Username: Requiem Sonata
Who recruited you?: .Some.Other.Mercy.
Name: Whitney SinClair Cyr Valentine II
Age: 45
Gender: Male.
Height: 6’7 ½
Weight: 261
Race: Human, though most certainly questioned, and a partially Cajun one at that.
Social Class: Peasant, though he’d prefer to be referred as a ‘Jack-of-all-trades’.
Appearance: “My dear, I say
Oh me, oh my.
For lips too tender to bear.
With wisps of smoke, if I’d declare
Swayed soundlessly as his hair..”
Whitney, the darling that he is, is surely something of an imposter when it comes to his garb and appeal. For behind the large spectacles that nearly mesh considerably with the bridge of his nose and the flesh that hangs reside for his optics, beneath the neatly combed strands of a mane of creature from another mother, and without the proper slip of tongue and manner, Whitney is truly of that which is unknown to the world. What, if one may ask, is a Whitney in the first place? Well, for an instance, Whitney is something of a hollow shell projected to weave a spell upon those that fall victim to the sheer circumstances of a presence they knew not existed. Or better yet, perhaps Whitney is not a noun at all but simply an ideal given a mien that had been countered as refundable and blanketed over a naked soul that was to wander aimlessly for a millennium on end.
Yet certainly, there is a puppet to which such a question could be posed, for in the light of it all stands the contradiction of society and its iron fists. Perhaps if the beautiful Lucifer was amongst us, with such a sight of the enigmatic Whitney, he’d disperse himself in quivering fear. Not for the fact that Whitney is anything horrendous in appeal, for though he fits nothing of the ruled sort of handsomeness that many men and women find themselves bound to, he is something that cannot be too easily disregarded if noticed, but for the fact that Whitney shows no bounds on traditional values and the like that often keep society at bay without individuality. For before he would stand a beast, one whose height seems alarming on two legs alone, looming an unmatched two hundred and six centimeters without the thought of the help of some silly shoes. One whose flesh is that of twilight, with it smoldering and rich in ebony glaze like a freshly baked then charred corpse, something otherworldly in a fashion that none would ever admit.
He has nothing of a sense of vanity with his head guarded with the silky tail of some oblivious mammal that faintly passes the flesh of his nape. It’s painted with polished silver, lengthily falling into his visage and casting what some assume as a permanent shadow over his eyes. Certainly, he cares nothing of the item, for unknowingly to the public it is in fact not his own. Silent beneath the item are the carelessly spun tendrils of cinnamon that seem stolen and unheard of when clinging in unruly waves to his body until curled restlessly at his tailbone. Unheard of is such a length, such a disgraceful thing for a man, but yet without the knowledge of such a field, without it clashing with the darkness of his flesh, can it truly be looked down upon? He isn’t anything for unleashing the unkempt filth of his hair, to let its messiness patrol in public unless in the sanctuary of his lonesomeness, to which he has it secured with a worn ribbon.
His most speculated feature, one that is then in turn easily forgotten, would be his eagerly hidden optics that rest both behind the thick lenses of glasses and the heavy shadow of the long bang presented by his wig. Nothing pestered by having to look into another’s eyes, Whitney often finds that his lack of speech regarding his large lack of eyes has become something interesting to his frame. There isn’t anything much for speculation of their color, but simply if there actually are in fact reasoning for him to be wearing glasses. There are not large, hollow holes burning behind the spectacles, much to the chagrin that would surely instate itself, but instead there is in instance of being heterochromatic. The left optic is a cooling shade of a rainy gray, contradicting its counterpart which is in fact a startling shade of amber, both falling fruitlessly and being belittled by the drabness of the veil that sits so lifelessly on top of his head.
As far as dress tends to roam, Whitney takes to the normal apparel worn, finding himself nothing out of the ordinary with his boring outlook. Of course, for some odd reason, though whether or not it catches the eye of the rarely observant, the conservatively defined physique in such average clothing seems out of the ordinary without a true cause. It’s not as if he tries to stand out, for in his costume he feels as if to blend, yet still, much to the anguish of his heart- the Devil’s mandolin does nothing but keep him cast astray. He appears ageless, something all can greatly admit, though when his lips part, all is dispelled with such a stoically distant tone, so much so that it may cause distress as to whether one is to think of him in terms of youthfulness or significantly wise of age. But it is behind closed doors, with a cigarette cradled between his lips, and all things discarded aside, which is truly when the magic begins.
For all should wonder, when the clay cracks and the phantom is released from his façade, is there a reflection as to which he still seeks, or is it truly that the faceless man is faceless after all?
Personality: “Little Jack Horner sat in the corner
Eating his Christmas pie,
He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum
And said "What a good boy am I!"
Proper, but most definitely nothing prim; Whitney is a man of his own league, finding he’d rather ignore any descriptions that others may make from their supposed perceptions. He deals with everyone and thing in the same manner, finding that if one is worthy of his harsh terminology, so are the rest that follow during the course. Perhaps it may sound fair and unjust, but certainly there isn’t such a thing in his mindset. Life is not fair, cannot be, will never be, and that is simply an unwritten fundamental that people should hold dear in their hearts. His patience is unusual, for one such as he should have a small fragment of one, if even one to begin with, and instead he proves to be overly so.
Whitney parries the thought of being a tad bit, well, unstable. His personality, though normally being able to be summed up, can walk from one end of the spectrum to the very opposing polar end of it within a thoughtful matter of days or so. It’s not to say that he is crazy or dynamic, for he is in fact a polymath for what it’s worth, it’s simply that his traits can range past what many perceive as acceptable. One thing that is for certain would be that he is without humor, and the concept of a joke seems lost to him in any given manner. Truly, despite how funny one might think they are, or how irresistibly contagious they believe their laughter is, it will simply bounce from Whitney’s less than amused expressions.
He tends to be naturally secretive, unknowingly hiding any and everything that others around him are not openly aware of. He isn’t anything too social, seeing as how he takes to his job and his room more than anything and finds mingling to be a waste of time. He isn’t anything too sensitive, cares nothing to be so, but there are a few topics that may stir something that should be left unattended to. Ah, yes, it seems, to be honest, that nothing much has truly been revealed about his character save a few things that one could easily observe and obsess over. And yet that is the true beauty of a true mystery, one can only hope to unravel it enough to brush against the tenderness of the truth, if there is one at all to be found.
Character flaws: “Ring around the rosy
A pocketful of posies
Ashes, Ashes
We all fall down!”
Even though he is only somewhat extroverted when teaching Whitney is something rather robotic in persona when not in the mists of his lectures, though he is nothing fond of teaching. He seems to lack the normal characteristics of something living, taking to being so quiet and still that he may be easily forgotten and questioned as to having passed while no one was paying mind. He is a fool for habitual things, having never been too fond or too displease with particular tasks, but doing them simply because he’s so use to it. He tends to confuse and run others off with his colorful stream of vocables and far too complex usage of literary devices. He tends to be something rather horrid if he feels his privacy or personal space is being preached, having an uncanny flare of claustrophobia mesh with haphephobia.
To be honest, Whitney has many phobias, though certainly one would never guess or would he ever relay such a thing. It’s truly nothing of importance.
Background: “Remember, remember, the 5th of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot;
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot..”
Whitney, despite what many people believe, was not born anywhere near England, or Europe for that matter. He was born into some irrelevant country in some irrelevant city where faces seemed all the same and tones never had a chime of anything other than the normal drabness. He lived in poverty, nothing like the ones that many seemed to complain about, barely scrapping up bread while having a raggedy roof to cover their somewhat soul soaked bodies. He lived in what seemed to truly evolve into something like never before seen, a lifestyle that even those prosecuted would shutter at. Yet, that is quite enough of that, certainly, there isn’t a soul interested in his childhood and the like.
Whitney was, and still is, a person of extraordinarily misfortunate events, yet it was this very fact that helped mold him in unknowing ways. During his times growing up, there were a countless numbers of wars raging about, some that actually involved himself and others that simply required a need for men, all of which he took up arms. Surely, he simply did so to better the situation for his family, but it seemed that particular aspects of his person wouldn’t allow such to go on. After all, there’s something strange about a Cajun trying to mingle in the mists of lands and affairs foreign to him. Yet still, wars would come, entwined fingers with disease, politics, and other large factors would also set in.
He wasn’t anything of a scholar, having truly never had the chance to take to studies other than the wisps of information he gained from passing time. Yet his talents for piecing data together and the like would in fact help him, especially after he took up his last arm for a war that proved to be a pointless as all the others. He would make a migration towards Europe, England to be more specific, and try his luck with the culture in the area as best he could. It would be in England where he secured his altered outlook, and sought to salvage what he could for his educational tastes. Yet once more, it would take money to tend to family and his own needs, and there wasn’t anything of a chance that he’d allow for them to return to such a low like they had before.
He would take notice of the University and its need for teachers, putting his own fabrications on personal experience as he applied for the job. He was qualified, perhaps not in the way they’d have preferred, but qualified nonetheless.
Skills: "When Adam delved, and Eve span
Who was then a gentleman?"
Dearest Whitney has the memory of an elephant, being able to recall any and every event that has taken place before him in a vivid concentration. Surely, his memory is prominently photographic, and with the help of his keen observations and eye for details, it’s rather hard for someone to pull a fast one around him. Don’t ever let his disgust towards music and flowers fool you, for Whitney is quite the music lover if anything. His fingers have left their finger prints on nearly all musical instruments of the time and other productions, tinkering with anything that may fall prey to his tastes. From the mandolin to the fiddle, Whitney is something enchanted by the sound, though he may only appear so when in the audience of his self.
He has quite a green thumb, something which is none other’s business but his own. He’s also able to create sentences with the majority of it being of one particular letter, taking more so to the more unusual lettering of the alphabet. He’s good at haunting people with his words and his presence, call it a burden or a gift, but it’s nearly always beneficial to him. Whitney is an ace aim and weaponry expert, now surely, one would not be able to tell due to his rather lack of attention, but please- if for the sake of your own safety, do not try to formulate any altercation with him. Always fear the enigma that keeps to himself, it’s simply a rule to do so.
Classes: Conjunction of History and Geography for the most part, but if he is desired for something otherwise, his objections are nothing realistic.
Character secrets: “Mary Mary quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty maids all in a row.”
To be honest, Whitney being a Cajun is in fact a secret of his, one of the few that he actually bothers to keep concealed. He also is a heavy insomniac and an overly light sleeper, meaning that in the rarity that he actually can gain sleep; even the faintest of noises will in fact wake him. He’s a habitual smoker, though he does in fact detest said all together, and tends to plant and the like on a daily basis. Being a music fanatic, and truly it is something serious, but he only has one secret that would shatter him. Whitney has taken part in many wars, seen many things, and dealt with numerous situations and ideals that were personified- and he’d rather not discuss, disclose, or even speak to linger about any of it at any point in time to anyone.
Anything else? The only true items that can be found in Whitney’s mists are some plants and his collection of instruments, you even dream of any of it and he’ll be on you like a perm to nappy roots. Whitney speaks properly and without a tone or accent, but in truth he has a very distinct accent that drips heavy and husky in tone and manner. He loves to make connections between things, so if you ever happened to find nursery rhymes and little chants endearing, wait until the truth slips from his lips and break your little childhood hearts. And ah yes, the dear keeps journals, or something of the sort, they are filled with his fanciful novella narrations, but still journals nonetheless.
RP Sample: {Perhaps not complete, but it's merely a sample xd }
“For the love of..”
Fingers danced clumsily upon his brow as he gave a light quiver, his lips pulled sourly near the ends of his chin. His head throbbed unanimously, a fact that he would never be inclined to speak of, but one that seemed so dominant that he couldn’t keep from at least uttering something in his own defense. Had he have not know better, he would have issued his fingers to try and soothe the pain by caressing the hidden attributes of his forehead. Yet atlas, the older gentleman knew better than to try such a silly thing, it would produce nothing but irritability for him. More so, he thought, because it would already be something less than enchanting to deal with the youths that would soon flock into the room.
It wasn’t as if they were horrid in conduct, but simply that they were something lacking in depth to him.
He wasn’t known for discriminating factors, to point out how utterly despicable those that were fortunate enough to have an ample supply of lavishness were in attitude, and how stereotypical those that were on a similar spectrum as he in motion. Was it truly society that would take the blame for every misfortune that fell upon the generations? It seemed that it was society that feared the breaking of the vicious cycle, for truly how is such a whole to be persecuted if not by another whole similar in size and structure? He gave his head a brief shake, the silvery strands of silk clinging in a light curl to the fluent dark of his skin. Perhaps he truly was the sight that his students came to see, such a looming phantom with an unusual mane.
“Vivacious vindications vividly verify various visions vacantly viewed-.”
His lips remained parted as his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden haul of his eyes towards the closed door of his classroom. His moppets were close in contact, somewhere roaming the halls and giving their scents a light linger as they passed through. He should have been something weary from not being able to close his eyes for more than fifteen seconds for a whole two weeks now, but he was nothing but normal. Well, on the exterior of course, but his body was lightly weeping from the lack of physical rest. Such a thing should have drove him to the deeper shades of the world, yet it seemed to contradict and do the very opposite.
His insomnia was what kept him sane, or as sane as someone of Whitney’s predicament could actually strive to be.
Nonetheless, he was to choose a random area for which his lectures would take to, he felt it something interesting to spontaneously take to a subject that he preferred to dwell upon. Not to say that he was something of a regular to disregarding his curriculum, but simply that on rare times he felt it a must to take a more personal appeal. “Perhaps Panama?” The words had slipped from his lips unknowingly, low and monotonous, a thing which seemed highly unlikely to be viewed as something normal from the man known as Whitney SinClair Valentine II. “Ah, yes, precisely!”
Of course, it wasn’t quite Panama that he wanted to take to, but it would do for the time being. He was already rather sure that the youths were nothing familiar with the place, nor would they ever be unless their precious mamas and papas were to happen and vacation there, a thought which he certainly didn’t doubt. His fingers lightly strayed to the plumb of his bottom lip, having suddenly felt a warm sting pierce it, and much to his chagrin, found that his lip had split. The blood was something foreign, perhaps, and dark enough to be the dye from a plum or something of the sort. Yet he knew it was not blood, that was a subject he was nearly an expert of, but simply an inkling having gone wrong as his fingers had toyed with his temples…
Who recruited you?: .Some.Other.Mercy.
Name: Whitney SinClair Cyr Valentine II
Age: 45
Gender: Male.
Height: 6’7 ½
Weight: 261
Race: Human, though most certainly questioned, and a partially Cajun one at that.
Social Class: Peasant, though he’d prefer to be referred as a ‘Jack-of-all-trades’.
Appearance: “My dear, I say
Oh me, oh my.
For lips too tender to bear.
With wisps of smoke, if I’d declare
Swayed soundlessly as his hair..”
Whitney, the darling that he is, is surely something of an imposter when it comes to his garb and appeal. For behind the large spectacles that nearly mesh considerably with the bridge of his nose and the flesh that hangs reside for his optics, beneath the neatly combed strands of a mane of creature from another mother, and without the proper slip of tongue and manner, Whitney is truly of that which is unknown to the world. What, if one may ask, is a Whitney in the first place? Well, for an instance, Whitney is something of a hollow shell projected to weave a spell upon those that fall victim to the sheer circumstances of a presence they knew not existed. Or better yet, perhaps Whitney is not a noun at all but simply an ideal given a mien that had been countered as refundable and blanketed over a naked soul that was to wander aimlessly for a millennium on end.
Yet certainly, there is a puppet to which such a question could be posed, for in the light of it all stands the contradiction of society and its iron fists. Perhaps if the beautiful Lucifer was amongst us, with such a sight of the enigmatic Whitney, he’d disperse himself in quivering fear. Not for the fact that Whitney is anything horrendous in appeal, for though he fits nothing of the ruled sort of handsomeness that many men and women find themselves bound to, he is something that cannot be too easily disregarded if noticed, but for the fact that Whitney shows no bounds on traditional values and the like that often keep society at bay without individuality. For before he would stand a beast, one whose height seems alarming on two legs alone, looming an unmatched two hundred and six centimeters without the thought of the help of some silly shoes. One whose flesh is that of twilight, with it smoldering and rich in ebony glaze like a freshly baked then charred corpse, something otherworldly in a fashion that none would ever admit.
He has nothing of a sense of vanity with his head guarded with the silky tail of some oblivious mammal that faintly passes the flesh of his nape. It’s painted with polished silver, lengthily falling into his visage and casting what some assume as a permanent shadow over his eyes. Certainly, he cares nothing of the item, for unknowingly to the public it is in fact not his own. Silent beneath the item are the carelessly spun tendrils of cinnamon that seem stolen and unheard of when clinging in unruly waves to his body until curled restlessly at his tailbone. Unheard of is such a length, such a disgraceful thing for a man, but yet without the knowledge of such a field, without it clashing with the darkness of his flesh, can it truly be looked down upon? He isn’t anything for unleashing the unkempt filth of his hair, to let its messiness patrol in public unless in the sanctuary of his lonesomeness, to which he has it secured with a worn ribbon.
His most speculated feature, one that is then in turn easily forgotten, would be his eagerly hidden optics that rest both behind the thick lenses of glasses and the heavy shadow of the long bang presented by his wig. Nothing pestered by having to look into another’s eyes, Whitney often finds that his lack of speech regarding his large lack of eyes has become something interesting to his frame. There isn’t anything much for speculation of their color, but simply if there actually are in fact reasoning for him to be wearing glasses. There are not large, hollow holes burning behind the spectacles, much to the chagrin that would surely instate itself, but instead there is in instance of being heterochromatic. The left optic is a cooling shade of a rainy gray, contradicting its counterpart which is in fact a startling shade of amber, both falling fruitlessly and being belittled by the drabness of the veil that sits so lifelessly on top of his head.
As far as dress tends to roam, Whitney takes to the normal apparel worn, finding himself nothing out of the ordinary with his boring outlook. Of course, for some odd reason, though whether or not it catches the eye of the rarely observant, the conservatively defined physique in such average clothing seems out of the ordinary without a true cause. It’s not as if he tries to stand out, for in his costume he feels as if to blend, yet still, much to the anguish of his heart- the Devil’s mandolin does nothing but keep him cast astray. He appears ageless, something all can greatly admit, though when his lips part, all is dispelled with such a stoically distant tone, so much so that it may cause distress as to whether one is to think of him in terms of youthfulness or significantly wise of age. But it is behind closed doors, with a cigarette cradled between his lips, and all things discarded aside, which is truly when the magic begins.
For all should wonder, when the clay cracks and the phantom is released from his façade, is there a reflection as to which he still seeks, or is it truly that the faceless man is faceless after all?
Personality: “Little Jack Horner sat in the corner
Eating his Christmas pie,
He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum
And said "What a good boy am I!"
Proper, but most definitely nothing prim; Whitney is a man of his own league, finding he’d rather ignore any descriptions that others may make from their supposed perceptions. He deals with everyone and thing in the same manner, finding that if one is worthy of his harsh terminology, so are the rest that follow during the course. Perhaps it may sound fair and unjust, but certainly there isn’t such a thing in his mindset. Life is not fair, cannot be, will never be, and that is simply an unwritten fundamental that people should hold dear in their hearts. His patience is unusual, for one such as he should have a small fragment of one, if even one to begin with, and instead he proves to be overly so.
Whitney parries the thought of being a tad bit, well, unstable. His personality, though normally being able to be summed up, can walk from one end of the spectrum to the very opposing polar end of it within a thoughtful matter of days or so. It’s not to say that he is crazy or dynamic, for he is in fact a polymath for what it’s worth, it’s simply that his traits can range past what many perceive as acceptable. One thing that is for certain would be that he is without humor, and the concept of a joke seems lost to him in any given manner. Truly, despite how funny one might think they are, or how irresistibly contagious they believe their laughter is, it will simply bounce from Whitney’s less than amused expressions.
He tends to be naturally secretive, unknowingly hiding any and everything that others around him are not openly aware of. He isn’t anything too social, seeing as how he takes to his job and his room more than anything and finds mingling to be a waste of time. He isn’t anything too sensitive, cares nothing to be so, but there are a few topics that may stir something that should be left unattended to. Ah, yes, it seems, to be honest, that nothing much has truly been revealed about his character save a few things that one could easily observe and obsess over. And yet that is the true beauty of a true mystery, one can only hope to unravel it enough to brush against the tenderness of the truth, if there is one at all to be found.
Character flaws: “Ring around the rosy
A pocketful of posies
Ashes, Ashes
We all fall down!”
Even though he is only somewhat extroverted when teaching Whitney is something rather robotic in persona when not in the mists of his lectures, though he is nothing fond of teaching. He seems to lack the normal characteristics of something living, taking to being so quiet and still that he may be easily forgotten and questioned as to having passed while no one was paying mind. He is a fool for habitual things, having never been too fond or too displease with particular tasks, but doing them simply because he’s so use to it. He tends to confuse and run others off with his colorful stream of vocables and far too complex usage of literary devices. He tends to be something rather horrid if he feels his privacy or personal space is being preached, having an uncanny flare of claustrophobia mesh with haphephobia.
To be honest, Whitney has many phobias, though certainly one would never guess or would he ever relay such a thing. It’s truly nothing of importance.
Background: “Remember, remember, the 5th of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot;
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot..”
Whitney, despite what many people believe, was not born anywhere near England, or Europe for that matter. He was born into some irrelevant country in some irrelevant city where faces seemed all the same and tones never had a chime of anything other than the normal drabness. He lived in poverty, nothing like the ones that many seemed to complain about, barely scrapping up bread while having a raggedy roof to cover their somewhat soul soaked bodies. He lived in what seemed to truly evolve into something like never before seen, a lifestyle that even those prosecuted would shutter at. Yet, that is quite enough of that, certainly, there isn’t a soul interested in his childhood and the like.
Whitney was, and still is, a person of extraordinarily misfortunate events, yet it was this very fact that helped mold him in unknowing ways. During his times growing up, there were a countless numbers of wars raging about, some that actually involved himself and others that simply required a need for men, all of which he took up arms. Surely, he simply did so to better the situation for his family, but it seemed that particular aspects of his person wouldn’t allow such to go on. After all, there’s something strange about a Cajun trying to mingle in the mists of lands and affairs foreign to him. Yet still, wars would come, entwined fingers with disease, politics, and other large factors would also set in.
He wasn’t anything of a scholar, having truly never had the chance to take to studies other than the wisps of information he gained from passing time. Yet his talents for piecing data together and the like would in fact help him, especially after he took up his last arm for a war that proved to be a pointless as all the others. He would make a migration towards Europe, England to be more specific, and try his luck with the culture in the area as best he could. It would be in England where he secured his altered outlook, and sought to salvage what he could for his educational tastes. Yet once more, it would take money to tend to family and his own needs, and there wasn’t anything of a chance that he’d allow for them to return to such a low like they had before.
He would take notice of the University and its need for teachers, putting his own fabrications on personal experience as he applied for the job. He was qualified, perhaps not in the way they’d have preferred, but qualified nonetheless.
Skills: "When Adam delved, and Eve span
Who was then a gentleman?"
Dearest Whitney has the memory of an elephant, being able to recall any and every event that has taken place before him in a vivid concentration. Surely, his memory is prominently photographic, and with the help of his keen observations and eye for details, it’s rather hard for someone to pull a fast one around him. Don’t ever let his disgust towards music and flowers fool you, for Whitney is quite the music lover if anything. His fingers have left their finger prints on nearly all musical instruments of the time and other productions, tinkering with anything that may fall prey to his tastes. From the mandolin to the fiddle, Whitney is something enchanted by the sound, though he may only appear so when in the audience of his self.
He has quite a green thumb, something which is none other’s business but his own. He’s also able to create sentences with the majority of it being of one particular letter, taking more so to the more unusual lettering of the alphabet. He’s good at haunting people with his words and his presence, call it a burden or a gift, but it’s nearly always beneficial to him. Whitney is an ace aim and weaponry expert, now surely, one would not be able to tell due to his rather lack of attention, but please- if for the sake of your own safety, do not try to formulate any altercation with him. Always fear the enigma that keeps to himself, it’s simply a rule to do so.
Classes: Conjunction of History and Geography for the most part, but if he is desired for something otherwise, his objections are nothing realistic.
Character secrets: “Mary Mary quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty maids all in a row.”
To be honest, Whitney being a Cajun is in fact a secret of his, one of the few that he actually bothers to keep concealed. He also is a heavy insomniac and an overly light sleeper, meaning that in the rarity that he actually can gain sleep; even the faintest of noises will in fact wake him. He’s a habitual smoker, though he does in fact detest said all together, and tends to plant and the like on a daily basis. Being a music fanatic, and truly it is something serious, but he only has one secret that would shatter him. Whitney has taken part in many wars, seen many things, and dealt with numerous situations and ideals that were personified- and he’d rather not discuss, disclose, or even speak to linger about any of it at any point in time to anyone.
Anything else? The only true items that can be found in Whitney’s mists are some plants and his collection of instruments, you even dream of any of it and he’ll be on you like a perm to nappy roots. Whitney speaks properly and without a tone or accent, but in truth he has a very distinct accent that drips heavy and husky in tone and manner. He loves to make connections between things, so if you ever happened to find nursery rhymes and little chants endearing, wait until the truth slips from his lips and break your little childhood hearts. And ah yes, the dear keeps journals, or something of the sort, they are filled with his fanciful novella narrations, but still journals nonetheless.
RP Sample: {Perhaps not complete, but it's merely a sample xd }
“For the love of..”
Fingers danced clumsily upon his brow as he gave a light quiver, his lips pulled sourly near the ends of his chin. His head throbbed unanimously, a fact that he would never be inclined to speak of, but one that seemed so dominant that he couldn’t keep from at least uttering something in his own defense. Had he have not know better, he would have issued his fingers to try and soothe the pain by caressing the hidden attributes of his forehead. Yet atlas, the older gentleman knew better than to try such a silly thing, it would produce nothing but irritability for him. More so, he thought, because it would already be something less than enchanting to deal with the youths that would soon flock into the room.
It wasn’t as if they were horrid in conduct, but simply that they were something lacking in depth to him.
He wasn’t known for discriminating factors, to point out how utterly despicable those that were fortunate enough to have an ample supply of lavishness were in attitude, and how stereotypical those that were on a similar spectrum as he in motion. Was it truly society that would take the blame for every misfortune that fell upon the generations? It seemed that it was society that feared the breaking of the vicious cycle, for truly how is such a whole to be persecuted if not by another whole similar in size and structure? He gave his head a brief shake, the silvery strands of silk clinging in a light curl to the fluent dark of his skin. Perhaps he truly was the sight that his students came to see, such a looming phantom with an unusual mane.
“Vivacious vindications vividly verify various visions vacantly viewed-.”
His lips remained parted as his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden haul of his eyes towards the closed door of his classroom. His moppets were close in contact, somewhere roaming the halls and giving their scents a light linger as they passed through. He should have been something weary from not being able to close his eyes for more than fifteen seconds for a whole two weeks now, but he was nothing but normal. Well, on the exterior of course, but his body was lightly weeping from the lack of physical rest. Such a thing should have drove him to the deeper shades of the world, yet it seemed to contradict and do the very opposite.
His insomnia was what kept him sane, or as sane as someone of Whitney’s predicament could actually strive to be.
Nonetheless, he was to choose a random area for which his lectures would take to, he felt it something interesting to spontaneously take to a subject that he preferred to dwell upon. Not to say that he was something of a regular to disregarding his curriculum, but simply that on rare times he felt it a must to take a more personal appeal. “Perhaps Panama?” The words had slipped from his lips unknowingly, low and monotonous, a thing which seemed highly unlikely to be viewed as something normal from the man known as Whitney SinClair Valentine II. “Ah, yes, precisely!”
Of course, it wasn’t quite Panama that he wanted to take to, but it would do for the time being. He was already rather sure that the youths were nothing familiar with the place, nor would they ever be unless their precious mamas and papas were to happen and vacation there, a thought which he certainly didn’t doubt. His fingers lightly strayed to the plumb of his bottom lip, having suddenly felt a warm sting pierce it, and much to his chagrin, found that his lip had split. The blood was something foreign, perhaps, and dark enough to be the dye from a plum or something of the sort. Yet he knew it was not blood, that was a subject he was nearly an expert of, but simply an inkling having gone wrong as his fingers had toyed with his temples…
