Post by markdaniels on Dec 29, 2009 20:57:17 GMT -7
† Mark - Ethan - Daniels †
†Markiebby†
[/center]† General Information †
Full Name: Mark Ethan Daniels.
Nicknames: Markie, Ethie, Danny, Pyromaniac,
Nuts, Asshole, Bossman, Earner, Assassin.
Gender: Male.
Race: Werewolf.
Age: Sixty and three.
Age they appear: Early - Mid Twenties.
Occupation: Assassin.
Orientation: Heterosexual.
Health Problems: None.
† Personality †
Basic Personality: Mark is an easy enough man to get to know. After all, he appears to be incredibly shallow. On the outside what he portrays depends entirely on the situation and location, but there is little complexity even then. He is either ’this’ or ’that’. The explosive expert whose been a killer for years… or the laughable joke one can’t help but chuckle at.
When among society, truly among them he is… simply one of a kind. He is bold and surefooted, confident. He radiates this… this self-assured air that makes him appear almost arrogant… yet… in the same way, not exactly that. More like comfortable with himself and others to the point of utter sureness. He draws people to him with that charisma, and has this ability to make people laugh with his light-hearted, carefree and rowdy attitude. A bit blunt and crude at times, the many enemies he’s seemed to have collected all appear to be (at least, in this ‘public’ portion of his life) nothing deadly severe. They aren’t really “enemies” in the true sense of the word… simply love and hate or hot and cold relationships. Something he’s always had a talent for acquiring, his personal relationships always seem to revolve around the ‘hate to love him, love to hate him’ point. Still, Ethan is a humorous lad and he’s more than willing to make jokes, both at himself and at others. A bit dramatic at times, one feels as if he’s always playing a role. Always out to amuse himself in some way. For many, it’s hard to take Mark seriously… but to those who know him, it is a different matter entirely. To those who know him, Daniels is… a peculiar thing. He could kill without batting an eye, and has made his assassinations into games on more than one occasion, yet, he seems so personable. Many might reprimand him for his childish antics and silly attitude, yet none can wave a barbed tongue at him when it comes to his talent or his reliability. Mark Ethan Daniels, as much as an amiable, joking werewolf as he is… is good at what he does. And assassination, ladies and gentlemen, is what he does.
There is a level of professionalism to him. As rare as it is, and as hard as it is to surface, Mark is a more than capable man. Though he may joke and jest, and though many cannot correlate him to any act of such malevolence, he is full of surprises… and does not shy away from his duty and job. Mark can be remarkably heartless, cold and calculating when the mood strikes him right. He can be harsh and violent, efficient and effective in his obliteration of whatever he was meant to kill. Though his specialty is explosives, he’s rehearsed in other, more personal means of slaughter, and has used his façade of ‘not seeming the type’ more than once to get the job done. One can sense that there is an edge to Mr. Mark Ethan Daniels… and that edge is very unsettling indeed, to those who have ever been exposed to it. He seems… two different men at times. The heartless, callous killer who thinks up these daring schemes of murder… and then the generous, humorous man whose sitting on your couch in his boxers, eating cheetos while watching Comedy Central. But, alas, it’s best not to ask questions, yes? To know the inside workings of Mark Ethan Daniels is a dangerous thing. If you heard his ex-wife say it. Not that we doubt it’d make anymore sense of we ever did know what was going on in his head.
Likes:
† Explosions. Booms. Fireworks.
† Cereal. Orangejuice. Scrambled eggs.
† His work. Thick-headed women. Role reversal.
† Stripclubs. Touch. Dogs. Video games.
† Hunting. Hide and Seek. Killing.
Hates:
† SERIOUSNESS; Now, Marky can be a serious boy... but he doesn't have a lovin' for beings who are so serious all of the time. Far as he's concerned, life's a party... And he's here to have a blast.
† BEING RUSHED; He knows that he and "his boys (and gal)" are constantly on a tight time scheduel and all, but that doesn't mean he likes it when he's rushed. Matter of fact he can be quite stubborn about it. Murder's an art. But how's he suppose to make a pretty picture if they keep rushin' him?
† BEING THREATENED; No one likes being threatened, Daniels is no different. It's rare that he's ever drawn into macho-macho-alpha-male dominance displays, but when he is, he is... And he's just a stupid male over it.
† TEASING; Mark hates being teased, be it with a secret or... be it with something much more sexual. Nothing drives him crazy as much as tantalizing him, and he truly sees it as wicked torment. Especially since he is such a weak man for vice.
† WAITING; Daniels hates being left waiting. As far as he's concerned, everything should be molded to his time schedule… and all should curb to his whimsies.
Talents:
† EXPLOSIVES; Give Markie here a pack of gum, baking soda, and an ol' car battery and he'll make you a bomb. Daniels has a talent for explosives. No lie.
† ASSASSINATION; It takes a type to be able to kill. It takes another type to kill for a living. To many, Mark doesn't seem "the type". ... But the fact is, he's good at murder. Plain and simple.
† BEING RELAXED; One can be amazed at how chill the geezer is. He could be standing on a land mine and still be the relaxed son of a bitch he is, no problem, no sweat. It's almost as if he doesn't care, really.
† REMAINING IMPARTIAL; Mark has never questioned whether or not what he does is right. He does not ask if what he's doing is the best. He doesn't need to. He simply needs to act. And thus, he acts. No hard feelings.
†
Habits:
† Making his comrades and himself kiss the rosary he caries before any detonation of explosives for assassination purposes. It’s tradition. And good luck. And if they don’t buckle down and kiss, nothing is going boom.
† Thinking about suicide. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. Mark will never ever commit suicide… but he thinks about it often enough. Being in the occupation of murder and killing, he can’t help but to. On occasion.
† Taking a run on the new moon. To Mark, nothing feels as free and as 'sure' as his wolf form. It feels good, and powerful, and just... peaceful. So he makes it a habit every new moon, when it tends to be pitch black outside, to just go running. Sometimes it lasts all night. Nothing new.
† Mark is a smoker. He likes cigarettes for the most part. For it, he keeps a lighter always in his pocket. And a pack of smokes.
† Lastly, he's rather possessive over his female co-worker. He likes her, and has ultimately grown quite fond of her and her assistant. He likes them both. And... is rather protective of them. Male dominance pack thing, you know.
† Appearance †
Skin Color: Mark has a tanned hide. Use to being outside, as well as activity, his skin has been busted open more than once. Scars litter him, telling a tale best not told of his numerous violent run-ins.
Hair Color: Depending on the day it might seem dark brown, then on another simply a dark, dirty blonde. Truly it's utterly debateable.
Eye Color: A steely, light blue. Pretty boy eyes, yeah?
Build: Mark isn't unusual. He's mildly tall, standing at six two, and he seems to fill out that height pretty damn well. He's muscled, but leanly so. Strong arms, solid body. One can tell that’s he’s fit. As any assassin should be.
Piercings/Scars/Tattoos: Mark has always liked the idea of a tattoo or piercing, but knows for a fact they'd look rather wretched on him. For that he has none, but scars on the other hand... Mark has plenty of nicks and bruises, cuts and slices. He has plenty of scars, and a thousand stories for each one.
Choice of Clothing: Daniels isn't partial to dressing up. It isn't him. But that doesn't mean he can't dress up nice and look just plain odd doing so. His choice is usually mocked. He likes jeans or sweats and... a shirt. And perhaps a jacket too, if one's lucky. Nonetheless and all the more he's always seen with sunglasses and his rosaries. Two trademarks of him.
Wolf Appearance: There’s little to say about him that hasn’t been said about others of his kind. As a wolf, Mark is simply just so massive. He’s a huge specimen of what one would call ‘the normal wolf’… but to even compare him to a normal wolf is so terribly inaccurate. He’s tougher, hardier, bigger, and even his proportions seem a little skew. He has more leg that a normal wolf, but his legs aren’t straws. They’re solid and have this bulk to them. Ripped with muscle his form is big, sturdy, and vile looking. The fur that covers his figure is thick and coarse and a mixture of quite a few colors. Light sand, tan, grey, and brown seem to fuse throughout his form. His undersides, of course, a lighter color while the portions of him more often exposed (like his back, for example) remain dyed a darker hue. He has a somewhat long snout, and a somewhat large head. Not that it doesn’t seem right on that large body of his. His eyes are medium in size, compared to the rest of him and fit well in their sockets. Light blue in color, they seem a bit more tainted with specks of brown and yellow. His form is marred with scars, and they’re more than recognizable to a hand running its fingers through his fur. Yet, despite this bestial skin there’s something about him. The air he gives off, the way he handles himself, his eyes. Something there gives a good correlation between him in his wolf form, and him in his human… enough so that it that makes him ‘identifiable’. To see him as a human, then as a wolf, one easily sees the similarities.
Other: None.
† History †
History: Mark’s history is easy, simple, and… cutthroat. He was born to Mary Daniels. Her lover ran off, and thus she was forced to raise three sons (yes, she had triplets) all on her own. The poor woman was in a pickle. She gave up on college and was forced to work multiple jobs. She gained aide from her grandmother and her friends. They helped support and raise the three children. Mary was an adamant Catholic… and Mark, Sirius, and Cory grew up with that structured background. Not that all three weren’t ornery anyway. Mark dropped out of high school when he was eighteen. He ran with the wrong crowd, which instigated the event. He was a werewolf. He had no confusion about it, and joined a pack because of it. It wasn’t a good pack, but it was a family… another one, one that batter understood him. At twenty, however, he was left holding the bag of a burglary and murder. It was then that someone by the name of Sam Conner took an interest in Mark. He happened to have been in prison as well… and Mark’s face just looked so familiar. With a strange turn of luck, Sam and Mark became buddies of a kind. Sam knew Mark’s daddy… And willingly spoke of him. When Sam had these expensive lawyers clear his case and get him out of the pen, he offered Mark a choice. Join him and his and get out now, and meet his father… or stay and be a goodboy and waste his life away. Needless to say at twenty six, Mark made his choice and a year later her had freedom. … At the price of selling his soul to the devil.
He truly was running with the wrong kind now. Leaving his family behind, he raced ahead. He met his father and came to love the man… even if the man couldn’t do the same for him. Mark looked to his father for guidance… and yet to say James was really looking out for his son was a lie. After all, he introduced him to ‘The Business’. One doesn’t introduce someone to ‘The Business’ if they care about that person. Nosir.
At thirty six, Mark was a killer. And a damn well good one. He was moving up to international business, and was flourishing. Not that along the way he didn’t realize what kind of lying sack of shit his father was… or not that he didn’t, along the way, regret some of his choices. But it was a snowball effect of sorts. He could not go back now. And so, he didn’t. At forty, he married a fellow assassin. A saucy bitch who drove him wild. Eve Runner, she was called, and a beautiful woman indeed. They were lovers for a long while. Hot and cold, fighting and loving. The two were bad for each other, yet fit so perfectly. They stayed lovers for five years before, at forty five, they found themselves in the heat of a divorce. She ruined him, and took pleasure in it. Even tried to kill him once or twice, really. At fifty three, he had fallen in the worse of graces with the organization he had run with for so long and was… marked off. With the attempt of assassination on his own life, he left the country he had been residing in and went to… a place he knew he could exist with relative safety. Europe. London. … There was plenty of work there for someone of his talents, as well. At fifty four he had his own business booming. He was an assassin on his own merit and was well used by both political parties and rather shady corporations. He never asked, he only did and… he went along well for it. At fifty nine he ran into the D.O.G.S’s pack commissioner and she threw him a deal he couldn’t refuse. He became, more or less, her private little hellrasier… and well, what can one say? He remains well paid and well busy. And after flying solo for so long, it was, in a way (though Mark would never say it) a pleasure to be saddled with two more killing souls. The Missus and her Assistant, both of whom he grew rather fond of through the years and protective of.
Mother/Father: Mary Daniels, mother. James Miller, father.
Siblings: Cory Daniels, brother. Sirius Daniels, brother.
Offspring: None.
Other: Eve Runner, ex-wife.
† RP example †
[/blockquote][/blockquote]He knew his destiny. A very special boy he was for that, yes? He knew in the end he would fight and die. Gloriously, perhaps, but… nonetheless and all the more he’d be stripped of everything. Everything he struggled so fiercely for, everything he had wanted, everything he had dreamed of. It was his Fate. The Oracle had said as much, but he could not help but feel the heave in his chest of a mortal embodiment. It was just like a mortal man to attempt to test, and perhaps twist, fate, wasn’t it? And he was only mortal. Creed was reminded of that every time he turned. He was just mortal. In peaceful life or during times of war, he was apt to listen to the word on the wind because rumors were like wildfire - devastating or quite, quite helpful. As well they were quite telling! When he went to war against the Mordia way back when (so far back was it, that he was not a general himself, but simply a soldier for hire - a mercenary one could say) that had always been their favorite catchphrase: ‘They are simply mortal’. And with that they would have spat in their captor’s face, laughed heartily, and died on their feet… a noble and thickheaded bunch. The Lord had respect for the horned fools for the sheer fact they held the pride of lions, and the dignity that suited their kind. But, fools they were. They were arrogant. Self-absorbed. Too involved in their tradition and their culture to be open to the ideals and the tactics of others. But… perhaps all the races were like that, in their own, special way? He knew for a fact all beings, living, dead, or neither were partial to some line of the same. All people, regardless of race, gender, culture, or upbringing would always assume some part of them or their cause had more prevalence and righteousness than all others. That he knew as a truth. It wasn’t so much a bad thing, however… it was simply… how things were. One could not help but wish (and blindly think) that they, or something about themselves, was the most important thing in the world. After all, how would life be for all and any if they acknowledged how meaningless they were in the grand scheme of things? Pah! It almost put one out of the mood of even living, or trying, or doing anything at all. Didn’t it?“Then rest easy knowing you’re a pretty little devil… even bored and lonely.” He interjected ever so humbly, offering a lowly bow to the damsel, alongside a light smile that seemed to say in so few words, ‘Oh, forgive me sweetheart, I couldn‘t resist’. But such a good bow he could give! Such powerful legs, how the contorted and bended, putting him low to the ground before her! But all good ladies deserve a bow, and all good gentlemen are right to give one. Head lowered chastely and all. Ah, couldn‘t Creed play the part?
… He could tell from her posture, from her manners, from her stance quite a number of delightful things. One being that she wanted nothing to do with him. Or, acted like it at least (but one could never tell with women. Perhaps she despised him already, perhaps she simply adored him, maybe, even… he wasn‘t worth any emotion. A man never knew what a women had in her pretty little head. Though, if one asked Creed that could have been for the best). That ‘I can’t be bothered’ air indulged her, yes, yes it did… But being looked upon with criticizing eyes that thought little of him was nothing terribly new. In fact it only served to remind him of his younger days, his wilder ones where he found himself dealing with nobility more oft than not. Could this sweetie fit into the good-looking skin of a noble lady? Oh, quite definitely. The way she spoke, that long, sweetly drawn out way? And how she presented herself… lazily and silky-like. She was a minx, a fox, and she did well to remind him that her sex was known for their illusive, and allusive, and elusive, selves. Yes, very much indeed. He’d swear on it that she could be of noble blood… But, all of this he said in good jest, however… the same way with how he spoke and how he was acting. Teasing her he was. If she desired to be serious, he desired to be a shameless flirt… If only to get her to blush, if only to see the littlest of unfeigned smile. In all honestly, without mockery, he thought the lady quite charming in looks… and had a feeling in the pit of his stomach her personality, though perhaps ornery at times and frightful… was… in part fair and kindred. For these reasons (as well as a few more personal, senseless ones) he desired to see the woman pleased. After all it looked as if it had been eons since she had any fun. … Even if a person could have probably said the same of Creed himself.
Though she spoke mildly, she remained friendly and cordial enough and for that reason he drew nearer. Rising after adequate time from his bow, he moseyed forward in slow, unimposing steps. Into a more comfortable distance he ventured though… wisely he still did not dare to come too close. Tense she looked still, unsure of him. Not that he could blame the jezebel. … He wasn’t sure if he’d trust someone like himself, if he was in her shoes. No, on the contrary he thought, if he had been a maiden approached by someone like himself, he would not leave it up to chance. He‘s simply scream ‘Rape, rape! The Bastard‘s trying to rape me!’ and find a charming, kindred knight in shinning armor to be rushed off and away with. If he was a woman, anyway. “I wish I could, but I fear I’m very dull and boring.” He said with such a sincere frown. His eyes flickering away from her own to peer at the ground, his look that of most humblest regrets. “But I suppose I could if you’d like, Miss Lady.” He offered, though his voice did not hold in it the mockery one might expect, given he had been so humorous so far. Nah, he was genuine in these few words. If she wanted him to go, he would. If she didn’t mind him staying, however… he’d most certainly like to hang around a moment or two. After all she wasn’t keeling over with laughter and good cheer yet. Was she?
“My name does not suit me. At all.” He said, shaking his head a little as he considered his name, its meaning, and his own self. No. He was no one’s Creed, nor was he worthy of being one. Why his mother decided he would be known as it was beyond him. Perhaps she desired great things of him? Perhaps when she peered into his light eyes on his birthing day she saw her first born son and thought to herself, ‘My little one you shall be the leaders of me, you shall be great!’ and for that she reasoned in her head, what would be a worthy name of someone so great? Oh! Creed, no doubt! For who will not pledge themselves by him? … Needless to say the idea amused, yet sadden him in one fail swoop. Did his mother ever think, when looking upon his young face with that doting affection mothers (true mothers, not dames, but mothers) always have to their young, that he would be her abomination? That he would grow to be her curse, her dread, her hate? Did she ever think he would come and kill her love? Did she ever think that what she birthed would slay so many, and be such a master in the art of Ares work? Did she? And if she had known, would she have, that fateful day, taken a rock and saved the future from him? He wondered on the depressing subject occasionally… but stirred himself from those thoughts. He had this prickly wallflower to entertain. He would be a good boy, a good jester. Yes? Yes. For Lords are all Fools… and Creed’s idea of that had never changed, even when he ascended to the throne himself. “A thing only needs a name if you plan on being around it for long. And… I doubt you’ll want to be around me for long, sweetie. But, if it’ll make you feel better to have something to call me while we visit and jackjaw, then call me Brute because that is exactly what I am. Yes?” He said this with a passiveness that was like him, with an efficiency and a clear reasoning behind it. Not that he didn’t peer at her with equally as curious eyes. He couldn’t have said honestly that he thought her a type for names… But maybe the formality in it was what made her ask. That seemed logical… he supposed. Not that he’d ever condone the doing of something simply for the orthodoxy of it.
† Let's talk about you †
Name: Clue.
Other Characters: Sunny Cooper.
