Post by PEYTON MICHAEL DANIELS on Feb 9, 2012 21:14:48 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style,border: 1px solid #5d4727; background: url(http://i1123.photobucket.com/albums/l545/Cynessie/teog/simple-paisley.gif); background-color: 3e3e3e, true][atrb=cellpadding,4px;][atrb=width,500,true] [style=width: 387px; font-family: georgia; text-align: right; letter-spacing: 2px; font-size: 25px; font-variant: normal; font-style: italic; line-height: 9px; color: #c30a38; background-color: #transparent; padding-left: 5px; margin: 0px; border-bottom: 5px solid #f8f6ea; text-shadow: #d0cb9f 1px 1px 1px; ]THE LONE-WOLF!  THE BASICS, NAME - Peyton Michael Daniels NICKNAME(S) - AGE & BIRTHDAY - Seventeen - June 22nd GENDER - Male ORIENTATION - Straight GROUP - Senior PLAY-BY - Matt Lanter IDEA - Original THE APPEARANCE, HEIGHT - Six feet, one inch WEIGHT - Approximately one-hundred seventy pounds EYES - A mix of blue and green, they can shift depending on his mood HAIR - A medium, chocolate brown, usually styled in a rather shaggy, careless manner DISTINGUISHING FEATURES - Putting his generally rough, aggressive exterior aside, one might pick out Peyton from the crowd due to his eyes, or perhaps his rather odd, boyish level of maturity. His expression speaks of experience, untold secrets of his past, while the rest of his body language is that of a normal, seventeen year old boy. He doesn't walk with outrageous confidence, but rather a humble knowing of the fact the ones around him know better than to bother picking a fight with him. PERSONAL STYLE - As far as clothing goes with Peyton, he tends to be... oddly relaxed. Unlike most of the students attending the school, he doesn't hold a value for name-brand clothing, nor does he care to look better then the next guy who enters the room. If something fits, and he likes it, he'll wear it--sure, he enjoys looking good just like any other person, but his standards are rather low, compared to mos of the high-class beings within the school. He usually settles with leaving his hair shaggy--not in any sort of unattractive manner-- but rather, he doesn't bother to spend hours in front of a mirror, styling his hair to perfection. Plenty of times he'll just throw on a hat, and be out the door. He doesn't have much of a preference, but isn't exactly sloppy, either. THE PERSONALITY, LIKES - Conflict of any kind, being in control of most situations, solitude, victory, football and other full-contact sports, women DISLIKES - People flaunting their authority over his head, being controlled and/or feeling restrained, being threatened, liars, overly happy-go-lucky people, most guys--despite a select group of males, in which he usually finds himself growing attached to STRENGTHS - Combat of any kind, resourcefulness, cunning, witty, very physically strong, doesn't take insults personally, stands his ground, determined, has life experience, as well as street-smarts WEAKNESSES - He lacks control over his anger, can turn violent very quickly, has grown up learning to translate all emotion into violence, doesn't trust easily, is very guarded, takes a long while to open up to others GOALS - To prove everyone that ever doubted him wrong, to succeed at something, to get on the right track FEARS - Getting close to someone only to have them ripped away from him, to be vulnerable and/or weak, to hurt someone he cares for [regarding his lil anger prollems] SECRET(S) - His past; he tells no one, unless it's needed OVERALL - Peyton is certainly one hell of a hardened individual, even at only seventeen. Due to his past, the man has been forced to mature at a very rapid, unnatural rate, and because of this he has become a very guarded, cold, and unforgiving. He tends to be on the quiet side; observing the ones around him, rather then provoking conversation, though as soon as he gets angered, he has somewhat of an explosive temper. His entire life, the man has trained himself to translate each and every unwanted emotion into anger, as a protection mechanism. If he gets upset, or perhaps even hurt, his immediate reaction is to turn to violence. He doesn't even realize he's doing it, most of the time. The only other emotion he allows himself to feel is lust--though certainly not in a respectable way. Peyton never engages in relationships with women, and keeps it strictly to flings. Now, this man isn't one to crack a smile very often. He's rigid and stiff, never partaking in physical contact aside from sports and/or for pleasure, as he tends to be a rather rough, abrupt man indeed. He refuses to get close to anyone and views it as dangerous, and in all truthfulness, entirely fears love. He feels emotion is weakness, and chooses not to feel them. That, of course, excluding anger and lust. Those are the only emotions he feels are acceptable, and won't cause him harm. Now, should Peyton get close to anyone, be it even just a firned, he gets very, very protective over them. Should he feel threatened, he will act outwardly and aggressively, without thinking whatsoever. He'll die for the ones he cares for, and will stay loyal until the end. That is, if you can weasel into that tiny, little place within his heart. Now, as far as arrogance and experience goes, Peyton does have quite the right to brag--however, he chooses not to flaunt his skill, and is a very humble person. He's a skilled fighter, not in the technical area, but rather in resourcefulness, experience, and ability to read a threat. He's physically strong and he knows it, and will display his dominance should someone come across as a threat to him. He has been fighting others since he can remember, and so there's little he fears. Finally, Peyton does have a soft side, no matter how barely existent it is. However, for someone to see that side--that's a different thing entirely. THE BACKGROUND, ETHNICITY - American? PARENTS - Mother: Marie - unknown - deceased, Father: Robert - unknown - unknown whereabouts SIBLING(S) - PET(S) - OTHER(S) - GENERAL HISTORY - There was a time, when Peyton was happy. Sure, his family was facing borderline poverty; and yes, he'd turned to frowned upon tactics in order to bring somewhat of a salary home to his family. But, they loved each other. That's what matters, doesn't it? They'd always pulled through, his mother, father and him. Every night, despite how late his mother returned from work, would sit around the kitchen table, laughing and talking about the going-ons of their busy day. They were like every other, close family in America; pulling through only in order to keep themselves together. Peyton had finally been able to attend school during grade two, and never once skipped as he grew older, thankful for the chance at an education. Most boys that lived in his area of town had turned to gangs and drugs as a way of life, but as a child, he'd been hopeful. Determined. Funny, how some things can change. As the years passed, things only got harder. Eventually, after his father left his mother and him to fend for himself when the boy has turned twelve, Peyton was forced to drop out of school, and instead resume to earning money, or stealing it from the occasional passer-by on the sidewalk. He became a very independent kids, making friends with the other children on the block, and they, together, would steal from the local grocery, in order to bring home goods to their struggling families. Life went on like this for years, with Peyton doing his best to help his overworked mother, though by the time he'd turned fifteen he was already involved in a very active, dangerous gang. It was fate, really. Or, that was how the man viewed it to be. He needed security and purpose--and, given the fact his mother worked all day, only to come home and sleep all night, this was hardly accomplished at home. It took time, but eventually he just slipped into the wrong crowd; it wasn't a conscious decision, but rather an act of moving further away from his good morals. However, rival gangs were often a problem. Peyton and his group sabotaged everything they could, in order to get on other group's nerves, and it did come back to bite them right in the ass. When the boy was just fifteen, that was when he was jumped, for the first time. Of course, he'd been in plenty street fights before. But, they were nothing like this. He and two other boys were walking back to his place, when an old, rusted vehicle rolled up beside them, and five burly, aggressive-looking guys stepped out, arms crossed, lips curved into sneers. They greeted them with harsh, mocking words, before, out of nowhere, slugging one of Peyton's comrades. He fell, limply, to the ground beneath the offender's feet, and given Peyton's protective tenancies, he fought back, and damn, he fought back hard. Even still, two on five is hardly fair. Peyton was discovered the morning after by an elderly woman carrying her groceries, unconscious in a puddle of his own sweat and blood. His friends lay beside him, and but a few, short hours later, he would come to find out that one of them had met their death, at the hands of the men from the night before. Two stab wounds to his chest were the only explanation, and despite the logic that spoke against it, Peyton desperately longed for revenge. Needless to say, there were a few lives lost the week following. But, two wrongs doesn't make a write. It didn't take long, for Peyton to suffer, once again, at the hands of karma. He'd killed the second-hand of the rivals, and it had angered their thrity-three year old leader. Needless to say, he wasn't nearly what most would consider to be as merciful. Peyton had been making his way home, later then usual, and had been just reaching into his pocket to fish out his key, when he paused, cerulean eyes flickering towards the door, which stood ajar. Anyone in their right of mind knows that's never a good sign. Immediately, Peyton reached into his bag to pull out the small switchblade he carried with him, before slipping into the darkened apartment, eyes narrowed, in attempt to see. He reached out for the light, his fingers brushing against the cool surface of the wall, only before he heard the familiar click of a gun ebin loaded, as the barrel was pressed against the back of his head. "Move," the man behind the gun spoke, and Peyton did so obediently, dropping his weapon on command. He was dragged into the kitchen, where his mother sat, tied and bound, the cult-leader standing right beside her, with a mocking little smile. "So nice of you to show, Peyton. We've been waiting." He said with a small smile, as Payton's mother cast him a small, worried glance. He knew what was to happen, and there was no way of changing it. He mouthed "I love you," before the gang-leader fired, and the teenager watched as the life faded from his own mother's eyes, as her chest fell for the last time. He was badly beaten, once again, though he didn't give much care to the fact, as he was thrown into the street. For hours on end, the boy just rambled about the city, his face bloody and bruised, the world around him in a thick fog. He couldn't get his mind over the events of the night, and despite the worried glances he got from the people around him, he just continued on his way. That night, he ducked into an alley, and slept over a heater. With no where to go, and no one to claim him, he was entirely alone. He spent weeks, just wandering the streets. He couldn't pay the rent for his apartment, and soon it was taken away from him. All he could get his hands on was a single, dirtied picture, in which showed his mother, father, and himself, all smiling. Those were the good days, he'd thought, before leaving the apartment for the last time, tucking the photo into his jacket pocket. All his life, even when his mother had died, Peyton had never cried. But, as he stalked away from the place he called home, with nowhere to go, a single tear slipped from his eye, and trailed down his cheek. What had he become? He was on the streets for nearly a year before social services was able to locate him, and place him into a foster home. Unfortunately, not a one could handle him. The boy had turned to anger, brutal and raw, to solve each and every emotional problem that was brought to him, and to most it was far too daunting a task to handle him. It was as he was walking "home" one evening, scuffing his shoes along the paved dirt road, that a football landed at his feet, and the boy paused, turning towards the boy that was failing his arms, yelling at him to throw it back. And so, he did. He picked it up, put his hands over the laces like his father had explained to him so many times, and threw it. And damn, it felt good. Over the next years, Peyton turned most of his aggression towards football. He had yet to be assigned to a foster home, and instead, was able to ride on his football scholarship to Harbour. With no one to call his friend or family, he entered the school, giving little care to the rich, stuck-up people surrounding him. He'd made it. For once in his life, he'd made it. THE PUPPETEER, YOUR NAME - GREYtheFLAILER, Grey EXPERIENCE - I don't rightly know. Three, maybe? OTHER CHARACTER(S) - Nerp, not yet! DISCOVERY - Google, yoyo. C: ACTIVATION CODES - You've fallen for me THE ROLEPLAY SAMPLE, This was from an equine site--hope that's alright? .xXx. It was this feeling, this thrill of waiting in suspense for his opponent, in which Looking Glass had always revelled in to a massive, barely comprehensionable degree. The excitement of a fight had always been able to successfully excite the brute, and despite the fact this particular brawl was out on nothing but a whim, he was out for blood. He had no reason to be angered with his opponent, of course; however, he had every right to be mildly offended with the challenge. Why, might you ask? Well, the fact that this brute, Cinna, who was approximately two hands shorter, blind, and had a considerably lesser build then Looking Glass, figured he could actually challenge him and win, well, that was certainly reason enough for the ebony hellion. He would end him. Looking Glass stood atop a single, barren hill, his mane and tail whipping about wildly with the warmer, summer breeze, as he eagerly awaited the arrival of his opponent. Perhaps he would actually show up, unlike the oh-so-cowardly Faolan, and face Looking Glass like any courageous, real stallion would. Then again, should this blind fellow even show, wouldn’t it be morally wrong for Looking Glass to take part in battle with him, given his disability? The male gave a sharp snort, his eyes brimming with mocking and amusement with the absurd thought. Never, not since the stallion was but a wee colt, had he considered the well-being of others, and it certainly wasn’t about to change now. If the stranger wanted a fight, Looking Glass would be happy to oblige. And, if it so happened that other horses judged him on leaving the poor soul broken and battered, well, that would be their own fucking problem. The ebon brute doubted he could care less of what others thought of him, let alone the condition Cinna was in after he had finished with him. Looking Glass’ thoughts continued to travel down a more gruesome, brutal path as he stood in wait for Cinna, however his mind thinking’s quickly become somewhat vague, and fading into nothingness as the silvery, blind stranger came into view. As soon as the brute was a good distance away from Looking Glass, his slower, steady canter immediately diminished as he came to a halt at the bottom of the hill, the air about him rather calm; speaking of readiness, and a certain serene quality in which the ebony draft couldn’t quite place. He knew this brute was here to fight, it was clear within his set expression, and this conclusion was only proved true when Cinna spoke, his lyrics muttered, though barely audible. “Let the games begin.” His masculine voice was stern and determined, and Looking Glass knew that his simple, silent statement served as the sound of the starting gun, signalling the battle to begin. With the words, the ebon steed arched his neck resiliently, so much so that his chin brush against the hardened muscle of his chest, as his entire body began to pull taught; tightening with clear excitement and anticipation of what was soon to come. The stallion forced out a snort as he tossed his head, the action a rather ruthless, aggressive one, before picking up into a collected trot, beginning to make his way closer to the male before him. His knees pulled up into his chest as he made his way closer, turning the gait into somewhat of a majestic march, flooding with both dominance and pride. Of course, this stranger couldn’t be blessed with the flawless gait, as he could not see it. A devilish, nasty little smirk twisted Looking Glass’ lips, with the condescending thought. This would be far, far too easy. He didn’t bother to slow as he approached the male, but rather swerved, pushing his gait into a steady canter in order to begin circling about Cinna in a rather predatory, hungry manner. His head dipped into alignment with his withers, ears splaying flat against his skull, in a brief attempt to both disorientate and hopefully strike fear into the very core of this new opponent. It would take some sort of daft, unaware prick to realize that he was at the disadvantage at this moment, and Looking Glass hoped to feed off of this insecurity, in order to strengthen his own likeliness in coming out victorious. He circled the brute momentarily before finally deciding it was about time to speak, his words snaking past parted lips very easily, immediately speaking of nasty, brutal intentions and lust for bloodshed. “I hope you understand what you’ve brought upon yourself, Cinna.” His masculine, deep voice was nearly a growl, the sound rumbling from deep within his chest, hinting to the aggressive longings bubbling to the surface of his mind. “You’re done.” He spat with a mocking little chuckle, before, without any warning whatsoever, launching himself towards the stallion. Before Looking Glass came even close to the smaller brute he hauled both front hooves from the earth beneath him, his pillars lashing out rather savagely as he finally came into striking distance, aiming directly for the other stallion’s exposed flank. Looking Glass was rather educated in the form of hand-to-hand battle, and was vitally aware of the fact that the flank was, indeed, a weak spot on any horse, and, should he hit his mark, his dinner-plate sized, jagged hooves would hopefully unleash hell upon his pelt. He didn’t take too long however, and as soon as the male felt his balance faltering he was sure to bound back, whipping around with as much speed a horse his size could muster, in order to gather himself, only to lunge forwards once more, with yet another simple, finale of an attack. The face. It was common sense, to go for such a vulnerable place, seeing as it was natural for any horse, let alone a blind one, to be overly heads-shy and wary of their weaker spots. Looking Glass knew that, by attacking where the brute was most insecure, it would once again further his chances at winning. His haunches bundled beneath him, muscle tensing like an elastic pulled taught, before the male sprung forwards, his hind legs pushing from the dry earth below him, in order to get him as close to Cinna’s face as possible. Instead of lashing out with his hooves like the last attack, however, Looking Glass’s lips parted, as he began snapping and biting in hopes of catching the skin surrounding Cinna’s eyes or face. Flesh along the facial features was tender and sensitive; he could only hope he would hit his mark. Spending only as much as time needed, Looking Glass was quick to pull away once more, in hopes of protecting himself from any attacks that could be coming in response to his own. He let out an excited, adrenaline-fuelled neigh as he sidestepped away from Cinna, his gait springy and light, much like that of a playful colt. Would luck be within his hands, today? 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