Post by Deleted on Dec 29, 2013 21:56:10 GMT
[attr="class","temps"] [attr="class","temps2"]  | [attr="class","temps"]NATHANIEL MOREAU NINETEEN - MALE - UNIVERSITY STUDENT (PRE-MEDICAL) but rudders of body's doth carry us on and more moons than our eyes can recount and store yet they bid that we see the same things sweet they bid that we swim in their seas |
[attr="class","temps"]PERSONALITY
(+) sharp witted, meticulous, patient, phlegmatic, eloquent, devil-may-care attitude, assertive.
(−) apathetic, narcissistic (lacking empathy and egocentric), amoral, obstinate to obsessive, deceptive, misanthropic.
nathaniel isn’t ambitious, no. he has not a goal to work at in life. no particular occupation interests him. all the frills and fanfares of life—material wealth, job security, relationships, leisure pursuits—don’t interest him. he goes through the day-to-day motions and studies diligently now in university, because there’s no doubt he’ll succeed. he’ll go through the motions and end up working at the hospital, and there’s no doubt he’ll gain financial security and recognition. it’s something he’d be good at, the medical profession. there’s a certain irony to it that he enjoys, that leaves a bitter, metallic tang on his tongue. he could watch the world burn without batting an eye, and yet, here he is, on the path to saving the insignificant human lives as infinitesimal to him as grains of sand.
(−) apathetic, narcissistic (lacking empathy and egocentric), amoral, obstinate to obsessive, deceptive, misanthropic.
nathaniel isn’t ambitious, no. he has not a goal to work at in life. no particular occupation interests him. all the frills and fanfares of life—material wealth, job security, relationships, leisure pursuits—don’t interest him. he goes through the day-to-day motions and studies diligently now in university, because there’s no doubt he’ll succeed. he’ll go through the motions and end up working at the hospital, and there’s no doubt he’ll gain financial security and recognition. it’s something he’d be good at, the medical profession. there’s a certain irony to it that he enjoys, that leaves a bitter, metallic tang on his tongue. he could watch the world burn without batting an eye, and yet, here he is, on the path to saving the insignificant human lives as infinitesimal to him as grains of sand.
[attr="class","temps"]OTHER
it was fortuitous. he’d crushed the brochure underfoot. the pavement was wet from the infernal london rain, so that the glossy paper had stuck to the sole of his boot. when he reached down to peel the soggy thing off, the bold, big heading had first struck his eyes. nova athenis. then: the image below it, a beach perfectly torn out of a travel magazine; white sand, blue ocean, cloudless sky. then: the caption below it. the tourist destination of your tropical dreams! his gaze lingered on the photograph, and the oppressing heat of the scene had seemed to leak out and thaw the numb fingers clutching onto the scrap of paper. on a whim, he went the summer after his high school graduation. on a whim, he never left.
his bedroom is now a guest room. the floral wallpaper is the same. the same austere, oak furniture remains. the bed, the desk, the armoire. few of his personal belongings have been thrown out; he hadn’t left much behind—some worn out paperbacks, a vacated aquarium tank, a shoebox that used to house dead mice and fowl before the stench grew unbearable. before his parents had found the hidden mortuary tucked under his bed.
there are no photographs of nathaniel in the moreau house. the family photo albums have long been forgotten, if not discarded. his middle school academic achievement ribbons, his primary school crayon drawings and macaroni art—god knows where they are. at dinner parties, mr. and mrs. moreau do not talk about their son dotingly, pridefully. he isn’t brought up at all—save for the occasional dinner guest who is a old friend of the couple. save for the occasional old friend that vaguely recollects the scrawny, silent boy. he or she will inquire about the child. the moreaus will reply, simply, he’s abroad for university, and wave a hand dismissively, how do you like the crystal glasses we bought last week? very high quality.
his bedroom is now a guest room. the floral wallpaper is the same. the same austere, oak furniture remains. the bed, the desk, the armoire. few of his personal belongings have been thrown out; he hadn’t left much behind—some worn out paperbacks, a vacated aquarium tank, a shoebox that used to house dead mice and fowl before the stench grew unbearable. before his parents had found the hidden mortuary tucked under his bed.
there are no photographs of nathaniel in the moreau house. the family photo albums have long been forgotten, if not discarded. his middle school academic achievement ribbons, his primary school crayon drawings and macaroni art—god knows where they are. at dinner parties, mr. and mrs. moreau do not talk about their son dotingly, pridefully. he isn’t brought up at all—save for the occasional dinner guest who is a old friend of the couple. save for the occasional old friend that vaguely recollects the scrawny, silent boy. he or she will inquire about the child. the moreaus will reply, simply, he’s abroad for university, and wave a hand dismissively, how do you like the crystal glasses we bought last week? very high quality.
[attr="class","temps"]OOC
alias: naoxy
last character: n/a
faceclaim: [b][i]PERSONA 3, makoto yuki,[/i][/b] nathaniel moreau
last character: n/a
faceclaim: [b][i]PERSONA 3, makoto yuki,[/i][/b] nathaniel moreau
