Posts by whxstlebird

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Amadeus Daemon O'Sullivan

Age

27

Gender

Male

Height

6"1/2

Rank

Guard

Desired Rank

Content

Personality

He tends to keep to himself. Introverted, very strange for a werewolf, but he makes himself worth the trouble if you get to know him. When it comes to being put on the spot, he will give it his all for the pack. Any task he is given will have his full effort and attention, be it professional or more intimate. Amadeus tends to hate conflict within the pack, so he'll usually keep himself out of it unless one of the alphas involves him.

The Wolfs Personality

When Amadeus becomes a wolf, he wears his heart on his sleeve, so to speak. If someone bothers him, baring teeth is not an unusual response for him. He embraces scents and sights, damn the cliché of admiring a view or smelling a plant. Everything is open to him in ways he couldn't embrace as a human, which lets him unfold more in front of his closest packmates. The wolf is huge in stature, adopting the height from his human form. He isn't 6 feet in wolf form, obviously. His shoulders are massive, as are his paws. He "resembles a secret service wolf" some say, which never fails to amuse or intimidate others. He coexists with his wolf, never tries to suppress or diminish it in any way. He loves his wolf, the abilities it gives him are a welcome side effect. Amadeus often despises those who ignore or banish their wolf entirely, and can never sympathize with them if they want a normal life.

Strengths

Beyond loyal to his alphas. He bites first and never asks questions if it came to that. He bottles up his emotions in matters of the pack, letting the alphas decide for him. He has the strength and stamina of a buffalo, his mother would say. A gentle giant, to the right person.

Weaknesses

Loyalty is not the only thing that drives him. If he honestly does not respect someone in is pack, that may end up leading to the wrong decision, be it in terms of fighting or debating. He will not deal with anyone's drama, he has no time for it, which can often be misconstrued as cold and rude. Amadeus doesn't fear a specific being, but drowning. Any large body of water, he will not go in. He has a hard time leaving a fight. He is passionate when it comes to bloodshed, which makes going for the throat a hard thing to turn away from. He is a bit hesitant with this pack, only because most of them are so young. He's supposed to follow orders from such a young alpha? He does hold her dear to his heart and will protect her no matter what, but in the future, he hopes she could be comfortable enough to seek council from him.

Sexuality

Bisexual

Passion

Coffee coffee coffee. If they drive near a starbucks or lasaters, he practically throws his grumpy vibe out the window and gives his alpha "puppy eyes". If he's the one driving, you would've thought that the world was ending the way he turns into the drive-through. Amadeus plays piano beautifully. He rivals his inspiration Brian Crain, a human pianist whose records he cherishes. Name a song, he plays it. He also enjoys lighting his room with incense, a seeming trivial thing, but he loves the smell of sandalwood and burning dried cedar to remind him of home. If he's on patrol, he keeps an eye out for nostalgic scents to bring back.

Mate/Crush

Not his priority

Offspring

A daughter he left back in Ireland.

History

Amadeus was originally born in Belfast, Ireland. He was raised in an all Irish pack, loyal to the orange, white, and green. His grandfather was the alpha at the time, and assigned Amadeus to a young woman who had only recently joined. They had a daughter name Sybelle, but Amadeus wanted nothing to do with that life. His ties in his native pack grew too loose. Amadeus left around the age of 23, deciding to become nomadic. He grew on stories of werewolf legacies, tremendous legends and tales of greater packs, heroic alphas, vampire slaughters, but he had never seen any of them. Now, he hopes to make something of himself in his new pack. He is aware that there are suspicions concerning him being the newest member. Amadeus hasn't been there long, but he hopes to make a good impression in the future.

Other

That's quiet alright :) Does that mean he's accepted?

Track~

Finished!

Thank you! Sorry for the late response, my wifi has been wonky lately.

What is the RP thread setting? The pack house?

I'd up for it too! There's not many lately and I put a lot of work into my character as well

Connor O'Sullivan

Connor had been awake since first light, his muscles straining underneath the boiled leather that served as his armor. The Irishman trained daily to work into his new armor, and his new title. It was strange to come to such a foreign place and serve under a foreign queen, but he paid it no mind. Serving her came to him as easy as breathing and yet he never understood why. He never questioned it, really. The massive kilij in his hands felt like an extension of his arm by now. Each time his weapon struck the practice dummy, his brow would furrow in frustration, never feeling satisfied with how the cuts against the burlap sack would spill straw instead of blood. A useless way to dull a weapon, he thought bitterly as he recoiled, pretending the dummy tried to strike at his free arm. Turning to his side to make himself a smaller target, he glided the kilij through the air in one swift motion, removing the bucket used as a head from the wooden post. The Irishman's breath billowed in front of him as he sighed, looking down at his sword with distaste as he noticed bits of straw sticking to the now dull frame. Looks like I'll be busy today.

Connor O'Sullivan

The Irishman raised orange his gaze to the new voice and his eyes narrowed. He could have sworn he had seen that man before, but couldn't quite place it. Connor unbuckled the shoulder clips of his armor, removing the leather "shirt" and then tossed it onto a bench next to him.

"O'Sullivan." He corrected. He was covered in a sheen of sweat from training, making his pale upper body shiver slightly from the cold, but it was a welcoming change from the sweltering confinement of the uncomfortable armor. Swollen pink and white scars crisscrossed his back, upper shoulders, and chest, making him look like a sticking post. The kilij in his hand deserved his attention, and he was unsure of the intentions of the man before him. He let the sword hang next to him and looked back to the newcomer, catching the scent of horse and straw. Stable master, then.

Connor O'Sullivan

His eyes squinted further at the curious man before him. His scars ached from the strain his muscles were now weighing with, and the Irishman scowled inwardly at his remark, feeling like his fur was rubbed the wrong way. Connor looked at the man's eyes, then his hair, then his stance. It was as if the guard was trying to make out what the stable master was made of, what mannerisms he possessed and how he used his dialogue politely to the passing knights.

"I don't know your name." The guard's accent was obviously thick, even with such few words. The statement was firm, but is was presented more as an invitation for the stable master to give his name instead of Connor asking for it. He didn't know his name, but he sure remembers the fellow lower-classman. Seeing his face triggered small moments; exchanged nods when he was handed the reigns of his temporary horse when he accompanied the Queen on one of her rides. The Irishman glanced at the other guard, giving a tight nod in exchange. Connor rather liked the scent the wind carried when the breeze from behind the stable master, but none of this was mentioned as he waited.

Connor O'Sullivan

Connor had finished scrubbing his skin red, putting on his guard uniform and groaning quietly in resentment. He always hated the thing, the way it made him unable to move properly in case of an emergency. Making his way from the barracks, he held today's schedule in his mind. Something crawled into his daily routine, something itching at his fingertips until they found the hilt of his kilij. The Irishman exhaled through his nose, looking down at his sheathed sword for a moment before changing direction. The smithy would have wetstones and rags, and hopefully, a quiet place to work for a bit. Knocking was a habit he developed when working with the Queen, you never forgot to announce your entrance, that would be a mistake. Still, it made him feel slightly foolish when he knocked on the door to the smithy. Instead of waiting for a confused blacksmith, he opened the door, keeping his face firmly nonchalant. "I require sharpening equipment."

Connor O'Sullivan

The guard quietly hummed his thanks as he retrieved the materials. His movements were well out of the way of the blacksmith, and inwardly he was rather grateful that the smith wished no further conversation out of either of them. Connor sat on a small stool, bringing the massive kilij eye-level to examine just how dull it was battered into while training. The corners of his mouth set into a fine line as he was clearly displeased. Blowing the remaining straw off, the whetstones were set to work as he preformed in quick but precise movements to apply a small coating of oil along the shaft of the blade, then drew a damp rag across. He never did like the sound the whetstone made as it scraped along the edge of his kilij, but then again, the longer the strokes the less time he would take. This went on for possibly eight minutes, the Irishman was losing track as he was finding the moving of the whetstone along the blade therapeutic. He finished his work, organizing the whetstones along the rag he borrowed and folding the rag over so they were easier to carry. Connor stood, examining his sword once more, and sheathed it, looking more satisfied than he did when he entered.

"Thank you." The guard set the items back in their original location and offered the blacksmith a well-heavied purse from his belt. There was no mistaking the contents, enough pay for the day and a bit more for letting Connor work on his own, which he was silently appreciative for.

Connor O'Sullivan

The Irishman was surprised that someone of their class would refuse such an offer. Then again, pride would have been on the line in the case of the blacksmith, as Connor guessed. He pocketed the pouch and exited the smithy, obliging the smith's want for peace. Secretly he was jealous of the blacksmith. He was able to sit and work on metal and mold while Connor had to stare blankly at the dull, forced smiles of royalty. It was painful, watching their day-to-day activities. For such busy folks their hands sure were soft. He didn't pity him, but he didn't despise them either. Rather, he was grateful he didn't have to dress in fancy cuffs and stiff shoes, though the guard uniform was vexing enough as is. The guard walked up the steps along the chateau with his back straight and his hands at his sides. He was scolded once by a knight because Connor would always rest his right hand on the hilt of his sword. He was confused, but the knight said that it made those around the Queen uncomfortable, like he was about to strike their heads off with the wave of a hand. Not to mislead anyone, he would do it in a heartbeat should she demand it, but he often wondered if he really was that intimidating. Part of the job. Inside, he waited for orders, standing at his post, mid-morning routine now back in play.

Connor O'Sullivan

The guard looked down at the horse master with a tight gaze, the rest of his expression blank. Connor was unsure of how the other man's day-to-day activities kept him at hours, but he was sure that now that he himself was working, it would be a rather hard time to socialize. Clasping his hands behind his back, he shifted from one foot to the other and nodded. Connor didn't really have a desire to get into trouble while working, but he was curious as to what the horse master wanted. How the other man didn't appear phased by Connor had the guard a little more relaxed, but also inwardly suspicious. People usually didn't interact with him in such a friendly manner unless they wanted something.

"Your name?" his voice was graveled but somehow smooth in a way, like the whiskey he frequently took for company. This morning's conversation rang in his head, and he wondered why the horse master left in such a hurry in the first place.

Connor O'Sullivan

One with a keen eye would have most likely caught the small crinkle of the corners Connor's eyes as he observed Rhys' straightening. Someone with equally measured talents for people-watching would have guessed that the guard was amused. And he was, but he made it all the more difficult to tell by the way his brow set in an attempt to focus on the conversation, instead of the stable master smoothing down his hair. Connor's eyes never left Rhys' as he spoke evenly,

"Being a Stablemaster takes hours, it is understandable." It was his way of accepting his apology with no grudges, only acceptance. Clearing his throat, his eyes traveled to the way Rhys held himself. He was a curious man. The way the other lower classmen attempted to mimic his own stance made the guard wonder whether or not he was trying to make himself more comfortable, or Connor.

"Connor," His stance shifted once again as he offered his first name. "I only recently arrived, my face being new to you doesn't mean you've only just now noticed me in eleven years." It sounded like an attempt at small humor, but only sounded. His face remained nonchalant and his eyes remained focused to hold the gaze of the stable master.

Connor O'Sullivan

His face contorted for a moment between subtle confusion then a form of disappointed realization. Apparently he was curious enough to find that he may miss the Stablemaster's company, finding him to be a rather interesting distraction. He enjoyed watching the way the other man's eyes danced in some form of play, running through maybes and what-ifs. Connor's face set and he straightened his posture one last time, "Very well, monsieur Boudraeux." The guard dipped into a small formal bow, something he had seen become a common way of farewell among gentlemen, or "messieurs", as the Queen once corrected him.

"Bhí sé an pléisiúr chun bualadh leat ar deireadh, a dhuine uasail." His eyes locked onto Rhys' mid bow, an intensity he held unbeknownst to himself. As he rose he offered Rhys a very, very faint smile.

Connor O'Sullivan

When his smile had faded, he found himself feeling slightly foolish. He hardly knew Rhys, only met the man this morning, and here he was smiling like a dunce while on duty. Connor started wanting something, anything. It was like a very tiny itch, and it worried him that it might grow into something more if he didn't keep up tabs with his new acquaintance. Resuming his position as guard clicked something inside his head. Hips get heavy from sheathed swords unused for an extended period of time. Feet become sore from constant standing and walking beside his keepings. Eyes trained to focus on nothing. And yet Rhys walked with sore hands and a smile. It made Connor wonder if there was more to coming from nothing, because the manner in which the Stablemaster carried himself with confidence, the light in his eye, he was making his something. He could tell Rhys enjoyed his work, his horses. In a way, they were his horses. If Connor knew anything about horses, he knew that they required a bond. Such bonds form with time, and with how much time the guard saw the nobles under his watch go to the horses was far less than that of the time given by Rhys. Connor would have laughed if he wasn't so confused as to why Rhys was weaving himself into the guard's schedule, and Connor was perfectly okay with it, with no idea why. Anyone else and he might have never even given them the time of day, but the way Rhys seemed to adjust to Connor's way of walking and talking made the Irishman all the more curious. His voice sounded genuinely warm as he spoke with his eyes shining;

"Until next time, monsieur."

Connor O'Sullivan

Rounding patrols were everyday shifts for him, but today the guards were supposed to be "thoroughly vigilant". Watch for faces you've never seen before. Originally, the first years of being a guard had kept the thrill of finding a saboteur enticing, it peaked his adrenaline twofold. Now, he was more cautious. He knew the consequences of skipping over a pair of eyes or twitch of a finger. Not only that, but he knew that if he saw someone worthy of his attention, his blade would have to be cleaned once again the next morning. The other guards claim that he is too hasty in unsheathing his kilij, but he had always believed that it was better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. The Queen keeps him by her side for her purposes, and he stays by her side to serve each purpose without hesitation.

Marble flooring always made him unsettled. If he were to fight, he worried about cracking his ribs or knocking his head the wrong way if he fell. The heels of his shoes echoed as he walked, announcing presence without him having to knock. If there were no doors, you walked with purpose. When Connor took his place near the Queen, his eyes focused on anything but her, his brow knitted slightly as he attempted to meditate on his job. He kept thinking of tonight. She would be without a guard, it unsettled him and he did not care to admit it. What would he do while he waited? He could patrol. Again. Inwardly he sighed. This was something that had nagged at him all week, something he hoped the Queen would let him or another guard attend. Alas, she mentioned nothing. Tradition must be kept and he knew that, but still, tradition can get people killed. Connor straightened his back once again and folded his hands behind his back with his chin high.