BASTILLE STYX, D4

[gamemaker kelsier]

Name: Bastille Styx-Libertine-Ripley OR SIMPLY KNOWN AS THE FERRY MAN.
Age: SEVENTEEN WHOLE YEARS
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 1
Appearance:

Personality:

Charon seems like an interesting figure because it was basically his job to ferry souls across the river styx to the underworld. To make sure they had a safe arrival, a fee of a coin was put in a body's mouth. This translation of him however, would turn him into a real actual factual sailor. He's probably intent upon building a perfect raft, and that's often where he an be found, at the beach building when he's not conducting business. He fancies that one day he could sail off the edge of the worlds into the underworld to finally be at peace. He believes himself to be ages old, a recycled soul that has been reborn again and again simply to act as a ferry man between worlds. Penelope and Learna were the first of the Libertines that Charon met. In fact, when they died, he distinctly remembers ferrying their souls across.

Not only does he build rafts however, if you're looking to make a deal with the devil per say, Charon is the one to go through. He can get rid of a body for you with a snap of his fingers, all you need to do is give him the proper payment. He can also connect you with a higher power to deal with the ones that still breathe first. His value is in his many connections that allow him to make a person disappear almost too easily. He can be found only in the seediest of establishments, always surrounded by a group of people, that soft, knowing smile on his lips. He's see the other side, you know, he's had near death experiences. He has an outlook on death far too old for his years, he's far from afraid of it. Only searching.

He's created all these connections over the years, a boy who just seemed to become out of nowhere. No one knows who his parents are, he's been wandering the streets since he was a toddler, alone since his beginnings.

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[/blockquote]History:

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

IN THE LOVELY LALIA'S LIBERTINE plot.

Use of Kim Jaejoong with Clover's sweet permission <3

[gamemaker kelsier]

[bg=252525][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,473,true][atrb=style,width: 473px; background-image: url(http://i43.tinypic.com/2r7aiz5.png); background-repeat: no-repeat; padding-left: 35px; padding-right: 35px; padding-bottom: 35px; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 35px; border-radius-bottomleft: 35px; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 35px; border-radius-bottomright: 35px; opacity: 1;] "They call him The Ferry Man, and for good reason too. They say if you're looking to end your misery, it's him you should seek. He's got ways to make your passage swift and clean, if you have the right payment for him. He doesn't do anything for free, no favours from that man. They say he'll help you send others over early too, if you know what to give him in return. He's silent as a ghost and just as deadly, no one knows where he came from and that's just how he likes it.

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"Speaking"
Doing
Deep Thought
Hearing

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# 1 T h e C u t h r o a t

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The first time he kills, he is eleven years old and there are tears running down his face. It's alright though, at this point, he looks at least twelve. Twelve is the age where you may begin your rule of the lines of fate. Twelve is the time when your name is placed in a big glass bowl, and you stand in line after line, knees shaking. So the blood that stains his shirt does not look that out of place. His hands only shake a little, and he's happy with his work, but he can't stop the tears. They snake down his face, soft, silent, deadlier than the sharp object in his hands. He can't appear to be weak anymore. He can't appear to be weak ever again. It wasn't that the killing bothered him, it was a barier broken, and the weight of the cutthroat on his chest.

It hadn't been easy, that night. Creeping out to find the bones of a man who he knew to be deceased. The other boys in the supposedly abandoned warehouse slept soundly enough. As he slipped off, he strained nervously to hear the sounds of a discontented sleep. He was still young then, almost innocent. Still, he knew from an early age that he would never be contented with making his way the same way as these other boys. He didn't want to spend a life fishing, or working in a factory. he wanted to build rafts, and one day sail across the wide water to find his ancestors. None of the boys who slapped him on the back, joked with him day to day knew about his higher purpose.

He let them believe what they wanted, that he was a weakling, barely able to hold a knife properly, let alone throw it. True enough, when the others were around, he dropped them constantly and missed the homemade targets completely. When the others were out, he'd toss the knives so casually, as if he wasn't trying at all. They'd hit dead center with a resounding thunk. He never questioned his excellent aim. He'd attributed it early on to the many lives he has spent, over and over, working quietly in the shadows. A boy of eleven, he was wise beyond his years, or at least he liked to think so.

He'd seen ghosts ever since he could remember, walking down the street, wailing and banging their chests or scratching at their faces. His mother had decided that it was his excellent imagination, yet he always knew better. They were people he'd never seen before in his life, therefore, they had to be real. Ever since he saw them, he'd felt protective of them. He felt like he was the only one who could help them get to where they needed to be. He saw the path in his head clearly, a current snaking through the ocean. It was akin to a dirt path in the woods, and seemed just as easy to follow. His heart was a compass, his clever hands the navigator.

He became obsessed with building rafts and paper boats at a young age. They'd sail for a ways down the canal, and he'd jump up and down, pulling at his mother's skirts and asking her to look. She'd always been too busy for him, flirting with a weird man that he'd never liked. He needed to make a boat, one that could travel into the heart of this maze of canals to find the end of the line, and begin again. He needed to make a boat that could take the dead home, to where they needed to be so they could rest in peace. It's rare for one so young to find his life's purpose so quickly.

Some, like his mother, found him rather odd. He's never been sure if it had been her original intention, but when she finally married a man, Bast was slowly forgotten. All he did was serve to remind his mother of the man she once and still loved (on occasion). When he was four years old, he was already getting himself ready for school, making peanut butter sandwiches and reminding himself to brush his teeth. His little brother was born, almost a year old. He was gurgly, and his mother loved the baby. He couldn't say the same for himself. Where he had been named for a prison, his brother had been named something a bit more hopeful.

By the age of five, he'd made the rather practical decision to run away from home. It was all with the wisdom of a five year old, the kind where he makes it half way down the block and then runs crying back to his mother's arms. For Bastille, he made it down the canal easily on a raft he'd lashed together with his step-father's rope and the posts from his bed. He'd watched silently as he'd floated away from the house he'd known for three years of his life, and he hadn't shed one tear. (He'd always been odd like that.) In circumstances like that, he liked to think of what the old lady who'd died in her sleep down the street liked to say, "Don't despair; the pain is over."

He hadn't, instead he became enterprising, making friends at a young age. He found that by simply being curious, he could learn many things. He learned knife throwing by watching an old trainer, trying to keep fit. After two weeks, his silent watch had unnerved the man to the point of frustration, and he'd finally offered to teach the small boy of six years. He picked up many different skills, many pieces of information by watching with calm eyes, and mimicking actions. His home became the docks, his family the seagulls that flew high in the air, and the occasional stray dog that would wander his way.

# 2 T h e C h i l d

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He's fifteen years old, and his life has been on a need to know basis for ten long years. He's made the streets his home, rafts his beds that take him down cold canals in the night. He's dabbled in things, like stealing and brawling. Unlike most boys his age, there is no hidden hint of sorrow or fear behind the bravado. There is purely, raging, idiotic bravery, the type of bravery that gets a guy a fist to the jaw.

Knuckles, unfortunately, are rather painful things when they are swung at a high velocity. If one does not dodge correctly, they can expect to say goodbye to their teeth. Bast, only just made it by, bending backwards to avoid it. He was not however able to avoid the fist that came at his back, or the arm to his forehead. Dizzied, and thrown off guard, he also found himself unable to miss the other fist that decided to aim for his nose, resulting in an ear-splitting crack. Before you discount his prowess, know that in return, he was able to steal a bit of ear off of one of them, break a wrist by bending it back farther than allotted, and sweep a guy off his feet, causing the fracturing of one rib. One would say still, that in this fight, Bast had lost.

He favoured his left arm, the right was numb with pain. Both knuckles were bloody, and there was a cut above his left eye that made it hard to see. His nose, was most likely completely crooked. Luckily, it had broken in the opposite direction from last time. For a few moments, he sat in the alley, just on the edge of the light, his sprawled out form wreathed in shadow. Narrowing his eyes, he hissed at the pain in his nose, gently running his fingers across it to feel the extent of the damage. He tasted blood on his lips, and moaned slightly. He was a bitter mess tonight. There would be no one to pick him up, he'd have to clean himself up.

Shuddering, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a flicker pf movement against the ground. Cupping the flame, his brow furrowed in concentration as he guarded against the wind. There was a small sting in his hands with each movement, raw knuckles protesting. "That was great to see and all Bast, but do you think you could take us across yet?" As usual, there was a retinue of beggars that followed him, spirits that had begun to trail him ever since he was little. They were the lost that were unaccounted for, no one had taken responsibility and paid for their passage. Bastille, although he pitied them and all, could not make exceptions for the poor. Where once, when he was an idealistic boy,and he might have taken them for free, he had learned rather quickly that nothing came free in this world, not even in death. So in response, he shook the match out, and pulled himself to his feet with a soft grunt of pain.

He couldn't afford a doctor. He had to get his nose in proper shape before the next twenty minutes was up. That would require a mirror, and a half glass of whisky at least, something he was not likely to find out here in the boondocks. There were rows of houses here, alleys filled with canals, but the pubs here were nicer, not for the likes of him. The only option was to find a house with an open window and borrow their mirror. The whisky was not ruled out yet either. He would borrow that as well, if it was in supply. He staggered over to the nearest house that had windows open, climbed in as well as he could, and tumbled into the lap of destiny found in a girl made Taggerty Eames.

At first he thought that she was Aphrodite herself, reborn into the teenaged body of a girl. She was nothing like the girls he knew, she was stunningly different and new. Her long curls raced down her back, and her face was horribly beautiful, in the way that told Bast he'd be hooked for years. He would come to blame it on the haze of pain, or the half cup of whisky she did provide him along with a mirror. It probably had much to do with the loveliness of her frame, or the starlight in her eyes. She'd looked at him, with such intensity that he'd felt like she was really looking at him for just a moment. He almost felt like she could see the years behind him, his agelessness in the fact that he was a servant of death, and all those who followed.

He'd spent hours in her room that first night, fixing up his nose, cleaning his wounds, and doing his best to beguile her. It felt like minutes, and he was already wondering when he could hassle her again, a street rat like him. Yet, emerging from her window, he felt empowered once again, ready to begin the night's actual duty. With his retinues of souls, he sailed away down the canals, on a gondola he'd designed and built himself when he was living on the docks. All that night, her eyes had been in his head, and when he'd turn his head, he could see those wide, curious eyes staring out of the gloom. Taggerty Eames, she'd given him her name in their first two seconds of acquaintance, those luscious lips splitting the surprised silence in the sweetest way possible. She was the most innocent thing Bastille Styx had ever met. He couldn't stop thinking about her. He'd never been so intrigued before.

Sometime between two in the morning and sunrise, he thought about those eyes as he massaged the child's throat. The movement helped along the poison that would kill it, and let it pass on to cross the river. He had a lot of younger passengers, given by parents who could not afford to feed them, orphanages that had decided they were past their sell by dates. As his fingers gently brushed his neck, and his arm restrained the struggling mass, his own eyes searched for the opposite bank, the one where Hades himself pulled out the dead that Bast brought. One day, Bast himself hoped to find that bank, but something kept him from diving into the sea and swimming to that opposite shore. He still has work to do, and there is no rest for those like him.

That morning, when he made it back to shore, Penelope Libertine was waiting for him, lips pulled into a rueful grin, Noah and Fitz Ripley each on one hand. For them, there had been no charge.

# 3 T h e H o u s e w i f e

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Deathly sharp nails scratch their way across brick walls, making them scream in sudden pain. He grinned then, revealing impeccably white pearls, and a penchant for the dramatics. His first passenger of the night waited just down the alleyway from him, standing at his own gondola. She was haggard, and strong armed. A woman out of her fifties, with bags under her eyes. When she had made her deal with Bastille two years ago now, something about the set of her mouth had told him she'd be back again for another. He hadn't been at all surprised to see her last night in that old relic of a bar. The smell of salt and stale beer had invaded his senses and she'd whispered desperately to him in the near darkness.

Here she was now, fingers clutching a small purse of coins, and a rosary. That type of magic won't work here. Carefully, so as not to spook her, he stepped out of the shadows sooner rather than later. She still flinched in surprise, not expecting him so soon. Grinning at her, he stared out at her from two perfectly lined eyes, dark with substance. They still hold that idiotic bravery, but now something else as well, a sort of eerie coldness. They seemed like those of a cat, watching, always watching. Not speaking, for it had all been said the night before, he carefully directed her into his latest gondola. This one was wider than most, a compartment on the bottom to hold things that didn't need curious glances.

Glances like Tags' for example. Just today, she'd sat on the cushioned seat at the stern as Bast had rowed them along. Once again, she'd been complaining about all the paper bags he had her deliver when she'd asked her to help. If she knew that they were full of pills bought to end a life, or capsules of poison to do the same, she might not have been so annoyed. She didn't know it then, but she was sitting right where the head of the body was from the previous night. Recently, his business had really been picking up. Everyone either wanted to die lately, or needed someone taken care of. By now Bastille Styx had made a bit of a name for himself as The Ferry Man. Rumour had it that he could erase people, for a price. He had friends in every corner, under every rock, they said. It was almost true too, he knew pirates, and peacekeepers. No one knew where he came from. They couldn't ever decide see. He had Ripley features, like those eyes, and that hair before he'd peppered it with dyes. Yet, the way his mystery shrouded him, people agreed that he had to be some type of stranger, maybe even a Libertine. Wasn't there a rumour going around that Mr. Libertine had been unfaithful?

Tonight, Bastille rows his passenger through alleys lit up with lighters, and back door lights. His body is seventeen now, and he's got a young man's strength. It almost appears to be effortless for him to row himself and the older woman through the canals. Still, he does it with such grace, that the muscles underneath his fitted suit ripple with the motion, and he barely breaks a sweat. This one he will take to the very ends of the river Styx, where she will meet her maker proudly. Her hands shake and she is wearing the shawl of her long dead mother, but she sits quiet and proud at the stern, trying to pretend that this is not her second deal with The Ferry Man, and this time she will not be coming out of it alive. He can't help but wonder in his mild fashion if she is afraid to meet her child in the afterlife, or simply relieved.

He found himself not caring as he helped his latest customer out of the gondola and onto the raft that would be their transport on the sea. He waited a few minutes, letting the soul of a child on board as well. He'd always been fonder of the children, more lenient. They reminded him of himself. The lady tonight when asked how she wanted to die, had only asked for a quick death. She didn't want to die choking on vomit, or the like. She wanted to go swift. Impressed with her courage, he'd quietly agreed. A sharp knife rested against his arm, and every now and then, slender digits would fold down to secure it. Oddly, he thought of Tags then, most likely safe and sound, asleep in her own bed. If not that, she was off with her friends that he'd yet to meet, playing at danger by lighting matches, and letting them burn out on the curb.

The fact that she found danger and pain so enticing had never ceased to amaze him. It had however, become useful in it's own way. After the lights of land began to fade away behind them, and bast could feel the change of current, he stopped. He could feel the waters, the path forming, wanting to take them both to the other side. Tonight however, only the woman would go. beckoning to her with one crooked finger, he watched in silence, a soft smile on his lips as the tears formed in her eyes. She was afraid, it seemed. It was sorely sweet, but he had other customers tonight, he couldn't wait around for her to be ready to truly die. A change came over her, eyes steel, and she nodded. He waited for last words, anything. None came, he supposed she'd said all she'd needed to her eldest child already tonight. He wondered if they knew she was here, paying for their lives with her's.

Kids did not appreciate much these days. He shook his head sadly as he pulled his knife across the woman's neck and spilled her blood into the sea. Deftly, he dropped her, stones in her boots so her body would go to the right shore. In the darkness, he saw her take the child's hand. The last he saw of the elderly woman, they were walking across the waves and into the night.

Bastille does not watch for long. He has other customers, other cares. There are debts to be settled and people to visit with the intentions of a collection. Yes, the Ferry Man to the dead is a busy man. He has so much to do, so little night to do it in. If he does not finish by dawn, then there can be no time to lurk in alleys, waiting for a girl to call for him. When he hears his name on the wind, his mouth twists up into what can only be described as a smirk, full lips over a handsome jaw. He carries the confidence of Kings, the bitterness of the dead, and the heart of a child. Some have seen him in the darkest corners of the alleys during the day, looking sleek and powerful in form fitting suits, waiting impatiently for a whistle or a shout to announce her presence.

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FACE CLAIM .

KIM JAEJOONG • BASTILLE STYX-LIBERTINE

OTHER CHARACTERS ?

Click.

I, ELEGANT .
am potato.

CODEWORD .odair[/size][/td][td][/td][/tr][/table][/center]

[gamemaker kelsier]

Thanks to Lalia for the template! Boy is done. I think, probably, yes xD Cass has dibs on checking this bad boy :3

[cass]

OH MY GAWDDDD. I LOVE YOU AND I LOVE HIM AND PLS JUST MARRY ME. YOU ARE SO PERFECT -FLAILS-

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