Post by Dorian McCoy on Jun 7, 2006 23:37:01 GMT -5
More than accepted! Glad to have you aboard! Bienvenue a l'opera populaire Monsieur!
~Admin
[Name:] Dorian McCoy
[Age:] 25
[Occupation:] Stage hand, Dorian mostly paints the backdrops and helps with the craftsman part of the whole stage crew job.
[Special Talents/Extra Info:] Dorian is a master when it comes to the paint brush. He has an eye for color and a nack for perfection when it comes to his creations. He sees the beauty in nature and takes it and puts it into all of his work for the stage. Dorian loves to paint pictures of all of the pretty women around the Opera House and tries to sale them their portrait.
Also, Dorian's not sure to call this a special talent, but he can talk any woman into buying her painting with a couple of words. He has a way with words when it comes to getting people to buy his work.
[Personality:] Dorian find himself to be very lucky to be offered a job at the most luxurious place in town. He keeps quiet about his thoughts and feelings for why would anyone want the ideas of a painter for anyway? Dorian is extremely obedient when it comes to his job. He is far to scared that he will lose it if he doesn't do what the boss asks of him.
Dorian can be flirtatious some time, but he knows his place when it comes to the level of elegance (so he doesn't flirt a lot with the wealthy, unless he is trying to sale them something) . Sure, he can put on a nice black suit and strut around like the best of them, but he prefers to wear his slightly worn out shirt and trousers and be himself than act a part.
If you asked anyone that was close to him, they would consider him a pretty laid back kind of guy who likes a drink of ale at night and a sweet tasting cigerate in the morning to help clear his thoughts. He lives for beauty in life and seeks it every day through his paintings. He loves to travel and has done some traveling in his time, making him a true lover of what is considered art. They would also tell you how much of hard worker he is and how fun he can be around when he has a couple of beers in him.
[History:] Dorian McCoy was born a rather small Irishman. His mother and father were both hard workers who had the pleasure of raising three other children other than their beloved Dorian. Dorian was the second child and the second son. The other two were little red headed, blue eyed girls who died at a very young age after catching the fever. Dorian was 10 when this happened and not only did it take his two sisters, but it took his mother as well. They lived on the out skirts of Ireland when the fever roamed over the wide lands of the sheep herders. His father was a well known sheep herder and when his wife and two daughters died by the cursed fever, he packed up his sons and headed towards France. They would have sailed over towards the Americas, but he didn't have enough money nor the will to leave too far from home.
Dorian took the losses the hardest. He went into a deep depression and didn't talk for several years. His brother, who was a year older than him, took him under his wing and they both got jobs at a young age as chimney sweeps. In the absences of his speech, Dorian began to draw. He started to gather soot from the chimneys and take them back to his house where he would draw on pieces of paper. He normally drew pictures of his mother and the old lands where they lived. His father, a carpenter now, saw this and only frowned upon it. He wanted his son to start talking again and sometimes would beat Dorian until a small grunt escaped his lips before he would stop.
When Dorian turned 12, his brother fell from a roof and suffered a couple of broken bones only to die a couple of months afterwards. Dorian didn't really know what to do with himself after his brother died and slipped into a deeper depression. After talking to a priest his father decided that they two would get away from Paris and travel around the country for a while until Dorian came back to him.
It took five years, when Dorian was 17 until he started to speak again. Once he started to speak, it was like he was making up for the years that he didn't speak and his father could never get him to shut up. Returning back to Paris, his father and him opened a carpenter shoppe where they worked on several things for the artians. On Dorian's spare time, he would draw the landscapes that he had seen on his adventures and the stage manager of the theatre saw his talent and offered him a job at the theartre at the age of 24.
Now Dorian finds himself along side the workers of the threatre, loving it more than ever, but is causious of the ghost, knowing that in his heart that the creature still lives.
[Word Verification]: Editted Out by Admin. No cheating for you!
[Writing sample:] The fine brush stroked along the contours of the pencil that he had traced along the fine fabric of the back drop. Dorian was in deep concentration of his work, his tongue slightly sticking out from the side of his mouth as he tried not to slip outside the black line that would soon enough make out a very long tree branch.
The white color mixed in with the brown ever so nicely as he lifted the brush off of the material and snickered down at it, "Thought you had me...." He said out loud as he stood up and wiped his dirty hands on his already stained trousers. The sound of foot steps echoing towards him made him turn around in curiosity of who would be addressing him at this time of hour.
"May I help you?" He asked, his think Irish accent slipping from behind his tongue. The man was dressed in a nice tailored black suit and his hair was slicked back with pomade. The man cleared his throat and gave Dorian a rather upsetting look.
"Young man, there has been a terrible accident here at the Opera. Your friend....Mattire has been found strangled in the john not too long ago."
Dorian blinked, "Excuse me?" He said with a slight chuckle in his voice, "The john? The bathroom?" He asked him again with more of a laughter now. This had to be a joke, "You're joshin' me right?" he asked the man who was not laughing with him, nor smiling.
"No Mister McCoy, I am not." He said, his tone of voice dead serious. Dorian let out a soft gasp, feeling extremely terrible for laughing at the sitution. He crossed his arms uncomfortably in front of his chest and cleared his throat.
"Really? Strangled...." he said with a contemplating look on his face as a piece of red hair fell in front of his green eyes. The man glared at him.
"Yes, do you have any clue to give us of who could have done this?" The man asked. It dawned on Dorian that this fellow as a police man. He looked the part.
"The ghost..." he said with shrug of his shoulders, "The bloke never believed...." He said with a click of his tongue. "Its a sorrowed world we live in Mister." He said as he moved the end of the paint brush up to his lips and chewed on it softly as the police man continued to stand there.
"Son, this is no laughing matter. Someone killed your friend..."
"Well he isn't my friend if someone is going around tryin' to kill him, now is he?" He snapped before the officer could finish his sentence. " 'Tis a sad thing that happened Mister, but I have already had enough deaths in my life and another one of some poor ol' fool isn't going to put me back where I came from." He said with a bit of an attitude behind his words. "Now if you got any more qurestion (misspelled on purpose) for me, I suggest you wait on another time, I have work to finish." He said and turned around. Sure Dorian felt bad for his friend dying, but he couldn't stand around all day answering questions and losing time. He had to get this back drop finished tonight and he wasn't going to lose his job over it.
~Admin
[Name:] Dorian McCoy
[Age:] 25
[Occupation:] Stage hand, Dorian mostly paints the backdrops and helps with the craftsman part of the whole stage crew job.
[Special Talents/Extra Info:] Dorian is a master when it comes to the paint brush. He has an eye for color and a nack for perfection when it comes to his creations. He sees the beauty in nature and takes it and puts it into all of his work for the stage. Dorian loves to paint pictures of all of the pretty women around the Opera House and tries to sale them their portrait.
Also, Dorian's not sure to call this a special talent, but he can talk any woman into buying her painting with a couple of words. He has a way with words when it comes to getting people to buy his work.
[Personality:] Dorian find himself to be very lucky to be offered a job at the most luxurious place in town. He keeps quiet about his thoughts and feelings for why would anyone want the ideas of a painter for anyway? Dorian is extremely obedient when it comes to his job. He is far to scared that he will lose it if he doesn't do what the boss asks of him.
Dorian can be flirtatious some time, but he knows his place when it comes to the level of elegance (so he doesn't flirt a lot with the wealthy, unless he is trying to sale them something) . Sure, he can put on a nice black suit and strut around like the best of them, but he prefers to wear his slightly worn out shirt and trousers and be himself than act a part.
If you asked anyone that was close to him, they would consider him a pretty laid back kind of guy who likes a drink of ale at night and a sweet tasting cigerate in the morning to help clear his thoughts. He lives for beauty in life and seeks it every day through his paintings. He loves to travel and has done some traveling in his time, making him a true lover of what is considered art. They would also tell you how much of hard worker he is and how fun he can be around when he has a couple of beers in him.
[History:] Dorian McCoy was born a rather small Irishman. His mother and father were both hard workers who had the pleasure of raising three other children other than their beloved Dorian. Dorian was the second child and the second son. The other two were little red headed, blue eyed girls who died at a very young age after catching the fever. Dorian was 10 when this happened and not only did it take his two sisters, but it took his mother as well. They lived on the out skirts of Ireland when the fever roamed over the wide lands of the sheep herders. His father was a well known sheep herder and when his wife and two daughters died by the cursed fever, he packed up his sons and headed towards France. They would have sailed over towards the Americas, but he didn't have enough money nor the will to leave too far from home.
Dorian took the losses the hardest. He went into a deep depression and didn't talk for several years. His brother, who was a year older than him, took him under his wing and they both got jobs at a young age as chimney sweeps. In the absences of his speech, Dorian began to draw. He started to gather soot from the chimneys and take them back to his house where he would draw on pieces of paper. He normally drew pictures of his mother and the old lands where they lived. His father, a carpenter now, saw this and only frowned upon it. He wanted his son to start talking again and sometimes would beat Dorian until a small grunt escaped his lips before he would stop.
When Dorian turned 12, his brother fell from a roof and suffered a couple of broken bones only to die a couple of months afterwards. Dorian didn't really know what to do with himself after his brother died and slipped into a deeper depression. After talking to a priest his father decided that they two would get away from Paris and travel around the country for a while until Dorian came back to him.
It took five years, when Dorian was 17 until he started to speak again. Once he started to speak, it was like he was making up for the years that he didn't speak and his father could never get him to shut up. Returning back to Paris, his father and him opened a carpenter shoppe where they worked on several things for the artians. On Dorian's spare time, he would draw the landscapes that he had seen on his adventures and the stage manager of the theatre saw his talent and offered him a job at the theartre at the age of 24.
Now Dorian finds himself along side the workers of the threatre, loving it more than ever, but is causious of the ghost, knowing that in his heart that the creature still lives.
[Word Verification]: Editted Out by Admin. No cheating for you!
[Writing sample:] The fine brush stroked along the contours of the pencil that he had traced along the fine fabric of the back drop. Dorian was in deep concentration of his work, his tongue slightly sticking out from the side of his mouth as he tried not to slip outside the black line that would soon enough make out a very long tree branch.
The white color mixed in with the brown ever so nicely as he lifted the brush off of the material and snickered down at it, "Thought you had me...." He said out loud as he stood up and wiped his dirty hands on his already stained trousers. The sound of foot steps echoing towards him made him turn around in curiosity of who would be addressing him at this time of hour.
"May I help you?" He asked, his think Irish accent slipping from behind his tongue. The man was dressed in a nice tailored black suit and his hair was slicked back with pomade. The man cleared his throat and gave Dorian a rather upsetting look.
"Young man, there has been a terrible accident here at the Opera. Your friend....Mattire has been found strangled in the john not too long ago."
Dorian blinked, "Excuse me?" He said with a slight chuckle in his voice, "The john? The bathroom?" He asked him again with more of a laughter now. This had to be a joke, "You're joshin' me right?" he asked the man who was not laughing with him, nor smiling.
"No Mister McCoy, I am not." He said, his tone of voice dead serious. Dorian let out a soft gasp, feeling extremely terrible for laughing at the sitution. He crossed his arms uncomfortably in front of his chest and cleared his throat.
"Really? Strangled...." he said with a contemplating look on his face as a piece of red hair fell in front of his green eyes. The man glared at him.
"Yes, do you have any clue to give us of who could have done this?" The man asked. It dawned on Dorian that this fellow as a police man. He looked the part.
"The ghost..." he said with shrug of his shoulders, "The bloke never believed...." He said with a click of his tongue. "Its a sorrowed world we live in Mister." He said as he moved the end of the paint brush up to his lips and chewed on it softly as the police man continued to stand there.
"Son, this is no laughing matter. Someone killed your friend..."
"Well he isn't my friend if someone is going around tryin' to kill him, now is he?" He snapped before the officer could finish his sentence. " 'Tis a sad thing that happened Mister, but I have already had enough deaths in my life and another one of some poor ol' fool isn't going to put me back where I came from." He said with a bit of an attitude behind his words. "Now if you got any more qurestion (misspelled on purpose) for me, I suggest you wait on another time, I have work to finish." He said and turned around. Sure Dorian felt bad for his friend dying, but he couldn't stand around all day answering questions and losing time. He had to get this back drop finished tonight and he wasn't going to lose his job over it.