12-07-2013, 07:23 AM
Dane Raphael Gregory
Background:
British father, French mother. Primary and secondary school was in a French-Catholic academy, although, by Custody Law, french was only a secondary language. He sang in the boys' chorus at a very early age. He was seemingly uninterested in cultivating relationships throughout his time in french DVII. Most of his boyhood schoolmates misinterpreted his timid inquisition and disassociation as one of a closeted homosexual who was too afraid to shame a family that once clung to styles of Earldom in the age before Custody annexation. This was far from the truth.
Appearance:
Dane is soft spoken, and otherwise free to smile. With thin dark hair and dull gray eyes. He has an angular, bony face and narrow build. His manner and appearance lends to seeming younger than a man of his late twenties. Despite a comparatively frail appearance, he has a cool presence that is unconcerned with judgement, criticism or intimidation, a deviation from the anxiety of his youth, and likely correlated to new found abilities. He dresses quite gentlemanly, otherwise, preferring tweed, cashmere and scarves in traditional patterns and masculine, lordly colors. His accent is posh, crisp and defined but tends to oscillate heavily toward a french country upbringing.
Powers:
A channeler, his first touch of the Power was dramatic and eye-opening. He was the victim of a robbery turned into attempted sexual assault, but the only thing touched was a cold nerve, and he has not known fear since.
![[Image: Dane__zps8b300389.jpg]](http://i1334.photobucket.com/albums/w643/thefirstage/Characters/Dane__zps8b300389.jpg)
Dane had a dulcet singing voice and often hummed the common tunes of childhood to himself. While canvasing the picturesque scene before him, one moment in particular came to mind. A Parisian park that was created around a small château from the 1770's. Strolling through which he hummed the fitting ballad, "Over the Rainbow." He hummed it to himself now.
The memory inspired a little experimentation with the words for a moment. His throat and mouth played with the sounds as they passed his lips. A young woman with pigtails pushing a carriage passed nearby about then, and overheard the quiet stranger on the bench. She smiled shyly as though she perhaps wondered if the gentleman lounging on this fine autumn's morning was someone she should recognize. Not yet, my dear. He smiled generously and tipped a nod of his hat, a tweed Yorkshire style, and ceased the song as she continued on. The lovely weather fit, but the selection was wrong. A conductor needed the perfect soundtrack as an artist needed the right brush; the chorus should live up to the view.
Indeed the view was spectacular. This little triangular patch of green was a nice respite to the cement, stone and industry of inner London closing in around them. He lounged, quite comfortable, legs crossed and content to watch the people who'd likewise come to this green mirage in a desert of gray stone. Before him, the murky waters of the river Thames lapped onward, continually washing away the exhaust and grime of oily engines toward the sea, but the foul river faded as indistinct backdrop to tourists prowling for pictures in front of it. Posing this way and that, likely aiming for the perfect angle to share the destination of their travels with friends and family back home. London's famous Tower Bridge made for a dramatic photograph, after all.
The woman with the carriage was nearly to the shadow of the bridge by then. The famous towers of this bridge above, to which this park was dedicated, loomed long in the morning sun. From the distance, Dane made out the sudden wailing of the infant, and the woman circled to gather the child in her arms. Comforting it.
A thin smile tweaked his lips. One loafer gently tapped the ground in beat with the song came to mind. "...Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird.."
Why a mockingbird would comfort a child, Dane did not know. Mimicking something one was not was actually quite terrifying to conceive. Evolution was a sinister bastard.
A gust of wind rustled the fringes of his fine hair, and with it, carried the sound of other children playing nearby. He turned his head, just as a bumbling toddler caught too much speed and tumbled to the grass. It began to scream. Someone, a nanny by the look of it, came running to its side.
Ahh yes. That was it. A gleeful grin, and he returned to the immaculate bridge ever-reaching for the twin riverbanks. A moment later, he seized every instinct within, and detonation, hotter than the jolting current of a wet finger in a socket, crushed stone and metal in a crescendo of fiery infernos. The land boomed with explosives that shook his very ribcage and seared his very bones. Spheres of flame roaring unconstrained, mushroomed from the towers. Enormous blocks of debris erupted and projectiles arced toward the water's hissing surface below, cascading like the volcanoes of the earth vomiting wretched molten interiors. Frightened shrieks chilled the air. Panic sent men and women alike to their faces.
Though swarming with the force of it, Dane eased to his feet. The woman and her carriage were lost to clouds of dust now wafting across the far end of the park. He brushed his sleeves clean, placed his hands in his pockets and walked away humming, thinking of the toddler that inspired it all. "London bridge is falling down.. falling down. Falling down."
Epilogue:
London, DVII: Explosion collapses interior of London's Tower Bridge, the iconic symbol of the ancient city. Twenty-four cars, two buses, and 79 pedestrians fell to the waters below. The total death count is unconfirmed at this time. Investigators have no leads.
Venice, DVII: A barge filled with highly flammable toxic chemicals split in two, and for twelve hours, fire burned across the oily surface of tainted Venetian waters. Seepage continue to plague interior city infrastructure. Ten dead, economic cost and clean up is unknown. Investigators have no leads.
Oświęcim, DVI: The one-hundred year anniversary of Liberation Day to memorialize the mass murders at Auschwitz concentration camp ended in tragedy when uncontrolled fires engulfed the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum and grounds, roasting an estimated four-hundred fifty visitors and dignitaries within, including descendants of those to have survived the camp during WWII. More than three-thousand people were in attendance that weekend. Arson has been confirmed, but investigators have no leads.
Belgrade, DVI: Thousands of party-goers lining the city's club-district ran in panic as missile-like projectiles fell from the quiet night sky. A mass of panicked locals and tourists were shuffled like rats in a maze this way and that through the city center while the projectiles rained down. Sixty-one were confirmed dead and more than two-hundred were injured. Investigators have no leads.
As these attacks appear without apparent motive and strike at seeming random targets, the people of DVI and DVII now join their brethern in DV living in fear.
Fear.
![[Image: Dane___zpsb5dca212.jpg]](http://i1334.photobucket.com/albums/w643/thefirstage/Characters/Dane___zpsb5dca212.jpg)
Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 7 2013, 07:31 AM.
Background:
British father, French mother. Primary and secondary school was in a French-Catholic academy, although, by Custody Law, french was only a secondary language. He sang in the boys' chorus at a very early age. He was seemingly uninterested in cultivating relationships throughout his time in french DVII. Most of his boyhood schoolmates misinterpreted his timid inquisition and disassociation as one of a closeted homosexual who was too afraid to shame a family that once clung to styles of Earldom in the age before Custody annexation. This was far from the truth.
Appearance:
Dane is soft spoken, and otherwise free to smile. With thin dark hair and dull gray eyes. He has an angular, bony face and narrow build. His manner and appearance lends to seeming younger than a man of his late twenties. Despite a comparatively frail appearance, he has a cool presence that is unconcerned with judgement, criticism or intimidation, a deviation from the anxiety of his youth, and likely correlated to new found abilities. He dresses quite gentlemanly, otherwise, preferring tweed, cashmere and scarves in traditional patterns and masculine, lordly colors. His accent is posh, crisp and defined but tends to oscillate heavily toward a french country upbringing.
Powers:
A channeler, his first touch of the Power was dramatic and eye-opening. He was the victim of a robbery turned into attempted sexual assault, but the only thing touched was a cold nerve, and he has not known fear since.
Dane had a dulcet singing voice and often hummed the common tunes of childhood to himself. While canvasing the picturesque scene before him, one moment in particular came to mind. A Parisian park that was created around a small château from the 1770's. Strolling through which he hummed the fitting ballad, "Over the Rainbow." He hummed it to himself now.
The memory inspired a little experimentation with the words for a moment. His throat and mouth played with the sounds as they passed his lips. A young woman with pigtails pushing a carriage passed nearby about then, and overheard the quiet stranger on the bench. She smiled shyly as though she perhaps wondered if the gentleman lounging on this fine autumn's morning was someone she should recognize. Not yet, my dear. He smiled generously and tipped a nod of his hat, a tweed Yorkshire style, and ceased the song as she continued on. The lovely weather fit, but the selection was wrong. A conductor needed the perfect soundtrack as an artist needed the right brush; the chorus should live up to the view.
Indeed the view was spectacular. This little triangular patch of green was a nice respite to the cement, stone and industry of inner London closing in around them. He lounged, quite comfortable, legs crossed and content to watch the people who'd likewise come to this green mirage in a desert of gray stone. Before him, the murky waters of the river Thames lapped onward, continually washing away the exhaust and grime of oily engines toward the sea, but the foul river faded as indistinct backdrop to tourists prowling for pictures in front of it. Posing this way and that, likely aiming for the perfect angle to share the destination of their travels with friends and family back home. London's famous Tower Bridge made for a dramatic photograph, after all.
The woman with the carriage was nearly to the shadow of the bridge by then. The famous towers of this bridge above, to which this park was dedicated, loomed long in the morning sun. From the distance, Dane made out the sudden wailing of the infant, and the woman circled to gather the child in her arms. Comforting it.
A thin smile tweaked his lips. One loafer gently tapped the ground in beat with the song came to mind. "...Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird.."
Why a mockingbird would comfort a child, Dane did not know. Mimicking something one was not was actually quite terrifying to conceive. Evolution was a sinister bastard.
A gust of wind rustled the fringes of his fine hair, and with it, carried the sound of other children playing nearby. He turned his head, just as a bumbling toddler caught too much speed and tumbled to the grass. It began to scream. Someone, a nanny by the look of it, came running to its side.
Ahh yes. That was it. A gleeful grin, and he returned to the immaculate bridge ever-reaching for the twin riverbanks. A moment later, he seized every instinct within, and detonation, hotter than the jolting current of a wet finger in a socket, crushed stone and metal in a crescendo of fiery infernos. The land boomed with explosives that shook his very ribcage and seared his very bones. Spheres of flame roaring unconstrained, mushroomed from the towers. Enormous blocks of debris erupted and projectiles arced toward the water's hissing surface below, cascading like the volcanoes of the earth vomiting wretched molten interiors. Frightened shrieks chilled the air. Panic sent men and women alike to their faces.
Though swarming with the force of it, Dane eased to his feet. The woman and her carriage were lost to clouds of dust now wafting across the far end of the park. He brushed his sleeves clean, placed his hands in his pockets and walked away humming, thinking of the toddler that inspired it all. "London bridge is falling down.. falling down. Falling down."
Epilogue:
London, DVII: Explosion collapses interior of London's Tower Bridge, the iconic symbol of the ancient city. Twenty-four cars, two buses, and 79 pedestrians fell to the waters below. The total death count is unconfirmed at this time. Investigators have no leads.
Venice, DVII: A barge filled with highly flammable toxic chemicals split in two, and for twelve hours, fire burned across the oily surface of tainted Venetian waters. Seepage continue to plague interior city infrastructure. Ten dead, economic cost and clean up is unknown. Investigators have no leads.
Oświęcim, DVI: The one-hundred year anniversary of Liberation Day to memorialize the mass murders at Auschwitz concentration camp ended in tragedy when uncontrolled fires engulfed the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum and grounds, roasting an estimated four-hundred fifty visitors and dignitaries within, including descendants of those to have survived the camp during WWII. More than three-thousand people were in attendance that weekend. Arson has been confirmed, but investigators have no leads.
Belgrade, DVI: Thousands of party-goers lining the city's club-district ran in panic as missile-like projectiles fell from the quiet night sky. A mass of panicked locals and tourists were shuffled like rats in a maze this way and that through the city center while the projectiles rained down. Sixty-one were confirmed dead and more than two-hundred were injured. Investigators have no leads.
As these attacks appear without apparent motive and strike at seeming random targets, the people of DVI and DVII now join their brethern in DV living in fear.
Fear.
Edited by Dane Gregory, Dec 7 2013, 07:31 AM.