Post by operaghost on Jun 9, 2008 0:57:56 GMT -5
All About You
Name: IceDingo/Tiffany
Age: 21 (24th December 1986)
Experience Since I was 12, almost 10 years.
Your RP Chararacter
Name: Erik (by accident) and Opera Ghost (by choice)
Age: 41
Gender: Male
Height: 188cm (or 6' 2")
Appearance:
Unfortunately he has the worse appearance of all. When hidden, he is the mystery of the opera house but when not he is the misery of god. He wears only up-class clothes from black to red to the lavish stylings of some of la France's finest tailors. Black gloves, sometimes even a fedora adorn those with the infamous cape he is known for. Perhaps his most hated and loved peice of clothing lies in the mask and wig in which he has to wear. The white mask that covers half his face, can only hide as much, his side right lip is distorted and his sideright eye follows. In order to keep society with fear and mystery and not utter repulsion, a mask is his hiding.
But under the mask, in which hides all, lies skin thin and taunt over a distorted right side. Thinning hair, mousey and sick, that his dark wig hides. Disgusting veins, line his face that disgust even him. His nose is deformed but only half, the usual right side, again his mask hides it. That horrid face distortion is the only he has in physical form. He is a tall and medium built man and though his first years were of crouching and that of a lowly dog, he now bears the appearance of an artistocrat. Standing tall and head proud, nothing at all what he truely feels like. His eyes are a shade of green but the yellow in it dooms stronger than the crystal blue. It is in those eyes that his soul can truly been seen, full of emotion, but sometimes not always of good.
Personality:
As much of a madman he is, the Phantom is generous and kind; when at the Opera performances he gives two francs on a shelf, in a box, for Madame Giry - his box keeper. Sometimes five, sometimes ten and even sometimes he left a rose for her, but when people began to annoy him again, he gives her nothing at all. He was never truely taught to be man, thus his mind clocks like a childs. He plays tricks and gleefully torments the opera persons when his way is not done. A regular child, vain and self-conceited, and there is nothing he loves so much, after astonishing people, as to prove all the really miraculous ingenuity of his mind. Genius, yes indeed. He builds torture chambers to protect his home, uses superstition to protect himself. A person to truely be feared and loathed. He murders without mercy, an tortures without compassion. Both these sports he enjoys with a twisted mind. Genius, yes, but he is never to be taken as sound. He is also known to to speak of himself as Erik.
Again dispite his insane times, he can be quite the gentleman. He knows exactly how to play a noble, with an educated mind. He often condesends those who he thinks are fools, which is almost everyone. No, Erik can never really be trusted. He is spurred by emotions and has a deathly vengeful mind. Deep down all he longs for is love, love and compassion. He see's others play, dance and sing in the light of the sun but he can never do that. He longs to settle down with a wife, that he can take out and pamper, one that will love him as he loves her.
One of the Phantoms most problematic nature would be that he is quick to a powerful temper. The one thing most to bring that is to remove his mask, in which hate of a thousand souls will erupt. He has great trouble in controlling himself even more so now at the loss of his love. He terrorises more, he taunts greater and his threats of pure hatred of mankind. He lies, and very well too, if one knew him well you would know this but none do other than a persian. Though Christine showed him that ounce of compassion that night in his lair, she did not love him. She bent her head for him to kiss and she too kissed his forehead, but it was not love. She did it to save her love and to save the Opera and to save the people of mankind.
So now Erik, the souless monster from the Opera, has no heart to give. What love, he allowed to escape first, he prisons with iron bars. He would not so easily give his heart, even in truth that heart he gave was only lust for compassion. He once had a d**e holding back his ocean of emotion, but now a concrete dam holds back that small river. He no longer sings the music of the night, he barely sings the music at all. Only when he hides does that sound come back, but no longer the lyric of an angel, but a mournful cry from a creature of darkness. Darkness in which he has been condemned to live forever in.
Class: High-Class as he dresses.
Occupation: Opera House Ghost as he knows no other real work.
Pets: A black horse called Cesar, that he stole from the Opera Houses cellar stables. His persian monkey, though not living he still cares for it like a pet and his sewer rats - again not his pets but he is known to talk to them.
Family: None but Madame Giry is vaguely called a friend and the persian; daroga, in which saved his life.
History:
He was the son of a master-mason. His life begins like any other, for at least the first few minutes of birth, in a small town not far from Rouen. After that, a hell lives his life. For a present, his mother made him a mask. This was his first emotional blow. Erik ran away at an early age from his father's house. For a time, he frequented the fairs, where a showman exhibited him as the "Devil's Child." He seems to have crossed the whole of Europe, from fair to fair, and to have completed his strange education as an artist and magician at the very fountain-head of art and magic, among the Gipsies.
A period of Erik's life remained quite obscure. He was seen at the fair of Nijni-Novgorod, where he displayed himself in all his hideous glory. He already sang as nobody on this earth had ever sung before; he practised ventriloquism and gave displays of legerdemain so extraordinary that the caravans returning to Asia talked about it during the whole length of their journey. In this way, his reputation penetrated the walls of the palace at Mazenderan, where the little sultana, the favourite of the Shah-in-Shah, was boring herself to death. A dealer in furs, returning to Samarkand from Nijni-Novgorod, told of the marvels which he had seen performed in Erik's tent. The trader was summoned to the palace and the daroga of Mazenderan was told to question him.
Next the daroga was instructed to go and find Erik. He brought him to Persia, where for some months Erik's will was law. He was guilty of not a few horrors, for he seemed not to know the difference between good and evil. He took part calmly in a number of political assassinations; and he turned his diabolical inventive powers against the Emir of Afghanistan, who was at war with the Persian empire. The Shah took a liking to him. This was the time of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. Erik had very original ideas on the subject of architecture and thought out a palace much as a conjuror contrives a trick-casket. The Shah ordered him to construct an edifice of this kind. Erik did so; and the building appears to have been so ingenious that His Majesty was able to move about in it unseen and to disappear without a possibility of the trick's being discovered.
When the Shah-in-Shah found himself the possessor of this gem, he ordered Erik's yellow eyes to be put out. But he reflected that, even when blind, Erik would still be able to build so remarkable a house for another sovereign; and also that, as long as Erik was alive, some one would know the secret of the wonderful palace. Erik's death was decided upon, together with that of all the laborers who had worked under his orders. The execution of this abominable decree devolved upon the daroga of Mazenderan. Erik had shown him some slight services and procured him many a hearty laugh. He saved Erik by providing him with the means of escape, but nearly paid with his head for his generous indulgence.
Erik then went to Asia Minor and thence to Constantinople, where he entered the Sultan's employment. In explanation of the services which he was able to render a monarch haunted by perpetual terrors, I need only say that it was Erik who constructed all the famous trap-doors and secret chambers and mysterious strong-boxes. Of course, he had to leave the Sultan's service for the same reasons that made him fly from Persia: he knew too much. But before then he use to amuse the little sultana. A greedy little curious girl who in turn would demand more of the devils child, the one who allowed him to perfect his arts. Not of music, but of murder.
He spent those years learning the art to kill, one that would both satisfy her and occupy himself. He spent years, developing and designing different little contraptions. Ways to torture, ways to entertain and ways to kill. His masterful chamber, his little room of mirrors, was still not enough for the sultana. She wanted more. The boy who had since grown into the body of a man, was now compelled to try harder. To perfect that infamous punjab lasso trick, something in which he first invented himself. She would lock him in her courtyard with nothing but that little rope made of catgut. She would then send in condemed prisoners, with a long pike and broadsword. There he would entertain that little laughing Sultana by mastering the art of strangulation. Then once dead, he would drag the body to her window, where she and her women friends would applaud his triumph. She even asked him to show her his trick, in which he taught her. Only he did this by strangling her little friends, still she cheered and when learnt, joined.
It was then that he escaped. Tired of his adventurous, formidable and monstrous life, he longed to be some one "like everybody else." And he became a contractor, like any ordinary contractor, building ordinary houses with ordinary bricks. He tendered for part of the foundations in the Opera, that very opera he haunts. His estimate was accepted. When he found himself in the cellars of the enormous playhouse, his artistic, fantastic, wizard nature resumed the upper hand. He was allowed time to do this during the wars, where man-kind died above, he created his masterpiece below. He dreamed of creating, for his own use, a dwelling unknown to the rest of the earth, where he could hide from men's eyes for all time. With an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to be content with a cellar.
RP Sample
-----
The dark night fell beautifully on the opera and its crumbled remains, it was dead. Both its appearance and it's days. Few came to gauke at the burnt out shell, others came to scavange what they could. A shadow remained in box 5. Unseen by those night lurkers, for itself was a night lurker and it was much more masterful at hiding than they were. It watched on and even admired at one point the amount of sorrow he left behind after the fire. The once proud and luminous Opera house was now run down and empty. He remembered its beginning, and remembered almost exactly the cost of it too. To amuse himself he stood up and as silent as a shadow stepped into the shade of his boxes curtains. He decided to put his talents into action. A voice thundered over the ruined house, his voice, much like the roar of a lions with a tune of a angered song.
"HOW DARE YOU HUMANS! HOW DARE INDEED!
YOU STEAL FROM MY OPERA IN YOUR HOUR OF GREED!
GO WITH, YOU MUST! LEAVE, LEAVE ALL!
FOR THE OPERA GHOST STILL HAUNTS, THIS OPERA HALL!"
He laughed menacingly and watched, with pleasure, as the little people scattered, fearing the wrath of the Opera Ghost again. For that moment of pleasure did pass rather quickly, it was replaced with a sorrow that he could shake. His life had no meaning, not anymore. He sat back down, unhappy and groaning. None could hear him though, his sobs of great loss, he did it quietly to keep questions away. He often had thoughts to leap off the box, but his heart was much stronger than that, at least it was now. He vowed never again to fall prey to the sing song voice of a young girl. After many hours in his box, he decided it was time to leave. The usual time it was when the Opera finishs, it seems he could not shake that inner clock either. Just as he stood a voice rang out in the theatre, its song sad. He had never heard such sorrow, except only perhaps in him. Though how could the owner of that voice be hurt as much as he? He stopped and watched carefully, she had no idea he was there, no-one ever did. When she stopped he couldn't help but sing quietly his own lament in her exact lyrical tune.
"Lost little child, singing songs of sorrow.
Sing for me again, sing to me tomorrow.
A voice so sweet and longing for light.
Let me bring you to the music of night."
At his last sentance his voice faultered. He couldn't bring back that music, it ruined him the first time. But did it? Was it the music that burned or was it that Miss Daae whom ruined his music of night? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He was full of hate still, but also of sadness. He could not blame that innocent girl. It was he who did it, but she did not love him. How could she not? He was her teacher, her angel, the voice that she sang for, and now? Now he was just Erik. He vowed never to tell others than name. Only few knew it now. No-one can know it, for to know it, is to be able to hunt it. He shook those thoughts, both of the hunting and of the night music. He stormed out of his box and down his little trapdoor. He would return again and again and again, to watch a performance that does not exist. Not anymore. Not after his chandelier. His. This whole Opera, it was his and more so now. He owned it all, it was his playground, but he no longer got money. He saved quite a bit but not even he could live on sixty thousand francs for the rest of his life. Was he to get a job?
-----
Password one: -admin edited-
Password two: -admin edited-
Name: IceDingo/Tiffany
Age: 21 (24th December 1986)
Experience Since I was 12, almost 10 years.
Your RP Chararacter
Name: Erik (by accident) and Opera Ghost (by choice)
Age: 41
Gender: Male
Height: 188cm (or 6' 2")
Appearance:
Unfortunately he has the worse appearance of all. When hidden, he is the mystery of the opera house but when not he is the misery of god. He wears only up-class clothes from black to red to the lavish stylings of some of la France's finest tailors. Black gloves, sometimes even a fedora adorn those with the infamous cape he is known for. Perhaps his most hated and loved peice of clothing lies in the mask and wig in which he has to wear. The white mask that covers half his face, can only hide as much, his side right lip is distorted and his sideright eye follows. In order to keep society with fear and mystery and not utter repulsion, a mask is his hiding.
But under the mask, in which hides all, lies skin thin and taunt over a distorted right side. Thinning hair, mousey and sick, that his dark wig hides. Disgusting veins, line his face that disgust even him. His nose is deformed but only half, the usual right side, again his mask hides it. That horrid face distortion is the only he has in physical form. He is a tall and medium built man and though his first years were of crouching and that of a lowly dog, he now bears the appearance of an artistocrat. Standing tall and head proud, nothing at all what he truely feels like. His eyes are a shade of green but the yellow in it dooms stronger than the crystal blue. It is in those eyes that his soul can truly been seen, full of emotion, but sometimes not always of good.
Personality:
As much of a madman he is, the Phantom is generous and kind; when at the Opera performances he gives two francs on a shelf, in a box, for Madame Giry - his box keeper. Sometimes five, sometimes ten and even sometimes he left a rose for her, but when people began to annoy him again, he gives her nothing at all. He was never truely taught to be man, thus his mind clocks like a childs. He plays tricks and gleefully torments the opera persons when his way is not done. A regular child, vain and self-conceited, and there is nothing he loves so much, after astonishing people, as to prove all the really miraculous ingenuity of his mind. Genius, yes indeed. He builds torture chambers to protect his home, uses superstition to protect himself. A person to truely be feared and loathed. He murders without mercy, an tortures without compassion. Both these sports he enjoys with a twisted mind. Genius, yes, but he is never to be taken as sound. He is also known to to speak of himself as Erik.
Again dispite his insane times, he can be quite the gentleman. He knows exactly how to play a noble, with an educated mind. He often condesends those who he thinks are fools, which is almost everyone. No, Erik can never really be trusted. He is spurred by emotions and has a deathly vengeful mind. Deep down all he longs for is love, love and compassion. He see's others play, dance and sing in the light of the sun but he can never do that. He longs to settle down with a wife, that he can take out and pamper, one that will love him as he loves her.
One of the Phantoms most problematic nature would be that he is quick to a powerful temper. The one thing most to bring that is to remove his mask, in which hate of a thousand souls will erupt. He has great trouble in controlling himself even more so now at the loss of his love. He terrorises more, he taunts greater and his threats of pure hatred of mankind. He lies, and very well too, if one knew him well you would know this but none do other than a persian. Though Christine showed him that ounce of compassion that night in his lair, she did not love him. She bent her head for him to kiss and she too kissed his forehead, but it was not love. She did it to save her love and to save the Opera and to save the people of mankind.
So now Erik, the souless monster from the Opera, has no heart to give. What love, he allowed to escape first, he prisons with iron bars. He would not so easily give his heart, even in truth that heart he gave was only lust for compassion. He once had a d**e holding back his ocean of emotion, but now a concrete dam holds back that small river. He no longer sings the music of the night, he barely sings the music at all. Only when he hides does that sound come back, but no longer the lyric of an angel, but a mournful cry from a creature of darkness. Darkness in which he has been condemned to live forever in.
Class: High-Class as he dresses.
Occupation: Opera House Ghost as he knows no other real work.
Pets: A black horse called Cesar, that he stole from the Opera Houses cellar stables. His persian monkey, though not living he still cares for it like a pet and his sewer rats - again not his pets but he is known to talk to them.
Family: None but Madame Giry is vaguely called a friend and the persian; daroga, in which saved his life.
History:
He was the son of a master-mason. His life begins like any other, for at least the first few minutes of birth, in a small town not far from Rouen. After that, a hell lives his life. For a present, his mother made him a mask. This was his first emotional blow. Erik ran away at an early age from his father's house. For a time, he frequented the fairs, where a showman exhibited him as the "Devil's Child." He seems to have crossed the whole of Europe, from fair to fair, and to have completed his strange education as an artist and magician at the very fountain-head of art and magic, among the Gipsies.
A period of Erik's life remained quite obscure. He was seen at the fair of Nijni-Novgorod, where he displayed himself in all his hideous glory. He already sang as nobody on this earth had ever sung before; he practised ventriloquism and gave displays of legerdemain so extraordinary that the caravans returning to Asia talked about it during the whole length of their journey. In this way, his reputation penetrated the walls of the palace at Mazenderan, where the little sultana, the favourite of the Shah-in-Shah, was boring herself to death. A dealer in furs, returning to Samarkand from Nijni-Novgorod, told of the marvels which he had seen performed in Erik's tent. The trader was summoned to the palace and the daroga of Mazenderan was told to question him.
Next the daroga was instructed to go and find Erik. He brought him to Persia, where for some months Erik's will was law. He was guilty of not a few horrors, for he seemed not to know the difference between good and evil. He took part calmly in a number of political assassinations; and he turned his diabolical inventive powers against the Emir of Afghanistan, who was at war with the Persian empire. The Shah took a liking to him. This was the time of the rosy hours of Mazenderan. Erik had very original ideas on the subject of architecture and thought out a palace much as a conjuror contrives a trick-casket. The Shah ordered him to construct an edifice of this kind. Erik did so; and the building appears to have been so ingenious that His Majesty was able to move about in it unseen and to disappear without a possibility of the trick's being discovered.
When the Shah-in-Shah found himself the possessor of this gem, he ordered Erik's yellow eyes to be put out. But he reflected that, even when blind, Erik would still be able to build so remarkable a house for another sovereign; and also that, as long as Erik was alive, some one would know the secret of the wonderful palace. Erik's death was decided upon, together with that of all the laborers who had worked under his orders. The execution of this abominable decree devolved upon the daroga of Mazenderan. Erik had shown him some slight services and procured him many a hearty laugh. He saved Erik by providing him with the means of escape, but nearly paid with his head for his generous indulgence.
Erik then went to Asia Minor and thence to Constantinople, where he entered the Sultan's employment. In explanation of the services which he was able to render a monarch haunted by perpetual terrors, I need only say that it was Erik who constructed all the famous trap-doors and secret chambers and mysterious strong-boxes. Of course, he had to leave the Sultan's service for the same reasons that made him fly from Persia: he knew too much. But before then he use to amuse the little sultana. A greedy little curious girl who in turn would demand more of the devils child, the one who allowed him to perfect his arts. Not of music, but of murder.
He spent those years learning the art to kill, one that would both satisfy her and occupy himself. He spent years, developing and designing different little contraptions. Ways to torture, ways to entertain and ways to kill. His masterful chamber, his little room of mirrors, was still not enough for the sultana. She wanted more. The boy who had since grown into the body of a man, was now compelled to try harder. To perfect that infamous punjab lasso trick, something in which he first invented himself. She would lock him in her courtyard with nothing but that little rope made of catgut. She would then send in condemed prisoners, with a long pike and broadsword. There he would entertain that little laughing Sultana by mastering the art of strangulation. Then once dead, he would drag the body to her window, where she and her women friends would applaud his triumph. She even asked him to show her his trick, in which he taught her. Only he did this by strangling her little friends, still she cheered and when learnt, joined.
It was then that he escaped. Tired of his adventurous, formidable and monstrous life, he longed to be some one "like everybody else." And he became a contractor, like any ordinary contractor, building ordinary houses with ordinary bricks. He tendered for part of the foundations in the Opera, that very opera he haunts. His estimate was accepted. When he found himself in the cellars of the enormous playhouse, his artistic, fantastic, wizard nature resumed the upper hand. He was allowed time to do this during the wars, where man-kind died above, he created his masterpiece below. He dreamed of creating, for his own use, a dwelling unknown to the rest of the earth, where he could hide from men's eyes for all time. With an ordinary face, he would have been one of the most distinguished of mankind! He had a heart that could have held the empire of the world; and, in the end, he had to be content with a cellar.
RP Sample
-----
The dark night fell beautifully on the opera and its crumbled remains, it was dead. Both its appearance and it's days. Few came to gauke at the burnt out shell, others came to scavange what they could. A shadow remained in box 5. Unseen by those night lurkers, for itself was a night lurker and it was much more masterful at hiding than they were. It watched on and even admired at one point the amount of sorrow he left behind after the fire. The once proud and luminous Opera house was now run down and empty. He remembered its beginning, and remembered almost exactly the cost of it too. To amuse himself he stood up and as silent as a shadow stepped into the shade of his boxes curtains. He decided to put his talents into action. A voice thundered over the ruined house, his voice, much like the roar of a lions with a tune of a angered song.
"HOW DARE YOU HUMANS! HOW DARE INDEED!
YOU STEAL FROM MY OPERA IN YOUR HOUR OF GREED!
GO WITH, YOU MUST! LEAVE, LEAVE ALL!
FOR THE OPERA GHOST STILL HAUNTS, THIS OPERA HALL!"
He laughed menacingly and watched, with pleasure, as the little people scattered, fearing the wrath of the Opera Ghost again. For that moment of pleasure did pass rather quickly, it was replaced with a sorrow that he could shake. His life had no meaning, not anymore. He sat back down, unhappy and groaning. None could hear him though, his sobs of great loss, he did it quietly to keep questions away. He often had thoughts to leap off the box, but his heart was much stronger than that, at least it was now. He vowed never again to fall prey to the sing song voice of a young girl. After many hours in his box, he decided it was time to leave. The usual time it was when the Opera finishs, it seems he could not shake that inner clock either. Just as he stood a voice rang out in the theatre, its song sad. He had never heard such sorrow, except only perhaps in him. Though how could the owner of that voice be hurt as much as he? He stopped and watched carefully, she had no idea he was there, no-one ever did. When she stopped he couldn't help but sing quietly his own lament in her exact lyrical tune.
"Lost little child, singing songs of sorrow.
Sing for me again, sing to me tomorrow.
A voice so sweet and longing for light.
Let me bring you to the music of night."
At his last sentance his voice faultered. He couldn't bring back that music, it ruined him the first time. But did it? Was it the music that burned or was it that Miss Daae whom ruined his music of night? He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He was full of hate still, but also of sadness. He could not blame that innocent girl. It was he who did it, but she did not love him. How could she not? He was her teacher, her angel, the voice that she sang for, and now? Now he was just Erik. He vowed never to tell others than name. Only few knew it now. No-one can know it, for to know it, is to be able to hunt it. He shook those thoughts, both of the hunting and of the night music. He stormed out of his box and down his little trapdoor. He would return again and again and again, to watch a performance that does not exist. Not anymore. Not after his chandelier. His. This whole Opera, it was his and more so now. He owned it all, it was his playground, but he no longer got money. He saved quite a bit but not even he could live on sixty thousand francs for the rest of his life. Was he to get a job?
-----
Password one: -admin edited-
Password two: -admin edited-