Post by Brennan Casimir on Jul 25, 2013 16:39:40 GMT -5
brennan dien casimir
Age:
19
Species:
Human
Alignment:
Neutral
Occupation:
Weapon Specialist ("Blacksmith")
Canon?
No
Position:
-
Appearance:
Brennan always seems to have a tired, strained expression on his pale face. Wane smiles and slow, skeptical looks are not uncommon. Despite the bags under his eyes, he is quite average and easily overlooked in a large crowd brimming with the eccentric appearances of Dreams and Nightmares. In a world built around the fantastic, Brennan is anything but.
It begins with his lackluster locks: a sandy crop settled upon his head, but decidedly (and wholly) ignored. He wears his dark blonde hair short and conservative, not unlike a bowl haircut (though he vehemently denies such claims... even if his father does cut his hair). He's never been one to fuss over his hair and it proudly shows--the strands are often sticky and messy, a complete disaster and not always clean (sometimes, when he combs a frustrated hand through the sweat-caked locks, they stick up even more erratically!).
But Brennan has a cute face, the sort his aunts always loved to pinch. His face is homey and modest with full lips and wide, startling blue eyes. His features are delicate and prim (like a girl's, in a way) and when his expression is twisted in rage it is an almost laughable look. Brennan's plump cheeks are often flushed with color, while his deep blue eyes are wide with confusion, his large hands floundering around in the air helplessly. Due to his porcelain skin and innocent looks, Brennan is often confused for someone much younger.
Brennan is an awkwardly gawky individual. It looks as if he's still growing in his skin. His shoulders are broad enough that his father is sure he willone dayfill out. As it stands, however, he is shorter than average and has spindly little limbs that are usually flailing around, which only pronounces his meager frame.
He was never one to fuss over his appearance and that much is clear, though his rumpled clothes speak volumes. Never has an iron been grasped in his pale hands. His father is exasperated with trying to make his son the slightest bit fashion conscious, thus Brennan wears extraordinarily normal clothes--a white smock here, khaki shorts there, a vast array of boring t-shirts and dirty sneakers. Each article of clothing bears its own scars of wars: impossible wrinkles, dirt, grass stains (among others), and the ever-present stink of oil.
Face Claim:
Clain Necran from Fractale
Personality:
Brennan has a great amount of composure half the time. He usually wears a watery smile, his eyelids half-closed in thought (or from sheer exhaustion), a remarkably content air about him. Half of the time, Brennan is no one of importance or worth the time of day. He's quiet, speculative, and incredibly curious.
Half the time.
Then, you get the other side of him. The whining, flailing, bumbling idiot. The boy who can always create a scene with his theatrical keening, a shout on pursed lips and a total opposite of his usually colorless demeanor. Suddenly, his tiredness vanishes in a puff of smoke and he's storming about passionately, whether about weapons and their intricate workings or about how unjust the weather is. Brennan can hop from one extreme to the next, often leaving confused, innocent citizens in his wake.
Brennan is the sort who feels the world has always scorned him. The smallest of matters can prove this: a rainy, dismal day. Skyrocketing prices on spare parts and pieces. Getting gum on his shoe. He is incredibly melodramatic and pessimistic. The world, in his eyes, simply isn't fair! (Oh! The woe!)
And then, in a dizzying fashion, he's back to sitting at his desk or blinking slowly, eyes completely disinterested. There's no rhyme or reason to his extreme onset of moods, only that they are sudden and swift and immerse him completely.
One thing he has going for him (despite the adorably confusing mood swings--right? They're adorable? Right?) is his work ethic. Brennan is not one who tolerates laziness. Most of his days are spent in eccentric, though cramped, labs. He enjoys working with his hands and developing new weaponry, though the passion is hardly his own. He can spend hours and days and, perhaps, even months working tirelessly. If it weren't for his concerned father, Brennan might stay cooped up in lab for all hours of the day. It takes his father forcibly removing him from his gadgets for the boy to get any fresh air at all!
There is also a distinct sadness to everything he does. A somber attitude that seems to permeate even his most passionate tirades. There's no pinpointing what makes his actions so sorrowful--is it the slow, calculating way his hands tear into his latest invention? Is it the drawl of his oddly high, clear voice? Or just the way his eyes seem to flicker dismally, dark shadows hanging within their soulful depths?
Weapon:
Mr. Sparkles the Hand Cannon: Some children had teddy bears when they were small and would cuddle up with them during horrific storms or play with them mindlessly in the afternoons. Well, Brennan had Mr. Sparkles, which was not a beloved stuffed toy, but rather an optimized cannon that could shoot out the craziest (and most lethal) of bursts. He would play fondly with Mr. Sparkles in the faltering afternoon light, the cannon's name derived from the delightful sparkles his (now faded) varnish would throw off. There are still gaping, blackened holes in Brennan's walls to this day, lovingly framed by his father. It was his father, after all, that gave him the hand cannon when he was just a babe and so, it holds a certain soft spot in his heart.
Of course, you would think with a cannon capable of covering a wide area with its burst shots, it would be impossible to miss. And you would assume that a weapon specialist might be capable with, well, weapons. But Brennan is a fantastically dismal shot--he could miss a cow walking right in front of him. He gets nervous if he has to actually use his weapon and, thus, often misses his target. Mr. Sparkles can only do so much.
And, yes, he talks to his weapon.A lot.
Mr. Sparkles cannot fire normal bullets or ammunition, but is equipped to deal with entirely different, ah, ammo.
- burst shot, level 1! Mr. Sparkles fires off several rounds of non-elemental energy, which some stray civilians have said burns the skin, an almost white-hot, searing sensation. Fires three bursts with a single shot. Able to hit a single opponent. [Cooldown: 2 posts]
- bio! A sudden shot of a sticky, globule substance sprays from his hand cannon and immerses his target in a slimy mess. It's more of an inconvenience for your clothes, but can cause slight damage to two targets. Has a slightly poisonous effect, but does not exceed from making one nauseous. The goo will come off after two posts, leaving one spotless. [Last for 2 posts] [Cooldown: 4 posts]
- flare shot! A great orb shoots out of the hand cannon and engulfs a small area with an explosive blast. Hits several enemies and causes slight damage. [Cooldown: 3 posts]
- electrocute! A zap of energy clings to the nearest person in the area (and sometimes, this can be frustrating if it happens to be an ally instead of the enemy), shocking them with slight lightning damage. Some have complained its singed their hair. [Cooldown: 2 posts]
- trigger happy, level 1! Brennan lets loose on the trigger and shoots a score of small, nearly indiscernible shots of white-hot energy. They hit like marbles and so are quite harmless, if not completely annoying. However, a string of shots can cause some damage. [Cooldown: 3 posts]
Abilities:
-
History:
Brennan had always been surrounded by weapons. As a child, his toys were spare parts, slick oil, and a few guns and knives to spend the time (the ammo taken out and the knives too dull to do any real damage). His father was a grand weapon specialist, the sort that was sought out by the most elite of Humans. His father was ingenious, known across the Great City for his inventive nature and delightful weaponry. Brennan grew up walking among scythes of every size and description, guns that could predict the weather, swords that impaled targets automatically, to strange shadowy things that could bite off a hand. Brennan felt this was normal, pushing aside a scattering of arrows from his bed and snuggling deep into his covers, holding Mr. Sparkles tight.
Of course, he supposed he had a mother once. But his father said, in a gentle manner when he was still just a boy, that his mother died from sadness. That she simply wilted away like a flower among a winter's snow. And it was mentioned that it was just after his birth, that such sorrow gripped her that she could do nothing more than lie in bed and, one day, she lost the will to live.
It's the kind of thing that sticks with you, though you never really think about it. This was so with Brennan: he never knew his mother personally and so her death went by unnoticed. All Brennan knew of his childhood was his father making eggs with a ray gun, holes blanketing the walls, his father trilling about his latest craft. And Brennan sat alongside him and learned the trade. It didn't interest him like it did his father, but Brennan enjoyed being close to him and didn't care what it was they were doing. When Brennan made his first gun at twelve (an admittedly clunky thing and a smattering of robotics did most of the work, anyway) his father was so proud he almost cried.
Then, when Brennan was fifteen, his father got sick.
No, his father did not die. In fact, his father presses on with a certain adorable tenacity. But it's obvious he is withering away, just like his mother did. Yet, it wasn't sadness that stole his father away, but rather a curious, inexplicable sickness that could not be cured (though they tried over the past four years). Thus, Brennan took up his father's joy of creating weapons. He studied harder than ever before to create fabulous creations, far superior to his own weapon, Mr. Sparkles.
His father watches his son slave away to make him proud, just this last time. Just one more weapon today, just one more gun or ax or sword to make his dad smile, because the days are numbered.
And time is precious.
OOC Alias:
Magic
