Post by Julien Delacroix (3) on Jul 3, 2009 2:07:28 GMT -5
DELACROIX, JULIEN
NAME:Julien Volya Delacroix (He doesn’t know his middle name; only Molonov knows it)
GENDER: Male
BIRTHDATE: 14 March 1987
AGE: 22
ETHNICITY: French
HOMETOWN: Versailles
FOUND IN: St. Petersburg (Russia)
NATIVE LANGUAGE: French
SPEAKS ENGLISH: Yes, extremely well. Speaks and understands a little Russian too. (And knew German before becoming a part of the experiment, but cannot remember anything except basics now.)
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION:
Jules stands at 5’10. The best way to explain his body-type is lanky. His face is very angular with high cheekbones and a sharp chin. Jules rarely smiles, and when he does it’s a wry humourless smile. He has short dark hair, and large blue eyes. Jules always looks like he’s in thought. He’s extremely pale from spending so much time in the dark catacombs. Jules has a very subdued presence when around the rest of the residents so that they don’t approach him. He has a number of scars. Some in his arms from injections and treatments, and also a thin scar on his upper lip from a number of run ins with Molonov.
PERSONALITY:
Julien is beyond a doubt, self destructive. Though he has yet to do anything that would be considered as self harm, he does have a habit of ticking Molonov off intentionally. Sometimes he’ll even step into a fight for some of the teenagers so that they don’t take the brunt of the punishment. After receiving the punishment for them, Jules often tells them to go away when they try to thank him.
He’s a very aloof . He wants little to do with people, and tries to avoid conversation with other residents as often as possible. If cornered into a conversation, he is often rude and sarcastic to the people. He has a subdued presence, and some don’t even realize he’s around, and he prefers it that way.
Jules has very narrow interests, and reads many of the books in the social hall many times over again. Comparatively to other residents, he has a good memory, and often has memorized passages from his favourite books, and what pages they’re on. Also he enjoys playing strategic games such as chess, but prefers playing them alone. He’s extremely intelligent, and can often understand how to do complex mathematical/science concepts, yet he doesn’t understand why he can do them. He’s extremely secretive about this.
He’s morbid, often talking about death when he does talk to people. He’s sure that everyone in the place is dying, and that dying would be better than living. It’s the bitter end as he knows it, he just wonders how long it’s going to take.
MEMORIES & POSSESSIONS:
Julien remembers images, faces, and words from his past. Most of them making no sense to him at all. He clearly remembers the name Volya, but it never registers in his brain as his own middle name. For some reason he remembers two golden cherubic children holding up a crystal chandelier, and wide arched roofs that are painted like tapestries**. He also remembers Molonov, a very young Molonov in his head, which often leads him to believe that they had a past that he doesn’t know about. Lastly, he often remembers his head laying in a woman’s lap as she plays with his hair. She’s often seen wearing a gown like the ones the residents wear when they’re going to be experimented on. Among the other things that Jules remembers is complex mathematical equations, and how to solve them. He’s come to the conclusion that he’s always liked playing with numbers. As far as words go, Jules remembers Versailles, although doesn’t know if he was born there or not. He also remembers the Russian phrase for “Cheer up buttercup,” but doesn’t know what it means… Jules does remember the day of his birthday, however, he doesn’t remember the year. He knows he must be in his early 20’s, however, considering he was brought into the experiment in his late teens.(Julien has been there for six years now.)
Among his possessions, Jules has noticed that he probably owns more things than the other residents. Most of the clothes he started off with have grown too small for him, and he’s given those to some of the younger boys (and girls) there. He has a small ornate wooden box that carries two plain gold wedding bands in. He has no idea why he has them, or whose they are, but he just can’t part with them. Jules owns a fountain pen that has no ink. He has a number of Alexandre Dumas books (in French, obviously,) He has a jar of seashells with black sand. He also has babushka dolls that fit nicely into one another. There’s a bottle of women’s perfume, and a postcard (with no address on either side) that is the picture of a huge garden. On the front is says Jardin de Poitiers. He owns quite a few other things, but doesn’t feel they’re significant at all.
*** This is a memory from Le Chateau deVersailles in the hall of mirrors.
CANON/ORIGINAL:Canon
PLAY-BY: Jonathan Rhys Meyers
REQUESTED NUMBER: 3
SUPERSECRET PASSPHRASE:You fucking love meLife is but a nightmare.
Hi, my name is JONAH!/Chris and I am 525,600 years old. My chatango name is jonahdoherty, and I also play Charles Bear. You can reach me via PM, lazy bum
. Oh, and here is an example of what I can do:Mission for today: snoop out enough money for socks.
It seemed easy enough. He had two dollars jingling in his pocket already, and all he needed was another two and a half dollars. Or he could just trade the bastard down the street his vest-jacket for them. The bastard had already asked for it once that day, but Scamp said no. He was aware of the condition that the socks would come in; they’d probably be just as tattered (if not more) than the ones he was already wearing. It would be a bad business transaction, Scamp could smell that from a mile away. Of course, you may ask why he didn’t just steal them; he would have, really, he would, but many of the stores in Oxnard had either too many employees bugging their little eyes out at every customer, or there were too many cameras. Besides, who would you keep your eye on anyways? The family of four on the cereal aisle, or the hobo looking at the socks.
Scamp would have bet everything he owned on that hobo.
Scamp leaned against a light pole, watching the people around him. His gaze flickered from person as he crossed his arms over his chest. A little old lady walked past. Her purse was clutched to her chest as she looked Scamp in the face. Her lips were a thin straight line. She was too tightly wound to ask for money. She’d either run away from him, or bark at him to get away from her. Another woman passed, younger, and pretty he supposed. She had nice smoky eyes, not that he was looking at that. Scamp was paying attention to the purse hanging haphazardly off her arm. How easy would it have been to snatch it and run? The answer: stupidly easy. Scamp was tempted to yank that purse strap as she past him, but he let the perfect moment pass, and it was too late. Moments later, a man wearing baggy jeans past. He could see the bulge of the man’s wallet… What an easy target as well…. And he let the man walk past.
Another one bites the dust… Scamp thought. He pulled his beanie down further on his head. If he kept letting the opportunities around him slip away, he was never going to get his new socks. New socks. That word, New, it always made him feel fuzzy inside. He rarely ever owned anything new.
Scamp moved from the light pole, and sat down on the curb. He continued to watch people walking around him, and close by, a little geo metro pulled up. Scamp sat up a little as he watched a guy crawl out… He was kind of nice looking. You know, dark haired, light eyed, and leather jacket type of nice? Or was the word bad? Yeah. People called them the bad boys…
Scamp squelched down his attraction. He always kept a leash on it. He didn’t want anyone knowing his sexuality. It was easiest to play the asexual twit. At least then no one would try to trade sexual favours with you.
The guy was coming toward him, walking with his head down.
“Hey!” Scamp called, “can I bum a quarter or two from you?”
It seemed easy enough. He had two dollars jingling in his pocket already, and all he needed was another two and a half dollars. Or he could just trade the bastard down the street his vest-jacket for them. The bastard had already asked for it once that day, but Scamp said no. He was aware of the condition that the socks would come in; they’d probably be just as tattered (if not more) than the ones he was already wearing. It would be a bad business transaction, Scamp could smell that from a mile away. Of course, you may ask why he didn’t just steal them; he would have, really, he would, but many of the stores in Oxnard had either too many employees bugging their little eyes out at every customer, or there were too many cameras. Besides, who would you keep your eye on anyways? The family of four on the cereal aisle, or the hobo looking at the socks.
Scamp would have bet everything he owned on that hobo.
Scamp leaned against a light pole, watching the people around him. His gaze flickered from person as he crossed his arms over his chest. A little old lady walked past. Her purse was clutched to her chest as she looked Scamp in the face. Her lips were a thin straight line. She was too tightly wound to ask for money. She’d either run away from him, or bark at him to get away from her. Another woman passed, younger, and pretty he supposed. She had nice smoky eyes, not that he was looking at that. Scamp was paying attention to the purse hanging haphazardly off her arm. How easy would it have been to snatch it and run? The answer: stupidly easy. Scamp was tempted to yank that purse strap as she past him, but he let the perfect moment pass, and it was too late. Moments later, a man wearing baggy jeans past. He could see the bulge of the man’s wallet… What an easy target as well…. And he let the man walk past.
Another one bites the dust… Scamp thought. He pulled his beanie down further on his head. If he kept letting the opportunities around him slip away, he was never going to get his new socks. New socks. That word, New, it always made him feel fuzzy inside. He rarely ever owned anything new.
Scamp moved from the light pole, and sat down on the curb. He continued to watch people walking around him, and close by, a little geo metro pulled up. Scamp sat up a little as he watched a guy crawl out… He was kind of nice looking. You know, dark haired, light eyed, and leather jacket type of nice? Or was the word bad? Yeah. People called them the bad boys…
Scamp squelched down his attraction. He always kept a leash on it. He didn’t want anyone knowing his sexuality. It was easiest to play the asexual twit. At least then no one would try to trade sexual favours with you.
The guy was coming toward him, walking with his head down.
“Hey!” Scamp called, “can I bum a quarter or two from you?”
