Tue Jun 18, 2019 12:41 am
Character Birthdate: February 12, 2017
Species: Grey Wolf
Is your character a Luperci?: Yes
Other 'Souls Characters: N/A
How you found 'Souls?: Top 50 Wolf RPG
Are you joining a pack?: No
If joining a pack, are you joining IC or OOC?: Eventuatlly, IC.
Character profile or three writing examples: Providing Samples.
SAMPLE #1. From a personal work.
He pulled away and pointed at the wall of screens, voice gruff. There were news channels there now, whereas there’d been static before, and there were multiple reporters speaking rapidly of things that mattered less to her than an ant to a hill right then. “These are the channels we’ll be broadcasting on, though, it only displays most of the major channels around the world.”
The dark-haired man caught her eye and held her gaze, his own intense as he spoke. His tan skin seemed chestnut brown in the low light, and his long black hair was pulled back into a low-sitting ponytail. He wasn't muscled -- more as if he’d been built like a runner with thin, coiled muscles to send him pounding down a track. He was a head taller than her and his black tee, dark jeans, and work boots did little to separate him from the darkness in the room.
“When we begin – we’ll be live. Do you understand what that means? You will be speaking live to the entire world. All its citizens, all its world leaders. They will all be watching you. That means you have one chance not to fuck this up.” He moved his hand to another screen, separate from the fifteen on the wall, finally releasing her from that stare that had entirely too much heat in it. “This is our screen. It will display the graphics we made as you speak, and it’s controlled by this console.” He patted a smaller console sitting on a stool beside him with a far less confusing range of buttons and switches and hefted the camera higher on his shoulder. “Are you ready?” His eyes held a challenge that she was far too tense to meet.
“No,” she choked, almost coughed, out. The emotions hit her then – she was overwhelmed. So much was about to change, and she was throwing myself in the midst of it all, behaving as the catalyst that would send the world spiraling into chaos.
Valentino snorted and flipped a switch. “Well, you need to get there. The world won’t wait for you to change it.”
The screens turned to static.
“Going live in three . . . two . . . one.”
Her form sprang to life on the screen, and for one calamitous, heartrending moment, she was frozen, eyes wide like a deer before that pivotal instance where the car won. Dread built, her fingers turned to claws that clutched at the papers in her hands as if they were a lifebuoy, and her breathing turned irregular. Eyes found the screen, and she cringed internally at the sight. She was ashen, milky brown eyes wide and panicky. The free-swinging chestnut hair and casual-professional black tee, slacks, and flats she wore only served to make her skin appear even paler. Just what she wanted the world to see. The It Girl afraid to be It.
She didn't know what did it – that thought, the sheer embarrassment of watching herself on those monitors, or the way Valentino sighed. But something flipped a switch within her, caused her to move mechanically. She slowly released the death grip she had on the papers. Bent and flattened the papers against her thighs, smoothening them out. And when she looked up, she knew her cheeks were pink with embarrassment. But who’d ever said life as the very impetus that would shoot the world into a new era was going to be easy?
When she spoke, her voice was strong despite the blush in her cheeks.
“Nearly a year ago today, Alexia Charleston contacted me with the promise of a story that would be plastered across the headlines of every major news outlet in the world . . . .”
SAMPLE #2. From a personal work. Continuation of the work above.
The recording had gone silent. The dark-haired girl’s final words hung in the air as the camera lost focus before refocusing on her. The reporter sputtered, obviously trying to find something to say after the bomb her interviewee dropped.
When the reporter finally spoke, she did so in stutters. “She – she–”
Alexia nodded. “Maila sacrificed herself.” She looked down, and her knuckles were white with the strength she used to clutch her hands together. “She sacrificed herself for me. Even though I would’ve survived. Even though she knew she would die.” When she looked up, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “And her death will not be in vain.”
The reporter was quiet for a moment before she spoke again. “In light of that . . . what message will you leave for the people of the world?”
Her eyes strayed off-screen, and the camera zoomed in on her face. When Alexia looked at the camera again, her dark blue eyes were fierce. “We are not mutants.”
The silence in the room was absolute as everyone held their breath.
“We are nature’s attempt at perfection.” She looked down again but quickly looked back up. “But we are far from perfect. Some of us have strayed from the goodness in our hearts. And some of us may have never had that goodness in the first place. Most of us only want a family; simply someone to love us and someone to love – and most of you will take great pleasure in denying us that right.
“And not all of us will forgive you for that. Some of us may hate you. And honestly? Some of us may even kill some of you.” There were gasps throughout the room as the recording continued. “So this is my plea to you: See not what we are but who we are. Hear not the words of the hateful but watch what we do. Because actions speak louder than words.” She bit her lip for a moment before continuing. “We all have to live on Earth – and we all have to live with the mistakes we make and the lives we take. But please know: many of us will be ready to live with just that.”
And in a moment of utter suddenness, a smile blazed a trail across her face. “And the rest of us?” The smile turned wicked. “Well, the rest of us are only human.”
SAMPLE #3. From a personal work.
One leg in the jeans and the other struggling to accomplish the feat, Charlotte hopped to her dark, wood dresser. When she’d finally gotten both legs in and gotten socks and her simple black and white tennis shoes on her feet, she glanced in the mirror for a final outfit check.
The light, brown-skinned girl that stared back at her stood about five feet, six inches and had waist length jet black hair that had been hastily tied back in a ponytail. Her heart-shaped face had a thin, jagged scar at the very edge of her hairline, and her small nose, upturned at the tip, crinkled when she frowned heavily at the memory of how she'd received the scar. Her lips were both horizontally and vertically asymmetrical: her top lip was thin while her bottom lip was full, and there was another scar at the corner of her mouth that pulled her lip up the slightest bit.
The girl shivered as the memory of that scar came back to her as well. She was a little over two hundred pounds, and her tear-swollen, hazel-brown eyes were haunted by memories the panic attack had called forth. Yes. She was heavy; she wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t pretty.
Just like he’d taught her.
The color drained from her face, and her breath came quicker. Charlotte turned away and fled the memories she’d found in the looking glass.