Post by Cecil Sharp on Aug 17, 2017 19:12:31 GMT -5
 Cecil Sharp You have no control who lives, who dies, who tells your story general info
personality
appearance Cecil is handsome- no, like, handsome, in the way that it's almost a bad thing. Handsome to the point where he's more than aware of it and it's inflated his ego to monstrous proportions and made him more than a little cocky. He stands at a intimidating 6'2 and a broad, muscular 220lbs. This gives him a height, and strength, advantage over many people he's met over his life, and he's not afraid to use that superior size to muscle his way through disagreements. His skin is far from porcelain smooth, tanned his entire life, from the time he worked on his family's ranch to his time in the military, and carrying dozens of marring marks and scars from both endeavors- a several small half moon scars along his jaw from a fiasco with a nasty tempered feral tomcat, a thick welt across his left ribs from a quick kick from an angry mare while meeting one of the Ashwatch convoys, lots of various small white and pink nicks and scratches from so many small injuries and altercations that he can absolutely sit down and tell you the story of most, most notably, a thick, pink circular scar on his shoulder from a crossbow bolt, and a six inch gash across his chest. His hair is medium length, with thick, tight waves, and a rich blue-black color. He keeps his facial hair short, but prominent, with deep, sapphire eyes that constantly swim with emotion- they say your eyes are the windows to your soul and that is terribly true for Cecil. He finds it hard to hide any of his emotions, permanently on display in those big blue eyes. This is likely a good thing though, since without his eyes, bright and dancing with humor or elation, you'd probably think he was permanently pissed, as he seems to have a case of "resting bitch face", always seeming to scowl when he's focusing on anything other than a conversation. It is rare to find him without his intricately hand-carved crossbow strapped to his back. biography Cecil heard the story of his parents love and his subsequent birth, of course, as all children do. Amelia and Lucas Sharp met much the way Maw soldiers do, as well, making it all very typical. Amelia seemed to love Lucas, however he was somewhat of a stoic, distant man, with a bit of a drinking issue, she obviously overlooked it all in order to wed and bed the handsome soldier. Barely a year after their marriage, Amelia gave birth to a happy, bouncing baby boy, and all seemed swell. That's the story Cecil knows, that's the story Lucas knew before his death, and it's the lie Amelia took to the grave. Truthfully, while out scavenging down by the seaside caves of Casco Bay, Amelia met a handsome man. He moved with odd, fluid grace, all hard angles and taut muscles, and he seemed genuinely afraid of her, staring back with wide, yellow eyes. He pleaded for his life, even as he began to scramble back from her. She was bewildered and confused, only then realizing that, instinctual, her hand had flown to her sword resting in it's sheath. This was a Lamia, obviously! The eyes were a give away, and yet, he wasn't attacking her- hell, aside from his eyes, he looked totally human- tall, muscular, thick dark hair hanging down into his panicked eyes. This couldn't be right, and yet, it was. Oh it was. For weeks, she'd slip out almost daily on the promise of scavenging trips, and in secret, meet with this man, this Naga, as he quickly had explained he was. Though he never trusted her enough to bring him to the rest of the Naga in their secret camps, she fell madly in love with him, understanding the lack of trust for her first instinct had been to kill him, even as he'd try to flee. Oh but she loved him, and Cecil was born of that coupling, not of her husband. Despite this, Cecil was born a completely normal baby, and Amelia breathed a sigh of relief. She had vowed, after his birth, to never see her illicit lover ever again, and to forever keep it a secret, for her own safety, as well as her child's. When Cecil was five, his father gave him a small, child-sized longbow and some blunt-tip arrows. For days, he roamed around the camp, shooting at everyone and everything that did, or even didn't, move, only stopping when his mother would drag him inside for reading and writing lessons. He didn't hate the lessons, but he found his father's more appealing, as his father would practice archery with him, and teach him to whittle sticks into little, if goofy looking, animals. He loved spending time with his father, and idolized the man greatly as a "true man", teaching him to fight, craft, and even on a few occasions, surrounded by a dozen other soldiers and not ten paces from the Maw's entrance, taught him to forage in the woods. He found a rusty old hunting knife out there once, it's handle rotten and it's blade red and chipped, but he was so extraordinarily proud of himself, that as soon as they returned to the bunkers, he stashed it under his bed and decided it was his. This intense love for his father would get him in trouble, however. One winter day, when he was only six, and out running around the compound, shooting at makeshift targets with his child's bow kit, when some of the other children around his age approached him, and started up conversation. It was pleasant enough to begin, but for whatever childish reason, blossomed into an argument as one of the boys, a stubby child with a mop of sandy blond hair named Jackson, who went by Jag, started to insult Lucas. Cecil defiantly stood up for his father, but as mean as children can be, Jag continued- and if you ask Cecil today, he couldn't tell you a lick of what was said. Regardless, at the time, it filled him with impotent rage, and drawing his bow back, began to fire the blunt arrows at the children crowding him. They screamed and whacked at the arrows though a few made contact with dull thuds, that must have stung, but only fueled the fires farther. The group closed in on him, and a fight broke out. For a while, Cecil used the bow as a makeshift sword, swinging it at his attacks, until finally he pounced on them and fists began to fly. Pudgy little child firsts, of course, but fists nonetheless. Those same instigators began to scream, however, as one by one the surprisingly fast and strong little Cecil began to take them out, until it ended with him tussling in the dirt with just Jag, only halted when someone approached. "What is the meaning of this!" A deep voice boomed and they all froze, staring up into the twisted, furious face the General Gallant- though he was far from it, was a short, fat man full of spite who somehow had intense command over The Maw despite looking like an angry alcoholic father with a penchant for beating his children. Immediately the children around Cecil began to blame him for the whole ordeal. Terror gripping him at the sight of the red-faced General, he snatched his bow, useless arrows, and bolted for the woods. Cecil doesn't know how far he got, but he ran as long as his short, stubby legs would carry him, flying and hurdling over fallen trees and rocks until he finally tripped, and collapsed in the soil. He lay there for awhile, panting, and chuckling to himself at his bright idea to flee the General's wrath and hide in the forest. He holed up in a rotten, hollowed out tree, catching his breath and resting, even beginning to nod off when he heard a twig snap. He was instantly alert, standing up and drawing his bow, though it was little more than a toy. Pressing his back into the spongy wood, suddenly a pit formed in his stomach. How many times had he been warned to never wander into the forest? Crazed, mindless beasts lived in the forest! And they would certainly kill him, or worse! Oh what a fool he had been! A sharp inhale had him whirling around and pointing his makeshift weapon at... a man? It was a tall, broad man, with dark hair and... yellow eyes? Cecil's own bright blue eyes widened as he backed away at this realization. Perhaps it wasn't the odd eye color that threw him off, some humans had weird eyes and hair, he had noted, and he knew it was from ancient serums found in the old city, but... this man hummed with power, unnatural or... too natural power. "Cecil..." it breathed, almost in as much shock as Cecil felt, but now Cecil's head was spinning and the world was darkening. How did it know his name? What was it? Would it kill him? Would it- When he woke up in his own bed, he thought it had been a dream, until he noticed his mother and father gathered close, concern etched on their faces. Instead, the small child found out that a scouting party sent to find him had found him only twenty paces from camp, hidden behind the tree line, resting gently on a bed of leaves, cold, but unharmed. He tried to mention the man, and that he had easily run two miles from camp, not twenty paces! But no one was having any of it, and his mother in particular hushed him the hardest, tears stinging her eyes. He never understood why that was, but quickly, he decided to keep it to himself- instead, it would become a recurring dream that had continued far into his adulthood. His bow was taken, he was forced to apologize to the other children, and he was also forced to clean The Maw from top to bottom, including the kennels. For the next several years, he focused on the reading and writing that his mother instilled into him, not receiving another weapon- a crossbow this time that he spent countless hours polishing and carefully carving into intricate designs, until general training started for all young children. At this time he became a charismatic and friendly kid, spending less time running around alone shooting things and more time with those his own age, particularly Jag, who he became dear friends with. Jag, and as he reached his early teen years, Mariska. Mariska, preferably Riska (she thought it sounded cooler for a future soldier, much like Jackson going by Jag) was a pretty little red head with frightening sword skills. He appreciated her intense beauty from more of a distance for the first few years as they trained together instead of intimately, though he doesn't doubt he could have won her over sooner. He, Jag, and Riska were close, and were made soldiers all around the same time, shortly after Cecil's 18th birthday. Around this same time, both of his parents passed while out in the city on a scavenging party, torn to pieces, but gratefully not turned, by Lamia. He was crushed by their loss, and fell into the comforting arms of his friend, Riska, and into the comforting warmth of her bed. They became an exclusive pair, and by the time Cecil turned 19, he had married her. He was uncertain as to what love was supposed to feel like, Mariska was certainly beautiful and he enjoyed her company, a great friend, but what was love? He figured this had to be it, she certainly was all he could want in a woman, right? Attractive, not so funny, usually dead serious, but she was kind, she was smart... Regardless, they soon had a child, a little boy named Lucas, after his late father. He loved his son, dearly, so intensely dearly he thought he would burst every time he looked at the squirming little child. Despite their beautiful baby, however, Riska began to grow more distant from him, ever so slowly, but he paid her no mind. Whatever was bothering her, she would get over it eventually, right? She began to spend less and less time with Cecil, and by the time Lucas was three, she was rarely around either of them. When Lucas developed a deep, rattling cough, Riska finally returned, concerned. When they summoned Ashwatch's witchdoctor for aid, and he could do nothing, she began to once again visit left often. And when Lucas died, she was gone, again. He had lost his child, and his wife. His child, to illness, his wife, he was unsure, but she seemed so cold, so callous now. He spent many days sitting by his son's grave, grieving- and whether it was her guilt, or that she found him pathetic for mourning, she delivered two blows at the same time- she was leaving him, and Lucas wasn't his. Both confused him, and both filled him with the same impotent rage he hadn't felt since he was a child. He stopped visiting the grave of "his" child very shortly after, as visiting the cold stone only reminded him of so much pain. He had always been a good soldier, however, and throwing himself even deeper into those duties, and his writing, after the death and divorce had him quickly promoted to lieutenant, a rank he holds to this day with pride. Despite the pride of the rank, he's been a tomcat on the prowl, sleeping with any half-decent woman who looks his way, though he's more than capable of bringing in most females in the compound- he's even bedded a few Ashwatch ladies delivering supplies. If rank doesn't win them over just because most women, he's found, like a man in power, his never ending charm seems to do the trick. It's not 100%, and he knows how to take a "no", but he rarely has to. | ooc info  ☆ NAME Glitch ☆ OTHER CHARACTERS N/A ☆ FACE CLAIM Faceclaim Goncalo Teixeira, Cecil Sharp THIS CHARACTER BELONGS TO Glitch. DO NOT STEAL. |
MADE BY ★MEULK OF GS & THQ
