Kieran Lusk [werewolf]

[Kieran Lusk]

WEREWOLF

[Basics]

Name: Kieran Lusk
Nicknames: none really.
Age: 22
Apparent Age: 22
Birthday:December 15th
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Asexual, or so he claims.
Status: Slave
Played by: Kit Harrington (he’s from HBO’s game of thrones)

[Appearance]

Height:Six Feet, One Inch
Body type: Lean/ defined
Weight: 177
Eye color: brown
Hair color:brown
Piercings and/or tattoos: none.
Ethnicity: Caucasian

Overall Appearance:
Kieran may have very common characteristics—the dominant brown hair and eyes, but he is rather striking. His eyes appear to be endless, as though someone could lose themselves in them. They are very dark, almost appearing black at moments, and they change slightly due to his varying emotions. Many people think that he has perfected the “brooding” or “smoldering” look—where his eyes seem to be a dark abyss, luring people in. And his hair is a rich chocolate brown, with curls framing his face. His skin is a bit pale, which makes his dark features more prominent. He is usually seen with facial hair, which gives him a more rugged and rough appearance, although his face is not particularly sharp or fierce.
His body is more athletic—it is toned and defined, but not overly bulky or burly. He finds a release through running, and will literally run till his legs give out. And so, his body has always stayed in near perfect condition. The only blemish that mar his skin is the jagged, angry scar on his thigh—the one that left him changed forever. He is usually seen in a plain white t-shirt and jeans, nothing special. He likes to dress for comfort, not for style. He doesn’t care much for appearances, so he does not usually try.
His wolf form is a sight to behold—it is a monstrous being—deep black fur, coal colored eyes; ones that could make anyone’s blood run cold. He is almost like a hulking shadow, moving effortlessly in the darkness, a constant threat.

[Personality]

Likes:

• Running
  
• Fresh Air
  
• The Stars
  
• Freshly Brewed Coffee
  
• Isolation
  
  

Dislikes:

• The Full Moon
  
• The Idea of Slavery
  
• Himself/ The Monster Inside Him
  
• Letting his vulnerability show
  
• Smoking
  
• Authority
  
  

Strengths:

• Intelligent/Observant
  
• Strong willed/ determined
  
• Protective/ Loyal (to those that deserve it)
  
  

Weaknesses:

• Emotionally Distant
  
• His quiet anger, just waiting to explode
  
• Unsociable
  
• Self Loathing
  
  

Fears:

• The monster will overtake his humanity
  
• He will hurt someone he cares for
  
• He will never be happy
  
• He will never amount to anything
  
  

Habits/Quirks:

• Rubbing his scar when he’s anxious
  
• Tapping his fingers against surfaces
  
• Cursing, in general
  
• Clenches his jaw when angry
  
  

Overall Personality:

Kieran can be described as distant. He tends to withdraw from socializing, preferring to be left alone with his own demons. He does not emotionally invest himself in anyone or anything—he has seen how fragile the heart can be, and his had turned to stone. And honestly, he believes that he is being merciful. Because, he sees himself as a monster, as a murderer, and he does not want anyone to be corrupted by him. He believes that somehow this is his punishment, as though he had committed some great sin, and this was his payment. So, he does not try to connect with people. He can carry a conversation, and even a pleasant one at that, but he will deflect any personal questions. He is not very open, but he will constantly warn people to stay away from him, that he is no good. And sometimes he’ll come off as an asshole, but he’s willing to go that far. The ends justify the means.

Even though he is distant, he seems to be very charismatic once you actually pry words from his lips. He is the quiet type, but once gotten on a certain topic (or given copious amounts of alcohol) he will let the words flow easily. Once thrust in a social situation, he tries to blend in, tries to be normal, if only for a little while. He really is a nice guy, and he really does care—it’s just easier to pretend that he doesn’t. He will be loyal and protective to those he cares about, going so far as to risking his own life. There are only a few that could really tug at his heartstrings, and most of them are no longer in the picture.

Anger is Kiernan’s downfall. He usually has the quiet anger—the type of anger that simmers silently, the anger that he internalizes. He would rather keep calm, pretend he didn’t care, and not let people grate of his nerves. But, really, he is a ticking time bomb. And when he goes off, it is disastrous. His temper is vicious—his words turn sharp and malicious, curses and criticisms falling from his lips, and his face changes, his eyes turn dangerous. This is when he will say everything he ever wanted to, this is when he gets himself into trouble. Because he can be found defying the authority explicitly. Usually, he silently disagrees and will not begrudgingly obey. But, when angry, he reveals his true thoughts and feelings.


[History]

Father: Unknown.
Mother: “Some slave girl”
Sibling: Unknown.
Pet:none
Other:none

Detailed History: He was conceived in the womb of a whore. The end. At least, that is what he had been told. He never knew his mother, never knew what happened to her, didn’t even know her name. He couldn’t even remember her face, the color of her hair, her voice. His memories were all fuzzy, the once perfectly crisp images dulled with time. It is said that he was plucked from his mother when he was old enough to walk—ripped from her nurturing warmth and thrown into the cold, cruel world. He didn’t remember much from his childhood—he had been born with the shackles of society, and he knew his place early on. His father was unknown, perhaps because he didn’t want to be known, he didn’t want to ruin his reputation, or perhaps because he didn’t have the means to take care of a child. Kieran could only speculate.
He had been thrust into the slave system quite early—children were easy to control, to manipulate. They were easily scared by their masters, and Kieran was no exception. He was rather a troublesome child—not understanding that he had no freedom, that he had no opinions. And usually, he’d get into trouble, and then receive a harsh punishment, which in time made him practically submissive. This is also when his anger started; that quiet, seething, vengeful anger. His anger about everything, about his life, about not having a childhood. But, he usually always obeyed, even if it was accompanied with a glare or a snide comment. Because, obeying was better than torture. Than death,

When Kiernan was twelve, everything changed. He only remembers bits and pieces, and agonizing pain, the sound of flesh ripping, the feel of warm blood dripping down his leg. The snarl of a beast, it’s teeth lodged in his muscle. The darkness had been oppressive, but the moon hung low in the sky, a constant guardian. And Kiernan wanted fresh air, needed it. His master had been fast asleep and he slipped out unnoticed. He shouldn’t have. He had been warned. And he paid the price. Not with his life, but with his sanity. His master was kind enough to tend to his wounds, but wanted him sold the next day. He had deemed him cursed, deemed him to be a monster.

He had a string of masters after that, each one different. But, each one blissfully unaware of the truth. No one told them of the monster that was caged inside of him. And Kieran hated himself, hated what he had become. Because, once that damned moon lit the sky, he was turned. He couldn’t control his humanity, was lost to the beast. And, blood was on his mind, fresh meat. He would stop at nothing to be free, to roam the night and stalk his prey. And when the sun peeked over the horizon, Kiernan would awake, little recollection, but usually with the copper tang of blood on his tongue. His masters usually didn’t take well to the news, usually selling him off, because he was too dangerous, a liability.


RP Example:

From another site, hope that’s okay.

The calm, cool, collected Tanner Marsters had been replaced with a hysterical fool. A fit of laughs racked through his body, and not even he knew if it was out of amusement or bitterness. His ribs hurt, from sucking in air, along with the knee that had been rammed into it. His eye was swollen and purple, with a mixture of green; the color clashed with his skin, making him look sickly. And then he had bruised knuckles, each one groaned painfully when he flexed his hand, wiggling his fingers, delighted to not hear a crack. Everything hurt, but he was living off of pure adrenaline, his body was feeding off of it, acting like a painkiller, as though he was invincible. This was the last place he wanted to be, there would be questions and no answers, or there would be too many answers. He was battered and bruised, a little blood running down his nose, but he was satisfied and miserable.

He was in the most unnerving place he could find, knowing it was the only place for escape. There would be no one to ask questions, no need for answers, and no talking. He didn’t want to talk. He wondered vaguely what it felt like, what it felt like to see your life flash before you, flying soundly, everything in perspective. Would it be some great philosophical moment, would everything click? Or would it just be another disappointment, the last disappointment before darkness? He shook his head lightly, laying his head against the hard wood. With a hitched breath, every little inhale made his body scream loudly.

So, he had done it, or attempted it. He went home, he looked that bastard in the eye, and Tanner Marsters told his father what he thought. His father sat there with a smirk, a beer in his hands, his words slightly slurred, but he was standing fine. He was probably too tolerant, and in a perpetual state of drunkenness. Either way, it only made him angry, the little monster banging against its cage, begging to break free. He had held it at bay, until he felt the cutting words, the stale breath on his face, spittle flinging on his cheeks. With a couple of words, his resolve snapped, and he sent his father tumbling on the floor. He had every intention of bashing his face in, but his mother had started crying, and it made him clear.

He tried to be the bigger man, tried to back away but it didn’t work. It never worked. Why did he even bother? There were flashes of that moment, but it was foggy, and he really didn’t want to remember. Not now. He looked to the sky for a moment, looking at the little stars through the dirty glass, feeling the warm air caressing his skin, seeping through the cracks. He used his shirt to wipe off some of the blood, the fountain from his nose stopped briefly.

With a small smile, he felt bitter tears rolling down his cheeks, before he breathed in a sob. He was crying for a lot of things; he was crying for his mother, he was crying for the naïve people, he was crying for himself, and he was crying for the people that loved someone like him. He hadn’t cried in forever, he didn’t even know what it felt like anymore. He told himself he would never cry again, but not when he had been broken. Oh, wasn’t life just grand.

He was feeling torn at the seams. He had tried; he had even gotten good shots in. But, here he was, sitting by himself, always by himself. What had happened to his mother? Why was she on such a short leash? Oh, damn it all, he’d never know. Like before, too many questions, no answers. Or maybe he had gotten all the answers he needed.

And the funny thing was, he felt like it was only a battle, the war hadn't even started yet.