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winterlocked-rp · 9 years ago

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Welcome back, Zip! It’s so great to see you and Dorian Bloom back in the group, and I can’t wait to write with you once more. As before, please be sure to make his account within the next two days, and have the ask box open. See you in Nore!

Name/Alias: Zip (Guess who’s back, back again)

Preferred Gender Pronoun: She is good

Age: 18

Time Zone: GMT +10

Estimated Activity Level: I write this app as I settle into my two-month semester break, so I’ll be around plenty until August. After that, I should be able to keep up activity – albeit a little less consistently – if next semester is anything like the last.

Past Experience: I played Dorian here for almost a year, as well as Gwenna (bless her heart) and eventually also an OC, Jem. Two years experience before that? One and a bit? I don’t remember.

Character Desired: Dorian Bloom

Any changes? Well, I’d rather not say that Dorian’s been in some kind of suspended animation during my absence. I had his nameday written down for I think the 6th of June back in the day, so when I left he would’ve been almost 16, and accordingly he’s nearly 17 now. Basically 17. Like, close enough to justify writing the para sample for his nameday. Baby growing up. I’d like to continue on with this timeline?

Will you be willing to play this character if your changes are not accepted? Sure. Bit weird though.

Why do you want this character?

Man, where do I begin? Oh Dorian. My tiny eccentric child. There has never been a character as thoroughly developed and lively in my mind. He’s an inquiring soul, with a very unique way of viewing the world around him. His are a very interesting set of eyes to see Nore and its citizens through. Throughout my time playing him previously, I enjoyed the opportunity to unearth the layers of his personality, gradually striking down to his emotional core. It was a great experience; it really strengthened me as a writer. He’s one of those rare characters who I just connected to so powerfully.

I had a great time here at Winterlocked and I have missed the characters, the community, and the world so deeply and I really long to re-connect with it.

Also Maeve. Dorian’s relationship with Maeve makes me cry.

Describe this character in your own words. Show us how you interpret them, add on to their personality, and so on, Include anything you think you might be important when playing the character. The more detail, the better!

Brace yourselves, this may get long. I have almost a year worth of previous character development. That being said, I’ll try to avoid restating events and developments that took place in-game way back when.

Let me start with the basics. Dorian Bloom is a supremely cerebral and analytical young man. His inquisitive personality and his ever-strengthening magic has seen him acquire a wealth of knowledge, through observation, communication, and independent research. He is methodical and precise in all his endeavours, be it science, art, all facets of his apprenticeship to Dante – from the mask-making itself to customer service to cleaning up after a day’s work – and even, to some degree, social interaction.

That being said, the crux of Dorian’s sense of self is his intelligence. His appetite for discovery and knowledge is born partly out of some subconsciously felt necessity, as the growth and awareness of his intellect has a strong link to his sense of self-worth. This is an issue that is deeply rooted in his experiences of early childhood. Ostracized by his family and bullied by his older siblings, when he left and realized that he had something they didn’t – his magic – his identity had something strong, something unique, something great to fasten to. He has eyes that are equipped to see what others can’t, and his is a mind that can absorb what others often have no shape to hold. And when you’re a child and you’ve been regarded only with bitterness and disappointment, the gravity of anything that makes you just a little bit better is going to magnify tenfold.

This was not always the case, however. When Dorian’s magic first surfaced, he had no way of knowing that it was in any way out of the ordinary. For all he knew, he was magicless and weak. He even watched as his little sister, a year his junior, moved a rush of tiny pebbles through the air. And his parents clapped and smiled. And he watched them embrace her. His family’s beliefs and traditions correlated the surfacing and development of magic with spiritual connection to the earth, so needless to say, it carried a lot of weight – especially as they were lower-class and uneducated, with no way to understand their world besides through religion and myth. Every time he heard his mother suggest “he’ll bloom soon enough”, a little more of the conviction drained from her voice. (On that note: when Dorian met Dante, he adopted a new name to lessen his chances of being traced back – Dorian Bloom. Take a guess at the surname’s origin.)

There were a few incidents where young Dorian, impressed and excited, would report a new observation proudly to his family…only to be met with flat, dead-eyed incomprehension. Disappointing. He kept making his little discoveries, more and more frequently and with wider and wider eyes. A new and vibrant world was dawning behind all the grey trees and white snow. So he talked. He told his mother what he saw, he told his father, told his siblings. Why didn’t they understand? Why weren’t they happy? He stole a scrap of parchment from a scholar’s book and drew a picture in charcoal, one he still has to this day. A bird. A robin, to be precise. A series of progressive drawings detailing – as best as a child’s hand could – the motions required for the bird to take to the air.

Yes, he was most definitely learning. In fact, his intellect had already developed far beyond what could be expected for a boy his age. But the content of his discoveries was so foreign, so unfamiliar. To his siblings there was obviously something very different about Dorian, and it was not just his lack of earth magic. There was something different about his mind. The way his eyes would just lock onto something and cloud over in a stand-still, a fit that ended only in a barrage of frantic rambling – rambling about things they couldn’t understand. There came to be only one explanation: their little brother was mad, and they made him him believe it too. Dorian never told them of his discoveries after that. He believed there was something wrong with him. In the few, slow years that passed, the boy grew quiet and distant, retreating into his whirring mind and withdrawing from most social contact. Needless to say, this did not ease his siblings’ suspicion and he continued to endure their cruelty, from name-calling and emotional abuse to physical harm. This was a period in which he became intensely ashamed of all he was learning, but he couldn’t seem to make it stop. Dorian eventually became interested in the Ring, at first only to watch – mindlessly, he hoped, but to no avail. In fact, over time he became engrossed in the mechanics of the fighters’ movement. He observed every punch, every grab, every twist – in all the acute detail with which he’d seen the bird take off. Using this knowledge on one occasion, he was able to out-maneuver one of the weaker of his brothers and almost broke his nose. Not an act of power or strength, just some tacit, instinctive knowledge that guided a simple movement. Dorian just hit him, just so. But despite having achieved some small victory, he only angered the others and stoked their paranoia. It was no big injury, but it was enough to scare them. One day, they led him to a small cave near the mining shafts where their father worked, and used their magic to raise rock to bar the entrance. Dorian was trapped for a little over three hours before he was found – but of course, it felt an awful lot more like forever. He was seven years old, after all. This incident left him with a horrible fear of caves, mineshafts, or any dark, enclosed spaces to which no end or exit is visible.

But the event, though traumatic, hardened something inside him. Crystallized it. Some cold lump of anger lodged deep in the marrow of him. One day in the marketplace, he was separated from the family, and then he met Dante. Now, depending on the circumstances in which you ask, he’ll say one of three things as to what really happened that day: they abandoned him, he ran away, or he “saw an opportunity and seized it”. The rest is history.

But it wasn’t until well after his relationship with his new guardian began to warm that he realized that very thing that made him so different, so feared, so horrible – this “madness” – was more of a gift than a curse. A fact that took him a long time to accept…but as he did, he found himself able to enjoy a freedom he’d long forgotten. Learning became a joy again. Eventually came to realise that it was magic, and slowly, he learnt that he needn’t be ashamed. What he had was special and yes, it made him different. But if he was different from them and they were cruel, then perhaps different was a good thing to be. Over time, this attitude gained momentum and soon, a whole identity was solidifying around it. Under Dante’s wing he was acquiring new skills, gaining new responsibilities, indeed some sense of purpose. Compared to his previous living conditions, he was wealthy, and immensely grateful for it. So much so that he wondered if he was worthy. (This uncertainty still persists today, if only as an undercurrent. Dorian is constantly striving for Dante’s approval, despite the relative ease with which the two interact. He spares little time for leisure as a result, opting instead to work and be useful. In that sense, his incredible work ethic is in part driven by anxiety.) And all this space he didn’t have to share. His own room. Resources. Solitude. He was healthier. Seven, eight, nine year olds don’t normally think far into the future but at least Dorian could picture a tomorrow where he wouldn’t be punched or teased or locked into a cave. (Indeed, as years went by and as he matured, it began to dawn on him that he actually had a future.)

Soon he was differentiating himself from the people he’d left behind, both through active effort and unconsciously. Better posture, neater presentation, looking people in the eye. An impression of confidence. More eloquent speech. He would deliberately eavesdrop on scholars’ conversations in the hope of fattening his vocabulary – in fact, there were many occasions where he inserted very odd words into sentences without knowing their full meanings. He was a child, though, and that could be forgiven. He let them forgive him. But it wasn’t good enough, of course, so he turned his attention to learning to read. Years have gone by and he still hasn’t had a great deal of success. A bit, but not much. This is a large, but well-hidden sore spot in his ego.

When Dorian laughs, it is usually but a short huff and an awkward, lopsided smile. He behaves and speaks with restraint, back straight and with his hair as neat as he has the means to maintain. He’s very meticulous and perfectionistic. Never complains. He is very reserved, yet appears self-assured. However, beneath the surface he harbours constantly fluxing and surging tides of insecurity and self-confidence both, mingling then pulling back and crashing together like water. He’s incredibly conscientious and self-aware, and for an individual as logical and pragmatic as he, has a surprising capacity for empathy. Perhaps it is due to his own misfortunes. Despite his compassion, however, he is quite dishonest and manipulative – though usually not with malicious intentions. He tends to take a utilitarian approach to many matters, ‘ends justifying means’. Dorian does not have a particularly reliable moral compass – he’ll often step over his perceived ‘right and wrong’ in order to achieve some goal, though he usually regrets doing so quite quickly. In fact, given his propensity for rumination, morality has become a thick nexus in his thoughts. I remember previously, at some stage, he became frustrated with himself for retreating into fact and logic in an emotional situation. I hope that I can explore this interplay of logic, morality and emotion further as he develops. It was pretty interesting stuff.

This has become an actual essay and I’m really sorry! I wanted to briefly explain the way Dorian sees himself and his sense of identity at its roots but then ended up getting quite carried away. There’s still more I would love to say but hopefully we can all uncover that together in-game.

In-Character Questions: Please answer these questions as if your character were saying the answers themselves.

If your character hasn’t grown up in a cave their entire life, they will have met certain groups of people in the world. Two of these groups of people would be witches, and Nore’s Royal family. What does your character think about them and why?

Dorian pauses. Then he gets back to the sweeping. The stiff bristles of the broom scratching forth and forth again. The look on his face no indication of what the course of his thoughts may be.

“You’ve asked me this question before.”

You look down at the table. Then up at the masks displayed on the wall behind him, eyes all blank behind the colour and adornments.

“I think that there are six of them,” he says. “Four children and the two parents.”

He walks past you and opens the door with a dull squeak and brushes the pine needles and dirt and a few loose threads and other debris out onto the frosty cobblestone beyond and the cold wind ducks in and bites at your skin, the same cold wind ruffling the coarse furs at his shoulders but he does not wince not even in the full sting of it. He closes the door again with the same dull squeak and paces back and sets the broom against the wall in the other room away from the shopfront and picks up a box and carries it and puts it down. He takes the first mask off the wall and sets it carefully in the box and like this he continues as he speaks, padding between each piece with some cheap fabric.

“And they have a great deal of money to buy masks with. Witches are – more interesting. There is much we can learn from them.”

You pretend to swirl the dregs of your tea in your mug. It is empty. You drained it a while ago.

“This is some very nice tea,” you say.

When you were little, what did you want more than anything else in the world? Why?

Dorian folds another piece of fabric and sets it atop the growing pile and then sniffs and then sets that pile into a box. You wait. He is pretending that he has not heard you. That or he is ignoring you.

“Dorian?”

He closes the box and secures the latch and slides it underneath the workbench. Then he picks up a loose needle and looks at it, rolling it between a thumb and forefinger. You frown.

“Dorian?”

He looks up at you with his eyebrows raised.

“When you were little. What did you want most in the world.”

“Oh. Sorry,” he says blandly. Dorian drops his attention down to the needle again and inspects the size of the eye. Clicks his tongue and crouches and finds a smaller box underneath the bench and takes it out and sets it on the bench and opens it and clicks his tongue again a few times and runs a finger along the wooden slats separating the inside into compartments by needle size. You wait. Carefully he puts the needle into the appropriate compartment and lets the lid fall shut again. Does the latch.

“Well,” he begins lightly. “I suppose – I wanted what any child would want. Pleasant things to put in my mouth and a hug from mother before bed.” He shrugs. Then he bends down and puts the box away.

“So you never wanted for anything?” you ask.

Dorian looks at you and smiles.

Swallow your pride for a moment - tell us about three of your biggest personality flaws.

This time you get a very deliberate blink and you know you may be pushing him. To your surprise he is quick to answer. “There are no flaws. One thing that I have learned very – quickly in this life, is that there is nothing either good or bad. It is only a matter of thought.”

You sit there and you think about that. He watches you. And then he turns and reaches the poker into the hearth.

“There are things that cause me problems I suppose,” he admits. “I find it difficult to help people when they’re hurt.” He stares at the growing fire and then twists and looks at you. “Emotionally – I mean.” Looks back. “Secondly. I get quite worried.” He gestures briefly with his free hand. “Over people – that is – what they may do. To harm me. I worry quite irrationally, in most cases.”

You nod encouragingly. He pauses, head tilted slightly upward, staring intently at the ceiling.

“I find that I cannot forgive people who have wronged me,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “But – as I said. Good or bad. It’s subjective.”

Writing Sample:

(Note: I haven’t had the opportunity to do much creative writing for a long time so I’m kind of rusty and my style has taken a strange, McCarthy-ish turn that I can hopefully break out of a bit as I gain momentum. Sorry world)

☼

Dorian rolled over and drew his knees to his chest. He lay blinking in the dim light creeping through the shutter. The grey glow of dawn creating the room out of the dark around him, edging the furs that made his blankets and etching form to the handmade desk, to the stone floor, to the wood boxes filled each and arranged neatly with leather and clayballs and chips of charcoal. To the tools hung with nails to the wall and the black drawn lines contouring their shapes behind them. Victoria’s book. His rock, Robin.

(The shutter. It kept breaking. He’d been meaning to fix that.)

He sighed, watching the fog from his breath fatten and thin in the air. His nose was cold. He curled in under his blanket and shut his eyes. Ten years ago, he thought, he was seven. Today he was seventeen. Yet he was acting like a child, curled up in bed. It was time to get up.

He straightened his back, and pulled the cover down from his face to peer at the wall over the desk.

(He had made the desk when he was ten and it had fallen apart and been repaired multiple times since – he ought to replace it.)

Amongst the chisels and the hammer and the shears hung that first clay mask, its smooth face watching dutifully over his bed. How ironic that it was from the earth that he shaped the beginnings of his future. His mother could draw mud from the Dagur with naught but her mind and sculpt it in the air, but it was he who possessed true skill. With pink frail hands slick with mud from the riverbank he created a face, ten years ago today.

Dante wouldn’t let him work today, surely. Dorian stretched and felt his dull muscles thank him. He yawned. Well. That meant he had time to fix the shutter. He would replace the wood and all. Make it anew. He turned his head to the window and swept his gaze up, down, one side to the other, every measurements clicking easily into his knowledge. Mentally located the nails he would need to use – there was a small collection wrapped in cloth (approximately fifteen if he remembered correctly, which he most certainly did, and would likely require several more) stored in a box along with a small bunch of pine needles gathered with twine. In between the box with the leather scraps and the box with the spare candles. Then he thought about the wood. If he walked north from the market square and turned left at the third corner, he would find the old man selling timber and woodcrafts who:

for some reason adored him and

owed him a favour after Dorian had fashioned a piece of jewelry for a daughter’s nameday at half price.

Excellent. Perhaps if he were to be particularly clever, he could get enough material to double over the panels. Or – yes! He could carve a groove through the top and bottom of the frame’s innermost edges and slide a wooden slat through it when the window wasn’t in use. Keep the wind out. Yes. That would do quite nicely.

But he was getting ahead of himself: he was still very much in bed.

Dorian reached over the side of the bed and found the small box tucked underneath and groped inside until he felt his flint. He took it out, put it on the floor, and then found the steel to go with it. He lay there a moment with his arm hanging out from his blankets. Then he closed his eyes and braced himself, eased his legs over, and then sat up and gingerly drew up the blankets to cocoon him. He shivered there a moment. Willing his next move silently. Slowly, he touched his feet to the stone below. Then he discarded the blankets and stood and bent to get the flint and steel and struck them together over the candle on the desk until a bright thumbprint of flame burned steadily on the wick. Then he picked it up in the candleholder and started downstairs, lighting candles on the sconces on the walls as he went. Illuminating the walk down to the shop, where he would wake Dante, and the bright souls of their creations. Walking down into the future gone by and the future to come.

#application #submission

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