𝒏𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒗 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stilettoes) wrote2017-10-08 07:12 pm
stilettoes) wrote2017-10-08 07:12 pm
Entry tags:
—permissions for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
station72
BASIC INFORMATION
Name: Peter Nureyev Hadrian Black.
Canon: The Penumbra Podcast
Age: 36.
Bio: Peter Nureyev is a thief, born on an Outer Rim planet named Brahma, orphaned with no memory of his parents, and raised by a master thief named Mag. At the age of sixteen, young Peter and Mag were involved in a terrorist attack against the bourgeoisie floating city of New Kinshasa, Brahma's keeper state that terrorized the lower class on the daily with a Big Brother-esque weapon. This act of rebellion cost Peter his home, Mag, and even his name. In exchange for the safety of the people of Brahma, Peter's name remained a fixture, an unseen vigilante that would take down New Kinshasa in a heartbeat if they laid hands on the people of Brahma again.
If you tried to suss out Peter Nureyev on appearances alone, you'd find that he's about as readable as a slender leather bound book with all of its pages glued firmly shut. A drifter, a shape-shifter, a man who changes his name about as often as he changes his stockings, Nureyev is someone who knows the true value of remaining nameless and sensuously mysterious. Nureyev presents himself with some honesty as a smooth-talking, relaxed individual no matter what situation he might be in. Whether he's in the middle of a high speed car chase in the red, dusty Martian desert or trapped underground in an ancient tomb, he doesn't a fairly good job of withholding his fear, panic, or discontent (unless it's theatrical).
However, Nureyev is whoever he wants to be at the time of meeting someone, plus or minus a few traits. Some of his identities wear his cleverness openly while others are disguised under bumbling nerves (Duke Rose) or sheer eccentricity (Perseus Shah). Plainly flavored, however, blank canvased as it were, Nureyev is bright-eyed, well-studied in historical crime, art history, Good Old Americana, and bullshit, practiced in high-class etiquette, and wears a killer heel. He's the sort of person that keener minds might be wary of, but he's also the kind of trouble maker you almost want to be friends with, the fault of his fox's teeth poking past that innocent smile. Fast-talking, hyper-vigilant, good with his hands, and with a seemingly benign face, Nureyev is a creature of frightening malleability.
( application )
SYMBIOTE INFORMATION
IOTA - OSTEOKINESIS
The symbiote enhances the host's bone into a precision tool that slides past the skin upon use. Use of this ability will result in visible scarring. Due to the symbiote's added healing abilities, scarring will initially be mild and practically unnoticeable. However, repeated breaking of the same area of skin will cause the scarring to build and grow thicker of time resulting in deadened sensation and in some cases may make the location of the scarring stiff. Willful overuse of the symbiote may cause a bone deep pain that becomes more agonizing over time. Breaking one off is about as painful as one might guess.
RANK I // beginner
— Use of the symbiote is exhausting after five minutes straight, and will primarily manifest on small areas at a time (pads of the fingers, finger joints, etc) in the shape of small bone-colored blades.
— The blades are not exceedingly sharp, but can roughly cut through human flesh. Anything thicker and they will press back into the host's flesh painfully or snap off.
— Manifestation may be spontaneous so the host is likely to accidentally cut themselves on their own fingers. Host may experience a bone-deep ache and fatigue.
RANK II // intermediate
— Symbiote's usage time increases with practice, roughly ten minutes of continual use allotted.
— Blades manifest more fully on fingertips and knuckles and may also cover along a short length of the forearm and larger joints like elbows and knees.
— Manifests sharper than before, precision like a surgeon's scalpel on smaller areas, but duller on larger areas. Can cut through thicker material, but anything generally knife-proof is going to bend or break it.
— Control is pretty solid, though symbiote may manifest during severe emotional spikes. Host may feel a very deep ache in the bones and fatigue from full usage. Loss of sensation to fingertips may occur with abuse of the symbiote and will take time to return.
RANK III // advanced
— Symbiote's use can stretch even further to the point where exhaustion occurs upon taking hard damage or after twenty minutes of continual use/combat.
— Blades manifest anywhere and everywhere depending on the whim of both host and symbiote. Primarily extremities as this is the most convenient, but may start to manifest on hipbones, ribs, collar bones, etc.
— Precision sharp and deadly on larger areas. Cannot cut through thick metal or stone, but thinner metallic substances might be compromised (very flimsy/thin armor etc.) Blades are harder/more resilient, but not completely shatter-proof.
— Control is nearly absolute, but loss of sensation is more severe and longer lasting upon abuse of symbiote. Requires a long rest after continual usage.
BROOD: AVIOR
in order of arrival
— Peter Nureyev ( @ stilettoes ) Osteokinesis / Permissions
— Elliot Alderson ( @ raw ) Emotional Dampening / Permissions
— Bakugo Katsuki ( @ incinerates ) Dimensional Manipulation / Permissions
— Joshua Bright (@ whereabout ) Shadow Stealth / Permissions
— Marie/Rogue ( @ theycalledmeacurse ) Metal Manipulation / Permissions
— Unknown ( @ username ) / Symbiote / Permissions
BROOD PERMISSIONS
Slipping past what is offered up to the nest like a carefully constructed glass case of curios, brood is allowed a little deeper in, though pressing forward feels like dipping your toes into something labyrinthine and winding, walls made of nearly opaque black glass. There is something misleading, but not malevolent, protective almost as if what he has to hide is worth more than just his life. A sweet word here to distract, a pathway that looks as though it makes the most sense, all of them winding you in endless circles until finally:
— His name is not Hadrian Black. In fact, looking closer shows that he doesn't seem to keep any name for very long. A deck of cards, and with each card comes a name (and an impression to follow). Each name bears a personality not too different from his own, but shaded in different lights. Smudged on a warped wooden desk beneath a glass of whiskey is Rex Glass, shouted under the cacophonous roar of a hurtling train is Duke Rose, and if you keep digging, the invasive prickle of suddenly sharp electrocution, cards cutting into your thumb, is the lone word Thief. Conclusion? He doesn't have a name.
— Break through this part, crawl down, find a sickly scene where the air smells like blood and it's thick on your hands and the klaxons blaring are deafening. There's well-intentioned heroism bleeding out on the floor, an old man who taught him how to curate himself to be whoever he wanted, who taught him how to survive on an unforgiving planet (hunger like a restless animal in your belly, trying to gnaw it's way out, an unfathomable amount of determination to survive, the silhouette of someone who may have never existed at all, a father mythologized to keep you going and going.) His voice still lurks quietly under every little fold of composure, beneath each experience, "first rule of the grift, my boy, first rule of thieving." There are a thousand rules that are first, apparently, each of them equally important.
— A well-placed love of history, of ancient kings and queens, societies that are long past, the sacred pact of names, the way they sit on your tongue like dozens of little ball bearings, filling your mouth. You spit them out but none of them are the truth because that means lifting a veil hastily created and slammed down like a cement wall when you were sixteen. It holds a floating city above the clouds at a stand still, grabs the fist of a smiting angel and puts it to rest, but at the cost what what? A name. A life. (Did you do it out of selflessness? Out of selfishness? To protect and preserve a home that you know isn't yours but you still want it to be regardless? Who cares. What's done is done.) You're in two places at once at all times, Brahma and wherever you so choose to plant your feet. That name must never see the light of day again,
— The edge of a bed, a sensation of a bruise in the shape of human being, the way he kisses like he doesn't deserve it, the flash of tired peacock green eyes, the rasp of his voice over your ears edging on irritated fondness. He smells like whiskey up close, buries himself in the folds of a tired old coat with a silhouette that says he'll take on the world. This man says his name, says it softly, keeps it close, "▒▒▒▒▒." His name is Juno Steel. Important. That much is clear. His determination cuts through all other sensation, stubborn and brusque, biting wit.
— But who is ▒▒▒▒▒? What do those nonsensical syllables mean? The more you try to pull them out of them, the less you can make out. Every time you try to pull closer to that name, there's a fight, something made of teeth and sharp edges. You grab onto what sounds you can, and it bites, sinks down, doesn't let go. This is his and his alone and you won't have it. Teeth like a vice, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding gold, bleeding Martian sand, bleeding stars. My name. I own it. I own it. Stumble across it once? Fine. Make a few repeat trips to poke around and it's likely he'll be unkind about it. Leave it. Alone.
NEST PERMISSIONS
— Peter is curated to the nest, though basic details are available for perusal. He's thirty-six, born on a planet on the Outer Rim called Brahma (structured so that there is Brahma proper and a nameless floating city above)
— He's a traveler from the very distant future (think: millennia), having seen quite a few places in his two decades of hopping from planet to planet.
— Peter's true name is unavailable at this time to the nest, and for the time being he goes by the name Hadrian Black. There is no impression here of being knowing by anything otherwise.
— Black is polished, lean, a fast thinker and someone whose mind is all kinds of frustratingly fast moving parts that run about as smoothly as a car on cruise control. Each moving part is given equal attention, each thought well-rounded and seemingly sincere.
— After the initial hatch, there is seldom panic to Hadrian Black, and his mind to the nest is poised with calm. He is congenial, has a pleasant smile, and inquisitive.
MENTAL LINK
At first impression, his mind goes down pleasantly, like a glass of champagne, and makes itself a warm, luxurious thing to be around. Beneath, it's cruising along at a terrifying speed in no less then ten separate directions at a time, but the ease, the sense of calm is always there. Emotion is like a well-tuned, velvety purr of an engine, or the sound of it stalling to a halt when shocked, but it's always waiting, doors open, for you to have a seat in the passenger side. Emotion beyond emotion is more complicated, individualized and packaged up, set to the side to deal with later, replaced with a smile that tastes too sweet, eyes that are too bright. Overhead, there are thousands of stars, all sorts of night skies painted differently and early mornings blossoming in your vision. There's a restlessness that comes with being trapped in one place, a desire to rove and roam, to travel, to eat up every view imaginable. Warm silks and satin fabric, a well-fitted suit, a pair of tall heels, the glide of skin-warm lipstick, kissing it off, leaving your mark, smearing it. A lock clicking open, the way the various inner workings of an old-fashioned door can be undone from their insides out (patience, patience, patience, a steady hand, a steady heart). The scent of spices you can't place from a planet far, far away, warm and inviting, sensuous and bright and biting, alluring like the crooking of a finger. The weight of a slender knife in your palm, the security of one pressed to your thigh, to your hip. The way said knife bites into something and gives. The tapping of neatly manicured nails in lazy, lazy succession.
PERMISSIONS
Physical Affection: Absolutely. He's a tactile guy, so expect some leaning into your space significantly. If you're not about that, please let me know below.
Physical Violence: Yes, and he can hold his own.
Romance/Relationships: His brain is constantly pre-occupied with Juno Steel, but hey you can kiss him and stuff, he's not shy.
Thread-jacking: Head's up in advance would be great before doing this.
Back-tagging: Forever.
Fourth-walling: No.
Offensive Subjects/Triggers: Graphic depictions of animal abuse without warning.
Anything Else? Peter's name is a very important part of him and therefore getting it out of him is a pretty difficult thing. I'm certain at some point in the future someone is going to be able to tease it out of him, but it'd probably take. Work. A lot of Work. He's been safe-guarding it for years so it's probably the one thing he's going to sit on for pretty much forever unless something in particular happens (which it might considering this is a game about hella emotional hiveminds and all of that.) But that being said, consider it to be the most off-limits thing you can imagine in someone's mind, and the more you dig, the harder it is to grab at.
CHARLIE • SHIBES @ PLURK
no subject
no subject