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| Aidan Byrne; Camarilla Toreador in Progress | |
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| Topic Started: Saturday, 3. December 2016, 00:20 (169 Views) | |
| Aidan Byrne | Saturday, 3. December 2016, 00:20 Post #1 |
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Childe
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Player Handle: Chess. Name: Aidan James Byrne. Age: 56. Place of birth: Belfast, Ireland. Age of embrace: 33. Clan: Toreador. Sect: Camarilla. Species: Vampire Derangement: TBD Disciplines: Appearance: When Aidan Byrne enters a room, he is likely to be noticed. It isn't that he is particularly tall. Nor is he physically imposing in the stereotypical sense. Rather, there is an intensity in the set of his deep-set coffee-dark eyes, and an unruffled calm in his resting expression, which lies just on the edge of a smile but rarely crosses that threshold. Aidan is a handsome man, though not oppressively so, with a finely-chiseled jaw and an expressive mouth. Laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes are the only break from an otherwise ageless visage, the only hint that he had lived life fully even before his Embrace. Aidan is impeccable in his attire and in his personal grooming habits. To see him dishevelled or unkempt is to see him off his game, and any time he adjusts his clothing (collar, cuffs, buttoning or unbuttoning his jacket unnecessarily) it equates a warning drop in barometer pressure. A storm is on the rise. He wears his suits the way a knight of old might have worn armor, and they are crisp, expensive and generally dark. Attention is paid to details, as in every other aspect of Byrne's life. Suits are not always appropriate, however, and in those times, he gravitates to sweaters or extremely expensive tees, always in solid colors. He seems to dislike patterns nearly as much as he dislikes mess. In movement he is quick and decisive, though he has a tendency to prefer diagonals and slight curves to the horizontal. His hand gestures are surprisingly light, refined and careful. He is not generally comfortable with physical touch unless he initiates it and if he does he usually has a motive behind each overture, whether it be a fleeting caress or an attempted blow. Haven: It isn't in Aidan's line to arrange for a permanent residence without first being accepted into the City by its Prince and by his Primogen, or without first assessing the political waters in question. As such, his current haven is a hotel room in the Nadler Hotel in Soho. He brought his own triple set of blackout curtains, and has no desire to remodel given he is only booked there for nine days, after which he feels he should have the feel of the city and an idea of where to settle. Having a relatively liquid income and having done some research before his visit, he is relatively confident that, particularly with the aid of a newfound friend or two, he can find himself an adequate set up in that time. History: "Are you quite comfortable?" the words are quietly calm, well-enunciated, the tone oddly without affect. The hint of Irish in his dialect has almost been eradicated by years of elocution lessons and drills in received pronunciation. For a moment, the woman on the chair has an irrational desire to laugh. Is she comfortable? The zip-ties binding her wrists to the arms of the antique wooden chair are so tight that she can feel them digging bruises into her soft skin every time she moves. She needs to use the facilities, but she can't even cross her legs because similar bindings keep from her kicking. Even her head is restrained, though more comfortably, by what feels like soft leather wrapped around her forehead, forcing her to look into a projector's light. At this angle it is very difficult to tell what image is being projected on to the screen behind her, but she thinks that it is a still from an old movie, one of those swashbuckler flicks from the late thirties. There's a brief shadow, perceived even through her almost closed and heavily blinking eyes, as a figure crosses behind the projector. All that she can tell, before he reaches the safety of the masking light is that he is wearing a well-fitted suit of expensive material. "I could use a toilet," she admits. "Soon," the voice promises, and it is like a caress, that one word. It seems as if he cares, and she would like to please him. This thought is alien and she tries to tamp down on it, but she cannot. "We have but one thing to determine first." She grasps at straws. The image that is boring itself into her skull and burning her eyelids even when she closes them against the brightness is most definitely from the cinema of old. This set up is strongly reminiscent of Thomas Harris' Red Dragon, though the details are wrong. A film buff, perhaps? Someone who had seen Manhunter, or even the newer version of Red Dragon and been inspired? An actor? "Is this about something I wrote?" she asks. "If I've offended you, I'll be happy to write an apology and retraction... if you'll tell me where I've erred." "No, no. It's quite too late for that." The woman shudders a little, because all the warmth that had been in the voice was gone and suddenly it was as if ice had fallen over the room, the chair, the table, ice was crystallizing on her veiled lids. "What do you... why?" "It's about this unauthorized biography, Miss Greene," the man said, slapping a heavy hardcover against the table and sliding it in her direction. She couldn't see, had no idea what he was talking about. She'd written many biographies, some pure fiction, others based slightly in truth, but only, ever, of those who were already deceased. So he was a family member, here on behalf of a dead relative? But surely this was too far to go? Surely no one would resort to kidnapping to right an imagined wrong penned in a lurid work of prose? Then her captor moved his hand to delicately cup the bulb of the projector, and after her eyes adjusted from light to dark, she found that she could see - first his face: the hollowed, handsome, familiar lines of it, and then the book in question. Aidan Byrne. "But... you're dead," she whispered. "I am," said Mr. Byrne. "But even dead, I won't permit such tales to be told of me. Such utter tripe." He thumped the book. "I've halted its production. These words won't see the light of day any more than I will, Miss Greene. All the same... it vexes. Where did you come up with such stories? Or... did you hear them from someone else?" "Please, sir. I'm... I really need to use the bathroom," she said. A brief expression of distaste twisted his aristocratic expression. "Then go," he replied coldly. "If that is how you perceive yourself. Or wait long enough to answer my questions and I will release your bonds. It is entirely your choice." There was an echo - a scene in a movie of Aidan Byrne's, a long time ago. The forties. It had been a film noir. The Road to Hell had been the name, the first of many times in his career that Byrne would reinvent himself to fit a changing time. In that script, as well, there had been a woman, captive. In that script, as well, he'd seemed utterly reasonable while being everything but so, had offered her a choice. Famously, he'd added a second line. "They're all your choices," Moira Greene said softly. Byrne hesitated for a moment, as if surprised that she was picking up the breadcrumbs that he seemed so painstakingly to have dropped. Then he nodded. "Quite so," he said. "Now, what is it to be?" "I... heard it all from a man named Javier Ramirez," she said slowly, hoping against all hope that this man was going to be true to his word. It was hard to fathom it, considering that he was supposed to be dead and she now knew his secret, considering that he had her tied to a chair in an expensive flat who knew where, but there was no other option. He would either keep his word or he wouldn't. "He practically wrote the book, all I did was edit a few bits, add some pizazz, get rid of some insipid Harlequin shit." "And for what did Mr. Ramirez gift you this?" the tone, once again, seemed warm, and once again, she felt herself opening to it without intending to. "He just wanted to be published," she said. "That's what he said. He wanted a writer's credit." "You didn't give it to him." "No, but I... I did dedicate the book to him. See, it says, 'For Javier.'" "I did see that. One of my least favorite bits of a very disappointing read." Aidan rose and crossed to her and she flinched, and then winced as the plastic cut into her flesh. He drew out an antique tortoise-shell pocketknife and slid it between her wrist and the chair arm, slicing her bond with a quick, brutal movement. She barely let herself breathe as he moved to do the same with her left hand. She didn't try to fight, not then, not yet. Once her legs were free, she could push him aside and run. All she had to do was run. Notes: Likes: <> Fencing and antique weaponry <> Acting and manipulation <> Bushido virtues (in theory, though he is by no means an expert on the practice) <> Control and controlling others <> Old-fashioned lullabyes (English and Irish) <> Loyalty <> Theatre and the written word <> A storm-tossed sea <> Intellectual debate <> Nosferatu (in general. What?) <> The Fibonacci spiral <> Batman gambits Dislikes: <> Pop Tarts (both the pastry and what he considers the flavor of the week in art, music and literature) <> Mess <> Cowardice (particularly when said spinelessness involves inaction even when the correct course is clear.) <> Bubble gum <> Pontificators <> Whiners <> Excessive perfume or cologne <> Being without his phone <> Being dead to his son <> His ex-wife's continued existence <> Use of the "words" guesstimate or irregardless in conversation Languages: English (Fluent), Irish (conversational), Japanese (almost conversational), French (almost conversational, fond of fencing terminology). His accent in Irish is flawless, the other two are admirable but recognizably English. Notable Weaponry: None. He possesses a quite small collection of antique weaponry, most of which does not work at all. He does walk often with a cane or walking stick, and he appreciates the anachronism. Feeding Preferences: His preference is not to feed upon the same person ever. He also dislikes the idea of feeding on children. His major style is seducer, and he isn't bad at it at all. He has some experience with the BDSM scene and often uses it to find those whom, after he has satiated them, he may do the same with himself. Artists and art critics may also find themselves often sought after, as he has a strong dichotomy within himself of whether to treasure those with the most capacity for creating beauty and whether to see if suffering expands their gifts. Edited by Aidan Byrne, Friday, 9. December 2016, 07:35.
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2:02 AM Jul 11