his effort and time and a group worth being a part of.
******ooc name ;;
Saint Judashow did you find us ;;
Advertisement/Jinoa Regionrp sample ;;
The day was just yet born, sun creeping over the horizon to bask the earth in its pale splendor as it rose and began its ascent into the sky, bathing the land in its benevolent rays and heralding the beginning of the new cycle. The season of new life was full upon Terrene, the air sweet with honey and heady with wildflowers. Leaves were lush and green once more, grown anew from their bark to spread themselves eagerly towards the splendor of that great star that shone down from above, relishing in the warmth now that the bitter chills of the snows were long forgotten in the mind. Birdsong filled the air, melodies overlapping and intertwining, the taillow and the chatot chiming tunes towards each other, mates fluttering around each other in flashes of vibrant plumage as the courtship began and the eggs were laid.
The breeze that ruffled through long dark lock of hair, tugging playfully through thick mane bound back by ribbon was warm, the salt of the sea faint upon the lips amidst the scents of grass and soil, the enticingly rich scents of herbs and the more subtle musk of Pokémon all around. Smoke also reached the senses, tantalizing and enriched with the flavors of sage and bark, a dense scent curling amidst a thin plume of incense drifting from the lit end of a stick placed carefully in a wooden holder. The smoke held an acrid tang as well, its strong characteristics tainted noticeably with fire, the trail of of grey bringing to mind flame and ember, coal and soot. Sharp, powerful.
A piece of leather lay unfolded beside the incense, tanned twisting roots and pale dried leaves spread across the soft inner layer of the leather. A wooden pipe, its slender form polished and sleek, lay beside the herbs, gleaming in the light filtering through the verdant eaves of the trees. A kneeling form crushed the plants beneath darkened clothing, beside the supple body a supine bow was lain, strung and ready, its sleek shaft arced and deadly even as it lay at rest in the grass. Ribbon twining in the breeze brushed against a bronzed neck, golden fabric caressing and streaming past amidst ebony strands of hair. Dark eyes were closed in meditation, breath even and deep as it cycled through lungs, chest rising and falling rhythmically.
Such is how it had been for long enough that the sun—which had been but a sliver in the sky when first arrived that lean darkly clad figure, gaze hard and distant yet steps light and alert as they stepped quietly and surely through the forest as familiarly as though it was a part of their own being, their own dwelling, known as easily as the backs of their own tanned hands—was now mostly risen. Were the ocean in sight surely the waves would reflect back the glory of the morning, throwing reds and golds out in mirror of that great burning ball above them, to the north the mountains and the edge of the penninsula visible and highlighted in the light that cast a haloed glow against the eastern faces of the great craggy peaks.
Within the woods such a scene was not visible, but it was known well to the mind's eye so many countless times it had been seen.
Finally a gloved hand shifted, the dark soft leather digits brushing against smooth wood as the pipe was lifted in precise graceful gestures, even without the guidance of cool brown irises hidden still behind tanned lids. The other hand, it's bronzed back exposed, grasped first the crumbling brittle dried leaves, crushing them between blunted fingers as it pressed them into the end of the pipe. Then the roots, equally dried and nearly as frail as they were broken roughly and packed in as well. Between thin arched lips the pipe was placed as a glove grasped at hardened pouches, removing a small pair of flint stones. The rocks were dark, glossy, unmarked yet by scratch or score. A fresh purchase only the other day in trade, they were one of many that had replaced the first, so long now forgotten. Each served its use for many years until fateful happenstance should lead them elsewhere or find them unusable, then always faithfully another pair would be gotten.
A quick strike downward, stone clacking on stone as glimmers of light flying in a small spray down into the pipe, little glowing lights extinguished in the air. Four were made in total, one stone held perfectly in place while the other struck its edge to scrape that shower of sparks. At last one caught and remained lit, embers flickering as it began to consume the dried herbs. Dark stones were replaced, the pipe shifted from strong grip to more careful place as firm hand braced it. A deep breath, slow, steadied, measured. White smoke trails from the pipes end as it leaves lips, closed now as the smoke inside is savored, its taste harsh yet soothed by gentle leaf. Several count the smoke was held, its properties spreading, leeching into bloodstream, into heart, tracing through the many tiny branches as it expanded into the lungs as was pulled through to the whole of the body. Finally the breath was released, a white plume rising to the sky as a second pull was drawn, then after, a third. Five in total, each meticulous as the first, before the pipe was turned over, its base firmly tapped as it was emptied and replaced, to be cleansed later in water and stored for future occasion.
It had been near this date some years ago that he by the name of Kazema, first of the name Sinmaru to walk the lands of Terrene, had passed at last to what lay beyond. He who had shown the way, he who had guided, had seen the world since the start of man upon this land that had been gifted to them. He who had seen its breadth from end to end, who had hunted and lived upon it. Who had helped to build the dwellings that marked it, from sandy desert beach to shaded forest village. His was a passing respected, remembered, and carried on in the mind, each at the turning of another cycle since the last. Honored always near the same day, late in the time of renewal yet not yet begun in the season of warmth and plenty.
Such was the purpose of the day as the body relaxed and the mind sharpened, holding focus to the smallest detail in added clarity. The wind shifted strands of grass as they rustled, one against the other, twisting as they were pulled and blown. The leaves scraping against one another, thin branches swaying as they gave with pressure, bobbing against the air. The flitting of a bird's wings overhead, the chirp of a distant taillow, high, sweet, its notes an ascending spiral. Energy flowed through sun-blessed skin, rippling under dark marks and white laced ink, through lean body and nimble hand, gathering within scarred chest and in the balls and heels of calloused feet. Thoughts were clear as spring water, ideas, movement, action, all sharp as skarmony feathers.
Right hand grasped at dark sleek wood, slender instrument deadly, elegant, and all but humming under blunted fingertips. Humming with the readiness to be drawn, its supple arch bent as its string was pulled back, to be used, to have an arrow knocked and then flown from its body, the extension of its whole soaring through the air to strike with precision and deadly force as it cut through flesh, to hunt, to stagger and stumble the prey with one fatal blow and watch them fall. Rising to feet, an arrow was drawn, its wooden shaft being spun between thumb and forefinger as black fletching was turned over, a stripe of dark blue shining against the ebony feathers. Its head was hewn from bone, ivory and white as dark eyes studied it, opened now at last. Its tip was pointed, the flattened head drawn back to two flanking points past where it connected to the shaft, such a manner of design trying to ensure it would stay better lodged within the body, tearing at muscle rather then releasing its hold. Making a trail that could be followed, scarlet, bright, preventing the prey from escaping and leaving it behind.
Grass was crushed underfoot—it's scent sweet and perfumed as it mixed with the dirt, frond broken and smashed under the weight of a being's passing unyielding—as steps paced forward all but silently in the pliant spring earth, movements light, lithe, sleek as bipedal body was bent to creep and sleek, each new placement of a black boot as firm and yet as delicate as any other predator, the liepard slinking past, the mightyena prowling through, almost delicately stepping past and over underbrush, avoiding brambles and passing by flowers, bush, root and stone without falter or slow, without even thought such was already so far instilled into instincts, such information processed in an instant as it passed through the corners of watchful eyes. Tool lay in hand, instrument dark and foreboding, and eyes scanned the foliage, watchful, wary, alert. A hunger for the hunt stirred in the breast, yet steps were patient, never faltering in that diligence taught from the youngest of age. It was patience, diligence, wits, and training which brought the kill. It was this which found the trail, which tracked the prey, which lined the arrow and found the shot.