Post by cormacokane on Nov 7, 2009 14:28:23 GMT -5
---------THIS IS YOUR STORY---------
cormac teague o'kane ,
---------ARE YOU GONNA TELL IT RIGHT?
give us the scoop ,
FILL US IN FILL US IN FILL US IN
cormac, who highly prefers to go by mac, is quite obviously irish by heritage. never mind the fact that he has dark eyes, hair, and skin; he has an iberian or a spaniard somewhere in his lines to thank for that. he's hardly a day over seventeen and therefore lives in a humble home with his mother, erin, his stepfather, ivan, and his twin brother, keefe. his father, finn, died when he was three. mac is a quiet soul by nature, preferring to keep to himself more often than not. he isn't really shy, though, and careful is a better word to describe him. he's slow to make decisions, but once he makes them, he's impossibly stubborn and will positively refuse to change his mind.
got any secrets? ,
EVERYONE HAS SOME EVERYONE HAS SO
for the most part, mac is a good boy; he doesn't do drugs, drink, smoke, or anything along the lines of that. because common sense is usually the driving force under all his choices, those things simply don't make sense to him. of course, just because he doesn't do them doesn't mean he's without his secrets. everyone knows that ivan, his stepfather, is an alcoholic; they see him in the bars around town and treat him as a regular. that's no secret. but what about when he comes home? mac is a victim of child abuse and has been since he was about five, but because ivan is the only reason the family hasn't gone broke, he's afraid of telling anyone in fear that the police would get involved.
behind the mask ,
ABOUT THE RPER ABOUT THE RPER AB
hai. the name's hannah, but i really, really, really, really, really hate that name and would prefer it if you called me something else. haha. anything would be fine; i really don't care what you decide suits me, so long as it's not my real name. i'm sixteen years old at the moment, but my birthday's coming up really soon. i've been writing stuff since i was like, ten, but all of that's really bad and stupid preteen gibberish. i'd say that i've been a somewhat legitimate writer/roleplayer since i was thirteen. do the math. seventeen minus thirteen is...uh...four. haha! that's about how long i've been roleplaying. yay. i really hate the word 'epic,' and am looking forward to roleplaying with you all! dinos!
arepee sample woah ,
SHOW US YO SKILLZ SHOW US YO SKILLZ SHOW
Ah, the great outdoors. A wise man once said "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads," and if there was anyone who believed that, it was Cormac O'Kane. And who couldn't enjoy a day like today? The blustery wind and chilly rain characteristic to the city had decided to bother some other population, allowing the pleasant sun to filter through the leafy trees. Light was everywhere; mottling the gritty ground and glittering in the surprisingly clean water as it trickled from the fountain, offering a bit of hope to even the gloomiest of souls. Warmth dappled the boy's olive-toned skin as he sat against a tree, one denim-clad leg stretched out in front of him while the other remained curled toward his chest.
There weren't very many people around, but that didn't bother him in the slightest way. The little girl dragging her grandmother over to the edge of the fountain, begging for a quarter to make a wish, provided him with a source of amusement. He watched them for a moment through tranquil dark eyes, a small, nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as the eldery woman caved in to the youngster's wishes. Young as he was, he found himself appreciating the innocence of the little girl. As an old Quaker song put it, "'tis a gift to be simple." Back home, simplicity was easy to obtain, but out here in the city it was much more difficult. Naturally, the sight was comforting to the homesick boy, but he didn't think it polite to stare.
Giving the pair one last look, the boy turned his attention back to the instrument in his hands. His old guitar, her once-glossy dark finish battered and faded from years of use, rested comfortably under his right arm. The steel strings, newly replaced by the boy's skillful hands, contrasted blatantly against the ancient girl, remained silent for just a moment. Then, without touching her neck, the lad ran his callused thumb over each string individually. His brow furrowed in concentration as he listened, scrutinizing each note with perfection in mind. A frown. He reached to ever-so-slightly twist one of the cracked knobs, sharpening the rich sound (for it still was so, despite her age and condition) until he was satisfied with it.
The curly-haired boy pressed his fingers to the strings to form a single chord, which he strummed once as if testing the waters one last time. Another smile slipped across his scarred face (which was almost as beaten but not nearly as old as his low-toned companion). He leaned back into the sturdy trunk of the tree, closing his eyes for a second or two as he listened to the gentle trickle of the water fountain. Now was the time for him to make his own music. He began to play, sticking to the easy-to-play chords in fear of showing off to his non-existant audience. He did, however, hum, the hearty sound coming from deep within his broad chest. Anyone who knew anything about The Beatles would recognize the tune; "I'm Only Sleeping."
Still with his eyes closed as he played, he was perfectly content. He'd spent far too much time yearning for his country life to be returned to him, blind to the fact that he could still find ways to relax. To suddenly discover an outlet, some sort of portal to his roots was the best thing he'd experienced in a long time. He'd become so peaceful that when a light ping sounded nearby and something touched his foot, he jumped as if awoken from the dead. Startled, he opened his eyes and looked down, catching the glimpse of shining silver. Curiously he leaned over to retrieve it, only to find it was a quarter. He glanced about, puzzled as to where it had come from, just in time to see the little girl from before scuttle down the pathway.
He smiled a little. Maybe he'd had an audience after all.
There weren't very many people around, but that didn't bother him in the slightest way. The little girl dragging her grandmother over to the edge of the fountain, begging for a quarter to make a wish, provided him with a source of amusement. He watched them for a moment through tranquil dark eyes, a small, nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as the eldery woman caved in to the youngster's wishes. Young as he was, he found himself appreciating the innocence of the little girl. As an old Quaker song put it, "'tis a gift to be simple." Back home, simplicity was easy to obtain, but out here in the city it was much more difficult. Naturally, the sight was comforting to the homesick boy, but he didn't think it polite to stare.
Giving the pair one last look, the boy turned his attention back to the instrument in his hands. His old guitar, her once-glossy dark finish battered and faded from years of use, rested comfortably under his right arm. The steel strings, newly replaced by the boy's skillful hands, contrasted blatantly against the ancient girl, remained silent for just a moment. Then, without touching her neck, the lad ran his callused thumb over each string individually. His brow furrowed in concentration as he listened, scrutinizing each note with perfection in mind. A frown. He reached to ever-so-slightly twist one of the cracked knobs, sharpening the rich sound (for it still was so, despite her age and condition) until he was satisfied with it.
The curly-haired boy pressed his fingers to the strings to form a single chord, which he strummed once as if testing the waters one last time. Another smile slipped across his scarred face (which was almost as beaten but not nearly as old as his low-toned companion). He leaned back into the sturdy trunk of the tree, closing his eyes for a second or two as he listened to the gentle trickle of the water fountain. Now was the time for him to make his own music. He began to play, sticking to the easy-to-play chords in fear of showing off to his non-existant audience. He did, however, hum, the hearty sound coming from deep within his broad chest. Anyone who knew anything about The Beatles would recognize the tune; "I'm Only Sleeping."
Still with his eyes closed as he played, he was perfectly content. He'd spent far too much time yearning for his country life to be returned to him, blind to the fact that he could still find ways to relax. To suddenly discover an outlet, some sort of portal to his roots was the best thing he'd experienced in a long time. He'd become so peaceful that when a light ping sounded nearby and something touched his foot, he jumped as if awoken from the dead. Startled, he opened his eyes and looked down, catching the glimpse of shining silver. Curiously he leaned over to retrieve it, only to find it was a quarter. He glanced about, puzzled as to where it had come from, just in time to see the little girl from before scuttle down the pathway.
He smiled a little. Maybe he'd had an audience after all.
THIS TEMPLATE WAS MADE BY JENN AT CAUTION!