Klein Adoptables
03-30-2019, 11:53 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-03-2019, 09:54 PM by Marvel.)
OOC Name: Denny Character Name: Roman Umbra Klein (Salvatore) Gender: Male Design:  Appearance: Lean of body, wiry musculature ripples beneath his two toned pelt. The man is well built, but rather lanky. Everything about him favours litheness over burgeoning strength. Narrow shoulders, frail looking ribs, and slim hips. A deep baritone booms from the confines of a deep chest, through slender jaws. The lines of his body are sharp and defined, carved from marble. Despite the fragility of his appearance, he is no mewling imp or minuscule mongrel. Taller than many of his relatives, Roman stands at 38" and wears it well. Pointed auds rise above his crown, and a sharp jawline frames the sculpted angles of his face. The slope of his cheekbones and the curved ridge of his brow epitomise his elegant aesthetic. Monochromatic hues claim the entirety of the glorious male, dominated by a base coat of pristine alabaster. The slender columns of his forelegs are wreathed in unmarred ebony, up to the elbows. A thick collar of the same hue extends down his chest to stain his underbelly all the way to his inner thighs. An out of place patch of ebony lays across his spine, from his shoulder blades to the middle of his back. In true Klein fashion, his dignified facade is claimed by a half mask of onyx, claiming his right ear all the way down to his lower jaw. But oh, those glorious gems embedded in his sockets- heterochromia staining the right an icy blue while a false mockery of albinism turned the other ruddy orchid. COLD: A prism of ice, glinting and reflective, took the stead of his heart long ago. The thrumming beat almost inaudible within the crystalline facsimile. Removed from the world around him, always observing, never partaking. The stony facade of stoicism masks his chiselled features. He is but a long dead god-king wandering the realm of mortals. If any ghost of emotion were to surface within the confines of his ribcage, it would only be showered upon his own kin. REGAL: Dignity and elegance radiate from his splendorous bodice as he prowls the world. Each move is calculated and perfectly placed. The curve of his lips into a smile, the arrangement of his silken tresses, they are all a manifestation of p e r f e c t i o n. Borne upon the graceful curve of an upheld crown and a smooth gait, the man is every ideal of a king. FLIRTATIOUS: Ah, his fatal flaw. He does to adore a beautiful face. He cares little for status or grandeur, so long as they are pleasing on the eyes. Charm falls easily from the tongue, sweet nothings crooned readily into a willing ear. A veritable wordsmith with an endless array of pleasantries with which to shower a willing victim. MANIPULATIVE: Lesser creatures are merely pawns with which he can toy. Puppets on strings and pieces on a board, to be shuffled and danced as he chooses. One carefully placed touch, or a softly spoken word, and they would do his bidding. None are truly safe from his machinations, not even those closest to him. To that end, he is a selfish monster, eager to ensure his own success. RESENTFUL: He is no more than a bastard, a half breed. The true Klein’s have no interest in him or his siblings, and for that he would gladly burn the kingdom to the ground. However, he has a role to fill. The eager to please, endlessly devoted son of a glorious king. False niceties tumble readily from his maw when he is with the full-blooded children, submission paid to them where required. Their cruelties are tallied up, sins to weigh alongside their hearts. When the time is right, he will i m m o l a t e those mongrels. INSIGHTFUL Those two-toned gems see everything. Tiny details, catalogued and tucked away for future use. A conniving mind makes use of whatever it may grasp. Simple conversations can speak volumes, if one knows how to read them right. Little secrets, told in body language and tonality, can be plucked up here and there. Shifts in the breeze can tell of a storm brewing miles away, and he knows well how to read them. SYBARITE: The man’s fatal flaw. When his mind screams impossibly loud, crowing spectres in the confines of his skull, he drowns them with mortal s i n. Weaponized charm lures unsuspecting victims into his lair, and he silences his sorrows in carnal pleasure. Failing that, he often turns to alcohol or drugs. Perhaps even a combination of the two, if it is a particularly awful night. Glittering stars winked in and out above him, the darkened heavens lending him stealth across the plush grasslands. He wanted peace from the pressures of the kingdom, to be a good little boy and listen to father. The bastard Hannibal had been crowned heir to the throne. Just as everyone had predicted, though he had struggled so hard to prove himself worthy of the title. He wasn't a giant like Jekyll, and couldn't rely on brute strength to impose his will on others. He wasn't worthy of the title, or Hamiclar's love. It burned, deep in his chest, to see everyone proven right. He'd striven for grandeur his whole life, only to be spurned just the same. Haunches lowered carefully to the ground, atop a lush hillock far from the prying eyes of the kingdom. He could drop the facade. He didn't have to be the perfect son. He would never be the perfect son. He was the filthy half breed they all loathed, worthless and rejected. Mismatched gaze stared blankly across the vast expanse of green, rolling like waves in the midnight breeze. Tendrils of pallid fur were caught by teasing fingers of the wind, teased into a dance. Shoulders slumped, chiseled features low between them. Bicoloured auds tipped back as cold fury brewed in his gut. Defined facade hardened into something dangerous. He would show them how powerful he was. How desperately they had failed when they spurned him. He would burn the Klein empire to the ground, and stand atop the ruins victorious. Then, no one would be able to deny his power. His might. I'd love to have this little mongrel trail along after Hannibal and see how that goes! He'll play the part of a perfect little soldier, unless someone were to express ~genuine love and affection~ for him, and then he might be inclined to... not... do a bad thing.. WHEN IT SINGS SO SWEET THE SCREAMING, HEAVING, FUCKERY OF THE WORLD? |
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