1 year ago · N: 1

Jude Baldwin · 31 · Upper Class · Malice · Alexander Skarsgard.

How such ill intentions abase my sought repose, remains a question unrelieved and festered by the crows.

—William Douglas Rodenberg.

Past. 

Jude straightened his tie and made sure each of his hairs were slicked back into place.  Even at an early age, his parents would joke, he was a perfectionist.  And a perfectionist he was, but it wasn’t for them to comment on.  He grimaced as he thought about his foul parents, both betrayers of their city-state.  He wouldn’t let their fall ruin his chances to become an asset.  And while they rotted in jail, he’d have the chance to reclaim his family’s once-held power, and rise through the ranks of nobles.  As much as money was adored in this blemish of a city-state, power was craved and lusted after.  Dominance was the human condition.  The weakest man has no chance of claiming a spot ontop of the pyramid, and even the wealthiest man wouldn’t stand a chance without will and ruthlessness.  Ruthlessness was the one thing he admired in his parents; no matter who got in the way of their crimes, they wouldn’t hesitate to leave them soulless.  It was something he had begun growing inside of himself, this ruthlessness, this need to do whatever is required to succeed.  He wouldn’t stop at any point in his life, he would never stop climbing the ranks and pushing people down.  It wasn’t just for the success, in his mind, it was also for the shear joy of it.  Imagine, all the pesky lower-lifes clawing at his feet, trying to become more than their fate had decided for them.  What would he do?  Would he be the diplomat, and turn them away politely?  Unlikely.  People like them needed to be taught lessons, if not multiple lessons.  Common courtesy was an ancient practice in politics.
The chances were, Jude Baldwin would rather kick them in the face and have them polish his shoes with their tears, than anything else.

Present.

The nobles were a mass of faces and gestures that Lord Baldwin had to do everything in his power to disregard.  They were pieces of flesh with opinions he didn’t care to hear.  Being a raider meant being bombarded by people, trying to pay him in advance for some of his finds.  There were also those who funded his raids, aching to send him to some faraway reach of the Nation in hopes he would work his magic and find something.  Dash their hopes, forget their petty wishes.  He didn’t raid for them, and he didn’t raid for his city-state.  He raided for himself.  Another piece of wisdom he had learned in his younger years was that no one would bend down to pick him up and help him.  As such, how could he be bothered to help others, or cater to others?  It wasn’t his practice, and his practice was survival.  Helping the weaker people, the weaker city-state, would only break him.  Whereas, sending information on weaknesses and security details to other city-states, this proved to help him.  It had taken years of planning and expanding his resources, but eventually Jude had found a true benefit.  If he were to be cohorts with the less wealthy, but obviously superior in strength and teamwork, he would only gain.  The only loss he could calculate would be that of his city-state, and his own life is anyone found out.  But the chances of that were nearly impossible, everything he executed would be clean-cut and precise.  And the benefit would truly come into work when the lesser city-states banded together and attacked York.  Only then would he find the pleasure and power he was looking for.  Power from the fall of the pathetic city he lived in.
And pleasure from the despair as he crushed them in his pursuit of other targets.

Occupation: Raider.
He raids and is often paid for it by his funders, but during his raiding he also provides information to the other city-states.

Personality.
Cruel, self-assured, and determined.  He doesn’t find it nessecary to supply to anyone but himself, and often refuses the affection or flattery of others.  If he were to involve himself in a relationship of any kind, it would be a sadistic one at best.

Affiliations.
He isn’t a very amicable person, but he makes it imperative that he communicate with each nobleperson in one way or another.  To influence them would only aid him.

Gif hunts.
{x} {x} {x}



t h e m e
1 year ago · N: 5

Weston Perry · 20 · Lower Class · Narcissism · Douglas Booth.

“This aching loneliness, that beauty is unable to mend.”

—Indiscreet Episode.

Past. 

Weston sat crouched in an old bar, craning his neck underneath a table.  He could see his mother’s legs from underneath the table, a mixture of fishnets and leather and porcelain skin.  He smiled and moved towards her - he had spent so long searching for her in this crowded bar, and finally he found her.  Weston sat beside her leg and watched her boots as she twirled her feet in circles.  He laughed and his mother jerked, looking underneath the table.  She narrowed her eyes and lowered her eyebrows, lowering her voice from its earlier, giggly pitch.  What are you doing here?  You were supposed to stay in the restroom.  He flinched at her words, and muttered under his breath and apology.  She shook her head and told him an apology wasn’t going to cut it - she kicked him in his side and watched him curl up.  Disgusting, his mother said, and went back above the table to speak to her date.  Weston was supposed to know better than that at this point in his life - never interrupt his mother during her work.  She needed to date men to keep in business, and he knew that.  It wasn’t her fault, it was his.  He bent down, gasping and staring at the ground.  If only he were perfect like the men his mother kept the company of.  With a dashing smile and slicked back hair.  She would love him too, if he were like them.
If he were perfect.

Present. 

The Perry son walked up the staircase, and paused to look into the cleaned handrails.  His face was a warped reflection, one eyes too large and the other too small, with his lips lopsided and drooping.  He stood there, and watched himself move, smiling and frowning to see the differences in the polished surface.  Once he could only imagine, he had looked as obscene as he did in the handrail.  Weston continued walking up the staircase into the main parlor of business of the Sweet Box.  Once, his mother had beat him when he drifted in the way of her work.  Her fellow prostitutes would pity him, help clean him up and keep him away from her.  He had once felt pain and disgrace, but not anymore.  Now he no longer wished for the affections of his abusive mother, and he no longer cowered in the protection of her fellow workers.  Weston smiled cockily as he ascended - that him had been gone for a very long time.  He was talented and handsome now.  He stopped in the bathroom and looked into the mirror.  He was charismatic and gentlemanly.  He was everything he had wished he were.  It was a lonely life for Weston Perry, but he no right to complain.  His wish was granted.He was perfect.

Occupation: Security detail.
He works as the sole security in the Sweet Box, and although he’s not very intimidating he is known for his left hook.

Personality.
Chivalrous, attentive, and sensitive.  He is ever the gentleman, but he has a poor tolerance for insults and doesn’t take any negativity well, especially if it has to do with him personally.

Affiliations.
Iola Mercer - Although he does not know Iola on a personal level, she employed him and he considers her to be a better mother than his own.  Along with her workers, he calls her Momma Mercer.
Kristopher Herman - He has on multiple occasions asked Kristopher to paint him or sculpt him, but the artist refuses on the basis that he is male and not female.  For this Weston holds him in disregard and contempt.
Griffith Davies - He and Griffith have fought more than once, though both of their identities are privy to themselves.  Weston goes out to the arena for the sake of keeping in shape and making sure he is always able to attend to his job.

Gif hunts.
{x} {x} {x



t h e m e
1 year ago · N: 0

Kristopher Herman · 26 · Lower Class · Enthrallment · Ben Barnes.

“Pygmalion doth his bride behold, rapt on her pure and sculptured charms.”

—Edward Rowland Still.

Past.

Kristopher had always wondered how a son could be like a father.  His father was tall, and he had a scruffy beard and crinkly eyes.  He would sit and draw his father’s eyes day in and out, trying to capture the creases and the wrinkles.  After he perfected the eyes, he would begin messing around with his father’s paints.  There would be a range of colors to choose from, and if he didn’t quite have a color he liked he would mix them and run with the results.  His eye portraits came in pastels, sepias, and in the occassional monochrome.  He began working on every solid surface possible, leaving crinkly eyes to great his father back home from vending on the streets.  After painting eyes over eyes over yet another layer of eyes, Kristopher was allowed to see his father’s masterpiece.  It was the artwork which he claimed would make him eternal, make him memorable.  It would put his name in every household.  Still, Kristopher didn’t understand - what was so miraculous about a sketch of a woman?  His father would explain - it wasn’t the sketch, but what would become of the woman in the sketch.  She would become a sculpture, he said, once he had enough money to buy the materials.  And for a mere second, Kristopher understood how a son could be like a father.
He thought that perhaps, a son was given to a father not for succession of his bloodline, but for that of his obsession.

Present.

Sitting in the Sweet Box for all manners of the day wasn’t Kristopher Herman’s favorite experience.  There were always women floundering around him, trying to get him to spend some money so they could undress for him.  As interesting as that may have been to any other young man his age, Kristopher wasn’t interested in the sex.  He was interested in the women - their curvature, the way their lips bowed.  How their feet arched and their shoulders dipped.  He only visited the brothel to observe, and everything he could notice he took great care to remember.  He didn’t need a real woman, when waiting in his apartment he had a sketch of one.  She wasn’t perfect yet - when he first saw her, she was, but soon his father’s dream was forgotten and somehow water had touched the delicate lines of the woman.  It was his duty as his late father’s son to complete her, and to make her as perfect as she once was.  Observing these women, who men in York thought of as the most beautiful in the nation, would help him complete her.  He thought, no, he knew that if she existed, his life would be more than old paintings of eyes.
He would be more than his father, if only he could complete his dream.  Then, Kristopher would finally have the chance to pursue his own.

Occupation: Artist.
Just as his father did, Kristopher vends his artwork on the streets.  He spends most of his time at the Sweet Box.

Personality.
Steadfast, hopeful, and hard-working.  He never does something half-way and prefers his work over anything else.  However, he is slightly insecure when it comes to his own identity and who he is as an artist.

Affiliations.
Iola Mercer - He preferred Iola over many of the prostitutes as a model for his sculpture.  He respects her now for the way she climbed to the level she is in now, but finds bits of himself in her whenever he sees her wearing a sad expression.
Griffith Davies - He knows Griffith as the same illness his father passed away with, Griffith contracted.  He feels sympathy for him in this sense.  They have never spoken.

Gif hunts.
{x} {x} {x}



t h e m e
1 year ago · N: 0

Eun Clark · 22 · Upper Class · Theft · Kim Soo Hyun.

“Even a petty thief can steal much more than you can give.”

—Thomas Doubting.

Past.

Eun curled into a ball to protect his belonging, a small doll his parents had given him before sending him and his cousin to the Nation. The other children hadn’t taken so well to the strange-looking foreigner, and had a habit of taking everything he owned. He would walk outside and they would take the buttons off of his shirt, peel off his shoes and steal his socks. The boys surrounding him kicked at his stomach, until he didn’t have the strength to stay folded up and became vulnerable. They laughed and tossed around the doll, pulling apart its legs and arms. Eun Clark shivered and lunged forward, only to grab air and receive a punch to his jaw. The laughter and violation of his belonging, the only remembrance he had left of his real family, not the host family who burdened him with the last name Clark and the society he lived in – it was humiliating. It broke him. Eun slid to the pavement and let the pain of it all wash over him, until he was drowning in it. Then, at that moment when he hid his head in his arms, he made a promise to himself.
He would never be in this situation again, and for the rest of his life he would only gain.

Present.

With a borrowed suit and a dashing smile, Eun made his way into the jewelry shop. His host mother, Lady Clark, was expecting him to bring back her jewels. She had broken the chain to her favorite necklace and sent them to this jewelry shop for repair. He went through the assortment of rings, brooches, and lockets, feigning interest. The man who repaired jewelry was still in the back of the store, which meant the clerk at front did not know him as the young man of the Clark household. He moved with professional ease, and while turning to speak to the clerk at front he snatched up some pearls. Slipping them into his pocket, he asked for the repairs he was waiting on. She nodded and went into the back, which only prompted him to go back to his browsing. After a few minutes, the clerk reappeared with the repairs, and Eun Clark was gone from the sight of the small jewelry shop. He had left with the necklace, a string of pearls, and three rings. Quality over quantity, he thought to himself, and set off to the pawn shop on the other side of York. He had promised himself he would gain.
And gain Eun Clark did.

Occupation: Unemployed.
He sells his items to pawn shops, but otherwise makes no profit.

Personality.
Quirky, soft-spoken, and curious.  He has strange mannerisms, such as playing with whatever he can get his hands on, and isn’t very good with people.

Affiliations.
Tegan Davies - He talks most with Tegan, and she is one of few he has shared with his kleptomania.  He visits the Green Cafe very often because of her.
Matthias Wolters - He met Matthias once while selling off stolen items to the pawn shop.  Before Matthias could see him, he took his goods and left.  Ever since then he is careful when he visits the pawn shop to sell anything.

Gif hunts.
{x}


t h e m e
1 year ago · N: 1

Alphonse Carter · 20 · Upper Class · Ignorance · Caleb Landry Jones.

“Holding the mind captive, blinding its subject from the truth.”

—Emmanuel Oduro.

Past.

Alphonse blinked.  It troubled the maids when did so; they thought it was him pretending he could see, when in reality even blind he needed to blink.  He smiled to himself, and still keeping his head in the same place, he asked the youngest maid where his father was.  She curtsied - he could hear her skirt rustling as she did - and told him his father was still not yet home.  The Carter heir played with his fingers, and listened to his small world move.  In the distance, there was the sound of plates clattering in the sink.  The older maids were whispering about the pay and the hours, where the younger maids about his inability.  He could hear the pity in their words, and decided to ask one of them to take him upstairs.  Hopefully it would keep their mind off of him.  One of the younger maids took his hand gently, as if he were made of china and not of flesh and bone, and brought him up each step carefully.  He liked to pretend he couldn’t walk around the house on his own; of course he could, after all he had been living there for so long.  It was only a matter of memorizing the steps and the count.  As they walked up the steps, he counted in his head.  The maid stopped at the twelfth step and asked him if he’d like some tea.  He shook his head and continued the count, but behind her insistence on getting some tea and the numbers running through his head, he could hear it.
He could hear the shuffling of blankets, and the muffled moans. 

Present.

Alphonse Carter had learned that ignoring terrible truths and locking them in the back of one’s head, was the easiest way to survive.  No matter how many times his father had brought up that one day, when Alphonse had discovered he and his mistress, the boy would shake his head and refuse to acknowledge it.  To think that his father would rather spend time bedding a prostitute than enjoying time with his son was impossible, and so he fashioned up a different story.  That woman was asking for a loan - his father was an established man, after all.  It was a plausible story.  Every time his father brought home another woman, Alphonse would assume it was for a loan.  Why, he thought, should he have to face the truth?  All he wanted was hope.  Hope that his father truly was busy, and he wasn’t just avoiding his son.  Hope that one day, the women and the loans would stop, and they could spend time with each other.  Of course, Alphonse wasn’t daft.  He knew that there were no loans.
But knowing and admitting are two completely different things.

Occupation: Unemployed.
He spends his time at the Hungry Giant instead of actually looking for a job, although he does sometimes do accounting for his father.

Personality.
Clever, kind-hearted, and rather innocent.  He lived a sheltered life, and as such doesn’t know many things about life which wasn’t tutored to him.

Affiliations.
Dirk Adler - He considers Dirk his source on information in the world, his tutor on the streets.  Dirk often tells him about his own life and his own sexual conquests, which interests Alphonse but is something he doesn’t quite understand yet.
Lise Claesson - He favors Lise mainly because she too is innocent in some respects.  He watches her gamble, and orders her drinks on his tab.

Gif hunts.
{x} {x} {x


t h e m e
2 years ago · N: 0

Dirk Adler · 22 · Lower Class · Betrayal · Dave Franco.

“Scarred me with your beautiful lies, they echo inside like bleeding words.”

—Alexandra Richard.

Past.

Dirk Adler watched his brother step up to the altar, kind eyes and flushed face on his wedding day.  Everyone was just as excited as he, mingled breath and voices trying to make sense of words and phrases in the cramped space that was the church.  Dirk himself had never had much admiration for such ceremonies - what did matrimony mean that a regular relationship didn’t?  His older brother had told him that on his own wedding day, he would realize the difference tenfold.  The youngest Adler boy had decided to bear with the tedium and chaos that was such a celebration, as if is brother could, he could as well.  His brother’s fiancee, a young woman Dirk often called Goose for the way bumps ran down her skin when she was excited, stepped into the secondary entrance,  where the flowergirls and ringbearer stood.  She bent down and whispered to Dirk, a sad smile sickening her soft features.  I love him, she said, but I’m not ready.  She turned away from the entrance to the church and towards the world outside, and looked back at her fiancee one last time, standing at the altar, before running out into the daylight.
Everyone chattered on, still rambling about the joys of marriage and the reception afterwards.  Not even the soon-to-be-wed Jakob Adler realized what had happened; he still stood nervously, but for all the wrong reasons.  Dirk stared at the empty space where Goose once stood and waited for them to realize.  To realize that all this fuss, all this worry was for naught.  That they were celebrating an empty cause.  That marriage was not as pleasant a thing as his brother had made it out to be.

Present.

She spoke his name, once, twice, three times. The fourth time she screamed.
He still remember how she cried days after his disappearance, or what she thought to be it - he had kept near for damage control, and left after a week of her suffering. All the girls he’d dated were all the same; clingy, hysterical, and much too invested in their relationship with him. Dirk had warned them all repeatedly that he meant nothing serious with them, but who was he to reason with women? Dirk stood on the steps of an inn, wishing the poor girl would pick herself up and move on. Only he seemed to catch the dames trapped in their fantasies, consumed by the supposed splendor of true love and all its forms. They spoke of it often, and that was the first hint he caught to leave them. Then came talk of how darling children were. But the last straw was their interest in marriage. In a bountiful ceremony, clothed in white silk and lace veils. It was then he would leave, move on, find someone else. Dirk, as the inn owner would say, was always in the market for another passtime - not a woman, a passtime. If anything, the youngest Adler didn’t want commitment. He didn’t want to put himself into a relationship that had no fruits but regret. He’d seen his brother experience it. He couldn’t speak days after his botched wedding, and after the silence was gone came the anger. It washed over the sadness and startled everyone, and when it was over came the pure and cold desolation.
Trust had no real value. It was kind but harsh very easily, a tamed animal lashing out on the hand which fed it.
It was easier, Dirk had concluded, to betray the trust of another, before letting them worm too far into your heart.

Occupation: Bartender.
He bartends at the Hungry Giant.

Personality.
Lewd, cocky, and noncommittal.  He doesn’t like relationships, but when he needs a place to stay he’s not exactly shy.

Affiliations.
Alphonse Carter - He’s constantly at the Hungry Giant, and they talk often.  Dirk is good friends with Alphonse, and he finds interest in how he perceives the world around him and the way he lives his life.
Lise Claesson - She frequents the Hungry Giant, and he talks with her often.  He has more than once challenged her to a gamble, but when she realized what a terrible sport and gambler he was, and how little he had to his name, she began denying his attempts.

Gif hunts.
{x} {x} {x


t h e m e
2 years ago · N: 0

Griffith Davies · 20 · Lower Class · Envy · Nico Tortorella.

“Cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face.”

—William Blake.

Past.

Rain fell onto young Griffith Davies’ hair and slipped down his forehead, into his eyes.  His vision was soon blurry, but he did nothing to wipe away the drops.  Next to him, Tegan Davies held his hand tightly and cried into his shoulder.  They were waiting for their mother to walk out of the building they had once called their home.   Although his sister was too young to realize what was going on, the Davies’ son knew.  His mother carried suitcases with her, her cheek ablaze with a hand mark.  She half-smiled at her children and hurried them out of the spring showers.  Divorce was a strange and new word on Griffith’s tongue, but as he slept on the dirty floor of a small inn, the unfamiliarity of the word meant nothing.
Only the consequences it held. 

Present.

Griffith wiped the sweat off his brow and gazed directly into the eyes of his opponent.  He had landed a few punches on his jaw, which left him hurt but not winded.  After that he had aimed towards his chest, and now his arm was pulled back to land another blow.  The poor fighter was scrawny, a package of bones and skin.  Except for being lean, he didn’t seem to exercise at all, and ontop of that he didn’t have the cold, calculated stare he needed to fight here.  It was bad taste, but the eldest Davies’ child pummeled him a few more times, all over his body, and stepped ontop of him as he fell.  He sent the message through his eyes; stay down and forget about the glory.  After one fight he would have to fight them all, even broken and battered and bleeding.  Griffith moved off of the boy and let the crowd sun him, with cheers and chaos.  Hours later, he was home with the prize money and the concern of his sister bathing him.  He brushed it off with claims of falling down, and even though she didn’t seem to believe him, her trust overrode the doubt.
The other kids on his street didn’t know what difficult was.  He’d heard them bitch about their lives - he’d seen them complain and then snort drugs and finish them down with a swig of whiskey.  Pain to them was the momentary loss of freedom, the loss of a lover or a supplier.  Pain to him was everyday; it had been that way ever since he was young.  His parents’ divorce and his mother’s eventual decline in health and stability was pain.  Griffith Davies had been working ever since he was young, at first as an employee at legitimate business and then in the arena, fighting for pay.  Only he and his employers knew about his business, and he tried his best to keep it away from his sister and his mother.
The lies, the divorce, the sickness…
The other people he knew didn’t know that pain.
And for that, he envied them.

Occupation: Professional fighter.
He fights in the Ulysses Arena as the champion.

Personality.
Quiet, gentle, and down-to-earth.  His personality and mannerisms contrast his profession.

Affiliations.
Tegan Davies - His beloved sister.  She believes he is still sick, and he lets her believe this.  He goes to all ends to keep up this ruse, and only for her sake.  He’s afraid of how she would handle his fighting at night.
Dirk Adler - He hates Dirk, mainly because he once tried to pull a move on Tegan.  Being very protective of his sister, Griffith roughed him up.  They haven’t been on good terms since.

Gif hunts.
{x} {x} {x


t h e m e
2 years ago · N: 0

Matthias Wolters · 21 · Lower Class · Greed · Bradley James.

“With mouths full of dirt and weed, and hearts full of lust and greed.”

—Justin Moffitt.

Past.

A woman he didn’t know wrapped her arms around Matthias Wolters, crushing him into her breasts and sobbing for him.  His father had been affectionate, but he taught him never to let a tear fall.  It was a thing of masculine pride and of endurance and survival; emotion was weakness.  Matthias’ father would not let his wife cry either, as he hoisted her up with him onto the steps.  He set his eyes on his son’s, just as he had warned him he would do.  As they continued up the steps, his eyes never wavered.  Matthias pushed away the woman, trying to get a better view.  He climbed up the fence and kept eye contact with his parents.
The young boy’s eyes were steady; steady as he watched his parents loop the nooses around their necks and breathe their last breaths.

Present.

The night was still and silent, but for the soft sounds of the shovel digging into dirt and Matthias’ strained breaths.  He tilted the dirt in the shovel and tossed it over his back, dropping the shovel to inspect the grave.  It was fronted by an elaborate marble headstone, with a family tree on the back and a life history on the front.  The name of the passed noble could mean less to the graveyard keeper, as could his headstone.  Though expensive, taking the headstone would be too noticable.  Matthias Wolters thrust his hand into the opened ground, brushing over bone and tattered clothing.  He pulled out a bejeweled ring and smiled, putting it into his pocket.  The young man filled back up the grave with the overturned dirt, and settled in his old house at the edge of the cemetary.
The next morning would be another filled with darting glances, and not because of his thieving habits.  The neighbors were scared to speak with the orphan, whose adoptive father died mysteriously of lepresy.  They were too scared to speak with the boy who still spent his time taking care of a lot which was no longer even used for burials.  But most importantly, they were too scared of his family’s legacy.  His parents had been hung for their long and violent streak of robberies, most of which had occured before his birth.  The valuables they had pawned off were found, and with the scrutiny followed the penalties.  Monetary penalties, at first, to repay in full the cost of the valuable.  They were only sentenced for execution after the discovery of a robbery gone wrong - one person who tried to be a hero and save their family heirloom.  And for this, the neighbors were justly scared.
But if they knew of Matthias Wolters’ grave-robbing, the darting stares would turn into more than suspision.

Occupation: Graveyard Keeper.
Ever since his parents died, the old graveyard keeper took care of him.  Unfortunately, he contracted lepresy and died, and so the shovel was passed to Matthias.

Personality.
Critical, snappy, and sarcastic.  He doesn’t like the company of other people, and shows his disdain for people openly.

Affiliations.
Teresa Gaspar - He often opens his home up for other people to rest in, and she has more than once stayed in his company.  He doesn’t like that she complains often, but he finds it easier to have many people with him as emergency scapegoats.
Helena Reardon - She too has stayed in his home.

Gif hunts.
{x} {x


t h e m e
2 years ago · N: 1

Pietro Gismondi · 24 · Upper Class · Pride · Sam Claflin.

“While one has pride to love me yet, there’s nought on earth shall grieve me.”

—Henry Lawson.

Past.

His aunt sent him a discolored, bland look, as if surprised he were still in her house.  It was common for her to forget about the young Pietro Gismondi, whose parents had left him with her and her own husband while they went to rediscover themselves elsewhere.  Letting out a puff of smoke, she turned back to her muttering husband, who was reading the newspaper.  Recent killings, he said.  They were getting out of control, those lower class idiots.  Lady Travers hushed her husband, motioning to the Gismondi heir - her brother’s son could hear everything they said, and she didn’t need him speaking about it later that night at the dinner table.  Her husband nodded apologetically, and then went on to rant about the whorehouses.  Pietro looked down at the lighter his aunt had left on the floor, and picked it up gingerly.  He hadn’t been loved, and he knew very well he wouldn’t be.  Walking off to his room, he flicked on the lighter and turned off the lights, watching the flame dance and lick at the air.  He sat on his bed, staring at the flame.  The young Pietro Gismondi had been alone and ignored all his life.
But in that room, he finally made a friend.

Present.

Pietro stayed in his room, while his aunt and uncle went downstairs to greet their guests.  They kept him hidden as often as possible, even though his existence was well-known.  Ever since he had made his bedroom into kindling at a younger age, they did their best to keep him away from other people.  No one outside of their circle knew about the incident, but the Travers family knew the workings of York.  One whisper could turn into a scream faster than one could blink.  Pietro climbed down from his second-floor balcony to the grass below, greeted by a beautiful smile and a fleeting kiss.  Dorothea looked him in the eyes and asked him without words - was he ready?  He nodded and she handed him a pack of matches, which he excitedly turned around in his fingers, eyes alight with excitement.  Only the Gismondi heir knew about the Bauer daughter’s hatred to the men who hurt her father.  She had rescued him from himself long ago, in a ballroom, after the incident, and in return it was only right that he help her as well.  After she hurt the men who hurt her father, she needed to give them a permanent reminder.  A quick firebrand, on the back of their neck, was all they needed.  Pietro was willing to oblige - blindly, so.  One could imagine Dorothea had no trouble manipulating a man with as weak a will as his own, but his own need for someone to love pulled the wool over Pietro’s eyes.
Dorothea leaned in and whispered into his ear.  They have hurt my father’s pride, she said.  This is my pride.  My pride is your own pride.  What is their sentence?
Pietro Gismondi lit the match, and that was all the answer the heiress needed.

Occupation: Errand boy.
He occasionally does small things for people who would need the help, such as chopping down wood or raking a garden.

Personality.
Introverted, selfless, and naive.  He’s not a terrible person, and all he looks for is someone to be nice to him.

Affiliations.
Dorothea Bauer - He loves her as much as he can possibly love anyone.  She picked him up and made him feel like he wasn’t just a burden, and because of that he’d do anything, and does anything for her. 

Gif hunts.
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2 years ago · N: 0

Tobias Krauss · 20 · Upper Class · Lust · Daniel Sharman.

“Lust is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust.”

—Shakespeare.

Past.

He stood two feet away from her, his mother hiding behind a fishnet veil she’d fashioned out of some old pantyhose. It was the best she could do, given she had been kicked out of her brothel for being to old to attract customers, and was now an old maid. He remembered the exhaustion which would show on her once-beautiful face, now marred with wrinkles and crow’s feet. She would sing to him in her native tongue, and then she would kiss his forehead and tell him that everything would be fine. That her work would pick up and soon they’d be living a wonderful life. He hadn’t believed it for a long while, but put on the facade that he did. At least, he hadn’t – not until the raider walked into their living room for the first time. An old friend, his mother explained, who knew her from her previous line of work. She rarely discussed her work as an escort, but she held no shame. She did whatever she could to keep things together.
He met the gaze of the Heidrich heiress, who was looking off into the distance and unaware to herself, meeting his gaze as well. She didn’t know about the raider and his mother. She didn’t know who he was. But she would.
And she would hate him.

Present.

Tobias Krauss laughed and clinked glasses with the other stiff-necks he usually surrounded himself with. Someone one and another, each from established political families or families rooted in wealth, born with silver spoons in their mouths. Every single one of the bastards. He knew that they would only flock to him so long as he was rich, but it did not bother him. Each told him secrets and rumors and fed him stories he would never hear outside of the circle. Such as some of the old diplomats’ favorite places to pleasure themselves. It did not bother him that they talked of escorts and whores as the same – when he knew better than anyone else the difference. They would often invite him to visit one of the said places, nudge him with lewd smiles and suggest doing all sorts of things to the workers. They would talk about it and then wink at the young ladies walking by, which did not bother him either.
What bothered him was how Agnes ignored him and kept away from him. He had expected she would do such a thing since the first time he met her, but it did not prepare him for the anguish. Tobias watched her intently, watching as the other boys followed his stare and chuckled. He shook his head and said something clever to excuse himself.
No one knew about their ties to each other, and it was a secret shared between them and their mothers and one dead man. He had never felt such a thrill before. A secret.
What would she do to keep it that way?

Occupation: Baker.
His mother hopes to humble him, and has him working at an old friend’s cafe.

Personality.
Witty, charismatic, and ruthless.  If he doesn’t like someone, or if he wants something, he will go to no ends to be successful in whatever goal he has set.

Affiliations.
Agnes Heidrich - He considers himself and Agnes to be on uncertain terms, but he is accustomed to getting his way.  As such, he will do backhanded things to get her to be more affectionate to him, or to at least be less hostile.
Lise Claesson - He and Lise bonded over both of their family’s histories - as both once were low class but raised to upper class through riches.  However, she is obviously uncomfortable around him, and he doesn’t enjoy reminiscing about his old lifestyle.

Gif hunts.
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