C
Constantine
Guest
Constantine of Lombard
| Age Twenties |
| Gender Male |
| Origin Hume, Lombard-born |
| Occupation Acrobat, thespian, rogue |
There once lived a boy who dreamed of being so many things—at once a knight, a noble, a king, a sailor, physician, mage, all manner of childlike dreams, divorced from the simple realities suffusing his life. It was a manner of escape, spiriting him away from the dull labors of learning and the too-ready love of parents who always knew best. In these waking dreams he could brandish the sword or decree, grimoire and dance, revel in pleasures long in imagination's tooth. They were suitable dreams for a child. Filled with grandeur and whimsy, a thorough longing for greatness.
As is the manner of dreams, so tremulous and thin that they might slip through an unwitting grasp like so many grains of sand through an open sieve, there came a time that the boy had to awaken. No more could he play king on a throne of loose timber, no more was the stick in his hand a sword than the bread his father baked some northern pastry. Instead, the hard line between reality and fiction was driven into him. Hammered home by rote, practiced under an audience's jeering eye.
For all the passing fictions the boy fancied, not once had he imagined himself a trouper. That was a role selected for him, meticulously appraised and honed year after year. He was given praise for various crafts, told that his voice carried like honey on the ear, that his legs possessed a spry grace and flexibility suitable for the ropes. His fingers were lithe and long, and he could carry a tune by lute or flute. All the same to him. With a fair memory, a strong ear for mimicry, and a face canvased by an array of expression, it seemed only natural.
Well, for the most part. As with any tale, embellishment is half the sport. Perhaps the boy was gifted, or perhaps he grew up among troupers plying their trade. The result cares little for the difference. Much in opposition to his once lofty dreams, the boy became average. It took several years to come to grip with that revelation, to accept mediocrity and determine to abstain from stagnancy despite it.
He walked many a path in the interim, trending to the gutters in search for effervescence, that excited thrill found at safety's expenditure. He was reckless for a time, careless of self in search of that greatness he had aspired to. Only when he sat in a local jail for behavior unbecoming and public indecency did he take the time to reflect: perhaps, he thought, greatness and nobility and the dreams of childhood, were weighted shackles, things that kept him grounded rather than allowing him to take flight into whimsy. Then, given to sober admonition, did the boy begin to shine.
He joined another troupe, filling numerous roles as suited his many half-baked talents. Over the course of months, he earned trust, and through years prestige. Before long, the show was his, and he ran it as he saw fit. That is to say, he ran it like a hammer directed maliciously against the law. Acrobats, you see, made great thieves.
The boy still has his penchant for the dramatics. Forgive him that much, or don't. Try to mind the face, if nothing else. That's one of the few things he has going for him.
As is the manner of dreams, so tremulous and thin that they might slip through an unwitting grasp like so many grains of sand through an open sieve, there came a time that the boy had to awaken. No more could he play king on a throne of loose timber, no more was the stick in his hand a sword than the bread his father baked some northern pastry. Instead, the hard line between reality and fiction was driven into him. Hammered home by rote, practiced under an audience's jeering eye.
For all the passing fictions the boy fancied, not once had he imagined himself a trouper. That was a role selected for him, meticulously appraised and honed year after year. He was given praise for various crafts, told that his voice carried like honey on the ear, that his legs possessed a spry grace and flexibility suitable for the ropes. His fingers were lithe and long, and he could carry a tune by lute or flute. All the same to him. With a fair memory, a strong ear for mimicry, and a face canvased by an array of expression, it seemed only natural.
Well, for the most part. As with any tale, embellishment is half the sport. Perhaps the boy was gifted, or perhaps he grew up among troupers plying their trade. The result cares little for the difference. Much in opposition to his once lofty dreams, the boy became average. It took several years to come to grip with that revelation, to accept mediocrity and determine to abstain from stagnancy despite it.
He walked many a path in the interim, trending to the gutters in search for effervescence, that excited thrill found at safety's expenditure. He was reckless for a time, careless of self in search of that greatness he had aspired to. Only when he sat in a local jail for behavior unbecoming and public indecency did he take the time to reflect: perhaps, he thought, greatness and nobility and the dreams of childhood, were weighted shackles, things that kept him grounded rather than allowing him to take flight into whimsy. Then, given to sober admonition, did the boy begin to shine.
He joined another troupe, filling numerous roles as suited his many half-baked talents. Over the course of months, he earned trust, and through years prestige. Before long, the show was his, and he ran it as he saw fit. That is to say, he ran it like a hammer directed maliciously against the law. Acrobats, you see, made great thieves.
The boy still has his penchant for the dramatics. Forgive him that much, or don't. Try to mind the face, if nothing else. That's one of the few things he has going for him.
Appearance
| Height 5'11 |
| Hair Blonde base |
| Eyes Blue |
In better times he could pass as a noble, a knight set to dazzle any tourney. Never would he fancy himself deserving of such station, of course, doubly considering the acid that dribbles so freely from his tongue. His nose is curiously unbroken despite such leanings, a well-guarded asset that has survived its share of scuffles. There was a time when a fist had indeed marred his sculpted cheeks, twisted his nose from its setting, and it cost him prettily to have it repaired.
Hair a dirty blonde base, he often dyes it to match a mood or whim. Sometimes a vibrant, autumnal red, others shades of duller blue, the occasional violet hues thrown in, it is one of the few ways he has found to express himself true without the layered deception of a mask.
He boasts a clean-shaven chin, but not for a lack of trying. He curses this ineptitude of heritage loudly, the inability to grow a beard being quite vexing to the man. If asked, he would freely say that he might look rather dashing with a beard or even stubble. Unfortunately, the best he can grow mirrors the fuzz on the backside of a peach--all blonde and incandescent, visible more in how it catches odd the light.
Long of leg and tight of torso, with broader than average shoulders holding his frame taught as if on wound up marionette strings, his build falls within expectation of his craft.
Hair a dirty blonde base, he often dyes it to match a mood or whim. Sometimes a vibrant, autumnal red, others shades of duller blue, the occasional violet hues thrown in, it is one of the few ways he has found to express himself true without the layered deception of a mask.
He boasts a clean-shaven chin, but not for a lack of trying. He curses this ineptitude of heritage loudly, the inability to grow a beard being quite vexing to the man. If asked, he would freely say that he might look rather dashing with a beard or even stubble. Unfortunately, the best he can grow mirrors the fuzz on the backside of a peach--all blonde and incandescent, visible more in how it catches odd the light.
Long of leg and tight of torso, with broader than average shoulders holding his frame taught as if on wound up marionette strings, his build falls within expectation of his craft.
Personality
When casing a crowd for their thoughts on him, they might talk big about calling a spade a spade. Loud, charming at times, easy-going to a point of indifference. But never will they call him humble; humility is a word so divorced from his lips that it might very well be the rope with which he hangs himself.
While he wears a bevy of expressions and expresses himself freely, he most often thinks through talking, finding himself at a loss when accosted by silence. To be alone with his own thoughts is indeed a terrifying fate. It is rather easier to hide such fears in the mire of conversation. He is a master of that craft, tangling himself in word after meandering word, all to escape what he might find behind the mask.
While he wears a bevy of expressions and expresses himself freely, he most often thinks through talking, finding himself at a loss when accosted by silence. To be alone with his own thoughts is indeed a terrifying fate. It is rather easier to hide such fears in the mire of conversation. He is a master of that craft, tangling himself in word after meandering word, all to escape what he might find behind the mask.
Skills
Swift of wrist and fleet of foot, Constantine possesses the grace of an acrobat, honed from years of performance on the road. Silver of tongue and bright of mind, he boasts a great confidence in talking his way out or into just about any situation. Steady hands allow for excellent penmanship, which he puts to use judiciously for the purpose of forgery. As an actor, well, he is rather average, carried far by a pretty face.