Post by Serphius de la Ravin on Jun 30, 2006 5:00:56 GMT -5
Name (First and last): Serphius de la Ravin
Blood (Pure, Muggle-Born, Half-Blood...): Pure
Age (Eleven to Seventeen and so on.): 16
Year (Sixth, Seventh, so on.): 6th
Birthday: 13th April
Likes: Reading, poetry, libraries, leather armchairs, the scent of pine needles, order, Venice and his cat, Vamplew.
Dislikes: Garish colours, loud people, ignorant people, being interrupted, being ignored, crowds, and mess.
Hobbies: In his spare time, Serphius likes to read, occasionally pen a poem, or something along the lines of that. He also enjoys playing the piano.
Favourite Food: Chocolate
Least Favourite Food: Calamari
Favourite Drink: A nice vintage red
Favourite Class: Likes almost all classes
Least Favourite Class: CoMC, or anything involving bright light, loud noises and physical exercise.
Pet Name: Vamplew
Pet Race: Cat
Pet Age: 3
Pet Description: Vamplew, or Veronique Vamplew as she was originally named, is a fine looking cat. Large, and pure coal black, with sleek fur and burning green eyes. She is considered by everyone else but Serphius, to be a horrible bag of a cat, sharp in wit, and sharper in tooth and claw.
Biography (Home, Background, Parents, etc.): Serphius is the eldest of the triplets. Born in a large, and very old country house, out in the beautiful, lush countryside of Southern France. His upbringing was that of a horribly lonely, mollycoddled, upper-class child, stiff and cold. So, deprived of desirable human contact (for he found little pleasure in playing with his doltish brother, and temperamental sister), he poured all his little heart into his father (Cygnus de la Ravin)'s library, and it's extensive range of contents.
And lo! Serphius discovered the joys of the world of literacy.
Personality: Cold and distant, it's no wonder that the only people that matter in Serphius's life are of paper and ink. To be honest, one could count the number of people he considers to be friends with on one hand, and still have fingers. It's not so much that he's a bad person, though he's hardly the nicest person you'll ever meet, it's more that he's a hard person to reach, to get to know. First of all, it's a bitch to find him. He's usually lurking in the gloom of the library, or prowling round the 'museum', thought you'll never quite know where he'll pop up next. Then, if you do eventually corner him, there will be lots of awkward silence, and cool reluctance to talk, and a general feeling of unwanting.
Though why you'd want to talk to this pale, scrawny boy is a mystery to me.
But, if you are lucky enough to break through, you will be greeted by a gaping void of chaos, self-loathing and low self-esteem of a confused, battered boy, young of body, old of soul, yearning for God only knows what.
Buuutttt, of course you would never be greeted by such a sight, instead of polite stiffness, and quite resentment.
Appearance: Just looking at Serphius you can tell straight off that the boy barely sees the light of day if he can avoid it. Tall, very tall, standing at over 6', and painfully skinny, with intensely dark, large moist black eyes, which stand out against the pallor of his gaunt white skin. A mop of soft black curls adorn his head, and weave gently round his ears, falling partcially onto his face. He has fairly feminine features, with a long fine nose, and rosy pouty lips. He is usually clad in dark clothes - infact, he is always clad in dark robes!
Other: He has the tattoo of a black rose, encircled with thorny vines, on the back of his right shoulder. Serphius also has a closet full of skeletons in his pocket, just waiting to cause scandal in Beauxbaton, perhaps?
Role-playing:
Dark, depressing, damp. The shabby house loomed forlornly in the numerous shadows cast by the awkward electric glow of the sparse street lamps. Weary inky black eyes, tired and slightly blood-shot, flickered warily, uncertainly over the shoddy front door. A tongue slid out, running over chapped lips. The tall, wry figure of a young man, dark hair and dark clad hesitated, his pale, scarred knuckles wavering over the peeling paint. His black rimmed eyes flickered shut for a moment, as he stood, cold and lonely on the door step, a storm raged inside him. This phantom-like stranger, silent and mysterious, went by the name of Serphius de la Ravin.
His hand sank delicately back to his side, as he shut his eyes tight, and let his chin droop to his chest as he tried to collect his thoughts, tried to turn away from the door that gaped before him like a ragged scar, his ragged scar, before he done it again, before it happened again. Though of course, it would. Serphius was powerless against it, against the tendrils of failure and decay, and the obscene euphoria he seemed to be ensnared in. Many a night it kept him awake, like a whisper in his ear, a voice at his shoulder, nagging, begging, bulling, torturing him, day after day. It made him sick to his stomach, but some days, he didn't want to stop. He wanted to take that slow, and deathly beautiful path to self-destruction.
Slowly, determainly, he let his hand fall on the hard surface, wincing as each knock shattered the deathly silence with a resounding crack.
There was a moment of painful silence, like the pause before the plunge into the pit. Then, the door was opened, just a crack. He could see a sliver of a pale face, and a glance of strawberry blonde hair. A look of recognition flickered across dark green eyes, and the door opened a little wider.
"You came back," The voice murmured, "I knew you would." The boy smirked as he said this. Serphius bit his tongue.
"Do you have it?" He said bluntly, as the ache in his chest was cresting.
"Come in, oh, do come in..."
Blood (Pure, Muggle-Born, Half-Blood...): Pure
Age (Eleven to Seventeen and so on.): 16
Year (Sixth, Seventh, so on.): 6th
Birthday: 13th April
Likes: Reading, poetry, libraries, leather armchairs, the scent of pine needles, order, Venice and his cat, Vamplew.
Dislikes: Garish colours, loud people, ignorant people, being interrupted, being ignored, crowds, and mess.
Hobbies: In his spare time, Serphius likes to read, occasionally pen a poem, or something along the lines of that. He also enjoys playing the piano.
Favourite Food: Chocolate
Least Favourite Food: Calamari
Favourite Drink: A nice vintage red
Favourite Class: Likes almost all classes
Least Favourite Class: CoMC, or anything involving bright light, loud noises and physical exercise.
Pet Name: Vamplew
Pet Race: Cat
Pet Age: 3
Pet Description: Vamplew, or Veronique Vamplew as she was originally named, is a fine looking cat. Large, and pure coal black, with sleek fur and burning green eyes. She is considered by everyone else but Serphius, to be a horrible bag of a cat, sharp in wit, and sharper in tooth and claw.
Biography (Home, Background, Parents, etc.): Serphius is the eldest of the triplets. Born in a large, and very old country house, out in the beautiful, lush countryside of Southern France. His upbringing was that of a horribly lonely, mollycoddled, upper-class child, stiff and cold. So, deprived of desirable human contact (for he found little pleasure in playing with his doltish brother, and temperamental sister), he poured all his little heart into his father (Cygnus de la Ravin)'s library, and it's extensive range of contents.
And lo! Serphius discovered the joys of the world of literacy.
Personality: Cold and distant, it's no wonder that the only people that matter in Serphius's life are of paper and ink. To be honest, one could count the number of people he considers to be friends with on one hand, and still have fingers. It's not so much that he's a bad person, though he's hardly the nicest person you'll ever meet, it's more that he's a hard person to reach, to get to know. First of all, it's a bitch to find him. He's usually lurking in the gloom of the library, or prowling round the 'museum', thought you'll never quite know where he'll pop up next. Then, if you do eventually corner him, there will be lots of awkward silence, and cool reluctance to talk, and a general feeling of unwanting.
Though why you'd want to talk to this pale, scrawny boy is a mystery to me.
But, if you are lucky enough to break through, you will be greeted by a gaping void of chaos, self-loathing and low self-esteem of a confused, battered boy, young of body, old of soul, yearning for God only knows what.
Buuutttt, of course you would never be greeted by such a sight, instead of polite stiffness, and quite resentment.
Appearance: Just looking at Serphius you can tell straight off that the boy barely sees the light of day if he can avoid it. Tall, very tall, standing at over 6', and painfully skinny, with intensely dark, large moist black eyes, which stand out against the pallor of his gaunt white skin. A mop of soft black curls adorn his head, and weave gently round his ears, falling partcially onto his face. He has fairly feminine features, with a long fine nose, and rosy pouty lips. He is usually clad in dark clothes - infact, he is always clad in dark robes!
Other: He has the tattoo of a black rose, encircled with thorny vines, on the back of his right shoulder. Serphius also has a closet full of skeletons in his pocket, just waiting to cause scandal in Beauxbaton, perhaps?
Role-playing:
Dark, depressing, damp. The shabby house loomed forlornly in the numerous shadows cast by the awkward electric glow of the sparse street lamps. Weary inky black eyes, tired and slightly blood-shot, flickered warily, uncertainly over the shoddy front door. A tongue slid out, running over chapped lips. The tall, wry figure of a young man, dark hair and dark clad hesitated, his pale, scarred knuckles wavering over the peeling paint. His black rimmed eyes flickered shut for a moment, as he stood, cold and lonely on the door step, a storm raged inside him. This phantom-like stranger, silent and mysterious, went by the name of Serphius de la Ravin.
His hand sank delicately back to his side, as he shut his eyes tight, and let his chin droop to his chest as he tried to collect his thoughts, tried to turn away from the door that gaped before him like a ragged scar, his ragged scar, before he done it again, before it happened again. Though of course, it would. Serphius was powerless against it, against the tendrils of failure and decay, and the obscene euphoria he seemed to be ensnared in. Many a night it kept him awake, like a whisper in his ear, a voice at his shoulder, nagging, begging, bulling, torturing him, day after day. It made him sick to his stomach, but some days, he didn't want to stop. He wanted to take that slow, and deathly beautiful path to self-destruction.
Slowly, determainly, he let his hand fall on the hard surface, wincing as each knock shattered the deathly silence with a resounding crack.
There was a moment of painful silence, like the pause before the plunge into the pit. Then, the door was opened, just a crack. He could see a sliver of a pale face, and a glance of strawberry blonde hair. A look of recognition flickered across dark green eyes, and the door opened a little wider.
"You came back," The voice murmured, "I knew you would." The boy smirked as he said this. Serphius bit his tongue.
"Do you have it?" He said bluntly, as the ache in his chest was cresting.
"Come in, oh, do come in..."
