Post by Alexander Rostat on Jun 13, 2011 11:58:16 GMT -8
Alexander S. Rostat
[/b] The war itself shook the foundation of Eden, but it trailed the shadows and back alleys—Angels and Devils were hidden things, kept cloaked by magick and a haunting sense of never truly existing at all. It did not, however, change their basic nature and he supposed he was perfectly fine with a touch of monotony. At least he liked her well enough. Imagine the alternative.the playername: samedi.
experience: Five or so.
how you arrived: Browsing On The Edge.the charactersname: Astaroth, technically. He typically masquerades as Alexander Sven Rostat.
gender: Male.
age: Appears about seventeen or eighteen, but is really Too Fucking Old. On his birth certificate—duly fake, of course—it says he's 23.
birthdate: 7/13.
species: Devil.
sexual preference: His sexuality is changeable and impulsive because humans, truthfully, don't interest him; they're the domain of lower demons. Alexander doesn't consider Devils as having a sex, on the other hand, which only makes the distinction even more confusing for him.the costumeface claim: Yukio Okumura - Ao No Exorcist/Blue Exorcist.
unique features: Excluding an abundance of moles, nothing outside of the typically abnormal characteristics of a demon. Or: his 'features' are not necessarily unique or average, depending on personal definitions. Tails are a nasty surprise and all that for your normal guy or girl.
appearance:
Alexander is neither tall nor short, and there's something deceptively . . . serious about him. From a glance, one would never consider that less-than-talkative-or-really-boring looking fellow in the corner is the same one that tossed his coffee maker out a second story window. In short, Alexander is a regular poster child for that old fashioned "don't judge a book by its cover" axiom. His jaw is decidedly pronounced, and gives him something of a regal appearance—like emperors cut into old coins, he seems sharp and dependable. He stands at a lousy 5'9, and claims he's still growing for contingency's sake. (Truth: he isn't. Tease him and die. "I'm an old man, old men are supposed to be short. Back problems and all.") Although boxy in terms of build, he actually has quite a bit of muscle under that weirdly mismatched trench coat he wanders around in.
His hair is a dark brown, sweeps over his blue eyes and cheek bones, and nearly black without the highlights. Although his eyesight is effectively more than perfect, he likes glasses, and wears them around 'because he can.' Most do truly think he has vision problems, partially because he is pretty damn clumsy, but—rest assured—he came out that way. Finally, his habit of sporting a suit, tie, and trench coat leaves him with a bookish charm, vaguely like a clueless nerd in a sea of more fashionably-aware people.the propspreferred weapon(s): Jericho 941 F. Handgun; semi-automatic. Alexander would like you to know that you never want to see it and he hopes you have a good day.
abilities: Vocal manipulation; first aid; some varieties of illusionary magic; immortality.
power level: As a prince of Hell, Alexander is powerful at the end of the day. It could be argued he is very powerful, but unfortunately he does not specialize in the offensive. Or the defensive. Or anything at all. Far too indolent to bother with learning what he didn't care about, he—to be blunt—blew off his studies and relies on raw talent alone beyond vocal and emotional manipulation. Whether or not he actually has any is arguable. And that's over hundreds of years.
specialty: vocal manipulation or first aid, but it isn't as though he could be bothered to do anything either way. Alexander is Astaroth, after all.
remarkable items: Laptop, medical supplies.the play
strengths:
- Direct.
- Powerful, for obvious reasons.
- Cool-headed.
- Wise, at least when it matters.
- Capable.
- Charismatic.
weaknesses:
- Lazy. To a shocking degree.
- Apathetic.
- Unreliable.
- Something of a smug bastard in that he often passively refuses to listen to orders.
- Clumsy.
personality:
Enormously charming, like all the princes, he nevertheless has a specialized repertoire and personality to match. Alexander, in spite of his imposing title, is by far the laziest of all Hell's royalty—and the most likely to make excuses, ignore his assignments, and then have the balls to politely ask that you "please understand, I was just busy that day." He is something of a neutral extraordinaire; always smiling, almost dreamy and sleepy in his approach to others, and very slow to do things like "emote." More than anything, he seems content to accept things as they are, even if that involves being tossed out for never being able to pay his rent or using your sister's chest as a pillow. (And, subsequently, being dumped headfirst off her knees. Which is terribly unfair.)
Make no mistake when he pleasantly explains away his "novel" concept of social responsibility. Although he might argue a healthy distance from earthly concerns is godlike, always remember that Alexander is from hell, and a Prince of it at that. His true name is Astaroth—the Prince who tempts men into sloth and rationalized philosophies. Explains his pretty words about how the world should be, as well as the fact he never seems entirely able to follow them. On the note of words, talking is something Alexander loves to do, and he regularly indulges in polite little conversations. Very polite, in fact, since he has an in-bred sense of manners until his biting ideas about "humor" comes into play. He can be almost cynical, and dances the line of sarcastic if he's in one of his blacker moods or feeling particularly bored.
Interestingly, Astaroth very rarely visited Eden—or, more accurately, 'stopped by' every few hundred years; for him it seemed like a lot, anyway—and can be, when put mildly, behind the times. He is completely floored by technology, and has a love-hate relationship with it. One day he might demonstrate his colorful vocabulary to the microwave for apparently making no sense at all, and the next gush in a suitably nerdy-fanboy fashion over a computer or a game console. Given that he doesn't have a finite concept of history, he becomes quite confused when asked facts, and might accidentally say something strange or odd sounding to anyone—and, naturally, slang is another language in and of itself. Best avoid it with Alexander, unless it's something very mainstream.
Even if he's pleasant ninety percent of the time, expect the occasional blow-up of anger. Although this isn't often directed at humans—Astaroth rather likes humans, they don't make him do any work—he can retreat into himself and sulk like no one else. Awkward silence is an old friend in his opinion, and he isn't afraid to use it. Fighting is another area where some rage may leak from his usually goodnatured demeanor, but he is firmly a man of blood lust. If he's killing, it's for the fun of it, just like anything else he does. Finally, clumsiness is another of his traits and he can upset many objects. Chairs, tables, bags, ketchup bottles. Knocking things down is his hidden talent, apparently.
history:
Being that he is a Prince of Hell, Astaroth lived a typically princely life. Namely, since he was never considered one of the more important of Satan's Princes—sometimes the smart-ass among them, and always the least dependable—Astaroth had a certain degree of freedom in his decisions. Actually very old, created with the sins themselves, he was left on Earth to "play around" and, according to his father, gather souls to feed Hell. Considering Astaroth's hatred of work, he had zero qualms with this, and would move from hell to Earth at his leisure. (There has and, as far as he is concerned, always will be an abundance of lazy souls to collect. He could meet his quota easily.)
Although he took many names, Alexander was adopted around the 1100s and stuck, partially because he no longer felt like browsing through the hundreds of thousands of names humans made up. Finding a new one each time he descended was becoming quite old, and he began to visit Earth only when forced. Enjoying his break, he spent time with his brothers in hell, and maybe went off with them to start a war or some other large event in history that he forgot about. (After being the cause of so many different historical events, he can admit to having lost track of most of them.) This lasted for the next four or so hundred years, when he once again visited to see what all this scientific hubbub over Aristotle and medical universities was—discovering that he was quite interested in its roots, he studied it for a good three hundred years before Leviathan came knocking on his door with a grim, "Get out of your hovel, Astaroth. God only knows he would be damning it if you did." And thus was the end of the age of Enlightenment, with laziness once again thrust upon the world.
Forced to endure a few hundred more years of boredom and two massive world wars down on Earth, he was shocked to hear of the growing conflict in Eden when he revisited Hell in the early 2000s. Satan was apparently readying all his soldiers for an impending battle, which, much to Astaroth's displeasure, included him and his brothers. Although he initially disagreed with his father over the technicalities and made multiple attempts to argue his way out of duty, eventually he resigned to accompanying them as a strategist. Or: to doing only the least amount of actual fighting possible. With his much fiercer brother Daemon handling the front-lines, Astaroth felt very secure in his decisions, and regularly deserted the field if "things got out of hand" or he became restless and wanted to escape back to earth.
Although Hell's forces were pushed out of Eden after ten years of bloody conflict, Astaroth himself experienced no particular hardships—given that he was a Prince of Hell, his powers were still far beyond the run-of-the-mill devil and he was immortal, which made leaving with only a few cut off limbs possible. (Don't be scared, he got them back.) As the dust settled and the tentative status quo began to reshape, he was forbidden from returning to Earth for "repeatedly refusing to follow orders, you vain little prick!" Instead, he was cursed to spend time aiding in the creation of the New Devil's Alliance to rebuild Satan's army and atone for Daemon's disappearance.
. . . and yes, he is perfectly happy to say good ol' dad is just a big softie at the end of it. Excluding that he ended up stuck looking 18 so he would always be carded at the bar.the linessample roleplay:
"Alex!" She said, bouncing on her heels, "Hey, Alex! Pay attention."
"—Ah! Miss Sophie," he added smoothly, but curbing it with an apologetic tone and a disarmingly naive smile, "Distracted, sorry. Don't be angry."
"How can I not be angry," she chided irritably, throwing her arms behind her head with a mock sigh. He waited for anything else before laughing—more like chuckling, because he kept it low and simple when he adopted the philosopher's pose. "Fuck, always so formal . . . right out of a . . ."
"What can I do to make it up to you," it was easy, and she smirked before shrugging him away. "For the wonderful Sophie, how can I go without forgiveness?" Getting an unfair amount of silence, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a devious glint, "Hey, I'm being honest. I usually listen."
"Usually," Sophie echoed bitterly, grimacing as she shook her head and tapped a finger against her forearm.
"Admitting it is the first step to enlightenment," he countered, cheerfully keeping up as she wandered ahead into the heart of the crowd. Truthfully though? He filled in the blanks as he went along, able to guess at the minute details and deeper concepts that weaved between the lines. Being Old As Sin, he did not need to spend time worrying about what humans thought, or perhaps did not think. (They proved to be shit deep thinkers, if history was any consolation.) As much as Alexander—or Astaroth, but he had a strict policy about keeping a respectful distinction between the Badass and the Loser; people would be envious, and he was a Prince of Hell for Christ's sake. Hell had standards—tolerated the cute and ultimately mundane conversations of the every-day man and woman, he felt like sending good old dad a very poetic list of complaints about being damned to going through adolescence again. And again. And a third time after that. College student's anecdotes about final exams and graduation and some girl's adorable ass got old after two hundred years, much like everything else he encountered.
Or: they were not original creatures except at very opportune moments—very—and that more than included Sophie, even if he had something of an attachment to her. (A creative take on having a pet, as he called it.) Like everyone who stumbled on him, she was not the sort who thought of herself as anything but devote as she talked about scientific theory and how old school God Almighty was. Skepticism was a vice, but not necessarily painful and so she could go on with her delusions. It was never painful, and Alexander traced her steps as people scattered into the metal skeleton of buildings and skyscrapers, chattering about work and ideas and parties while he wore his winsome smile.
Wallowing around with the faithful was his (bad) attempt at playing Devil's Advocate, and he could only think a tired, 'God, I know you don't particularly care for me, but damn, give the people some balls. I prefer somebody who has a clean break up with Christianity. I'd take a good Atheist any day—at least they know Hell wants them.'
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