Post by Alistair Theirin on Feb 21, 2010 20:46:01 GMT -5
ALISTAIR THEIRIN
[/size]- * - * - * - * - * -
&&--You, who shall pull the strings
[/size][/center]Name: Leslie
Age: 20
Roleplaying Experience: Long enooough. Idunno. Six years.
How you found the site: Andrea
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&&--The character cheat sheet
[/size][/center]Name: Alistair Theirin
Gender: Male
Age: 25
Hair Color: Blondeish-brown
Eye Color: Hazel
Skin Tone: Fair to tanned
Height: Six feet, one inch
Weight: 157 lbs.
Wealth: Average--he has little use for wealth, and makes no efforts to gain more than he needs
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexperimental (i.e. Bicurious)
Why they are in La Campana: Currently filling the position of Sports teacher, he's opting for the 'head of security' job. At least, as long as he decides to stay in Spain. [/size]
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&&--What makes the clock tick
[/size][/center]Likes:
-~-What is "good" and "right"
-~- Dogs
-~- Beer
-~-Camaraderie
-~- Law enforcement
-~- Justice & its prevail
-~- Most things fantasy-related
-~- Finding pleasure in simple things
-~- Verbal banter
-~- His memories with the other Wardens
-~- Adventure/anything fun and exhilarating
-~- Camping
-~- Family/friend figures[/ul]
Dislikes:
-~- Churches
-~- Bitchy women...or men, in that case
-~- Malevolence
-~- Sexual comments
-~- Innuendo
-~- Being considered innocent, naive, or stupid
-~- Being placed into leadership positions
-~- Death
-~- Swooping
-~- Gangs/mobs/any sort of organized crime
-~- Ghosts/spirts...though that might be more of a fear
-~- Passing out or other such displays of weakness
-~- Awkward situations (and oh, the frequency with which they occur!)[/ul]
Turn Ons:
Turn Offs:
Nervous Habits:
-~-Making jokes
-~-Sarcasm[/ul]
Fears:
-~-Leading
-~-Ghosts
-~-Losing a loved one[/ul]
Goals/Aspirations:
-~-Build a memorial for Duncan
-~-Be of a positive influence on the world
-~- Win a drinking contest (or, perhaps, make it past one beer without falling into a laughing fit)[/ul]
Appearance:
Were it not for his soft facial features and kind expressions, Alistair would be a terribly intimidating man. As tall as he is muscular, it's clear that Alistair has seen his fair share of exercise. An outdoorsman as well, Alistair has remained steadily tan for the past few years. Yet despite his muscle-mass and strikingly gorgeous body (that more than a few women have ogled at), Alistair simply doesn't come off as your typical strong man. It is far more accurate to describe him as a giant teddy bear. His small brown eyes always seem to glint with equal parts compassion and underlying mischief.
Alistair has a trademark smirk--if he's wearing it, you can be sure that you're about to get a witty remark and a faceful of sarcasm.
An assortment of scars line his body--predominantly on his chest. It's clear, were you to see him naked, that Alistair has seen his fair share of battles. Theses scars consist of bullet holes that never fully healed, long and short slices where a careless mistake led to a dagger or knife slit, and one curved scar at the back of his right calf where a dog nearly took out a chunk of his leg.
Yet despite all, Alistair prefers simplicity when it comes to appearance. His hair stays manageable short, and his travel-bag of clothes consists only of the necessities. Tee-shirts, jeans, and at his fanciest a couple of button-up shirts and vests. He isn't the sort to lead a luxurious, pampered life, and considers things like fancy clothing and shoes mere hindrances. If you see him wearing something that you could consider 'fancy', chances are he either needs to make an impression, or has lost a bet.
Personality:
If one were to compare Alistair's personality to a fruit, it would be a mango: Sweet, soft, colorful, and just a little bit goofy.
To start, Alistair is a seemingly simple man who prefers simple pleasures. A firm hater of anything regarding politics, philosophy, psychology, and anything else that involves deep thinking, expansive knowledge, and long-winded words. No, though his friends have often referred to him as an idiot for it (a loveable idiot, in most cases), Alistair prefers to not delve into what he considers mundane, trifling things. In an ideal world, Alistair would be a wandering vagabond with a group of friends, providing help where it was needed, but otherwise simply traversing the land.
It's perhaps partly based on this that Alistair tends to have trouble communicating himself (his feelings, thoughts, etc.), to others. He's by no means unpleasant or unsocial--no, indeed, Alistair is quite the friendly, talkative person. He could talk to you about simple things all day, and provide you with one of the most pleasant, if not sarcasm-filled, conversations you could ever have.
With that in mind, a description of Alistair without the mention of sarcasm and jokes is like a painting of a landscape without the sky. For it is these that provide much of the background to his personality. Despite occasional breaks when a serious conversation is needed (and oh, how he almost always loathes them!), you'll be lucky if Alistair goes longer than a minute without throwing in something sarcastic. And though his sarcasm tends to include a bit of facetious insult, hurting someone is usually the last thing Alistair wants to do. It's all in good fun, though he does occasionally use his humor to deflect more personal questions.
Contrary to appearances, Alistair is not some experienced, virile man. In fact, Alistair is quite a bit more naive and inexperienced than your average person. Growing up in a monestary can do this to you. This isn't to say that Alistair is some nervous, blushing bride--no, this is absolutely not the case. It only means that there are many every-day situations and things that can make him awkward. If he sees someone shoot someone else before his eyes...well, besides fighting whoever did the shooting, Alistair wouldn't feel too much. But ask him about anything sexual, and he may very well plug his ears and scream "LA LA LAAAA CAN'T HEAR YOU."
Alistair has a deep fear of failure, and it is from this fear that extends his fear of being put into any sort of leadership position. To him, there is very little more terrifying than the thought of those he cares for looking at him in shame--to think that he has failed them. It is perhaps selfish, given his natural talents, but Alistair refuses to lead if at all possible. If he isn't put in charge of something, he can't fail. It would be too stressful for him to have to lead, and he knows this. He'd constantly be worrying over what would happen if he did fail, and be an utter mess. As he himself has so eloquently put: "Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I'm stranded somewhere without any pants."
He is an eternal skeptic Though Alistair hates to lead, and will follow those he has loyalty to to the death, Alistair is also quick to question a plan that doesn't make sense. He doesn't consider it insubordination, though he has been called such. No, despite his irreverent, aloof a attitude towards many things, Alistair is not dimwit. He can strategize, plan, and move to action when need be.
He also carries within him a strong inner valor and sense of justice. Though most times Alistair seems to be a push-over and let people walk all over him, if there's something he feels strongly enough about, you'll know it. He can brush off most affronts to himself, but you'll see a fiercely courageous side to him if you either threaten someone he cares for, or force him into a position of powers. He learned a lot through the warden, and standing up for what is right was one of those things. Though it is easier to walk away from something threatening, he is not a man to let injustice fly under the radar. If he finds your actions or motives to be malicious, he will stop you.
Lately, on that note, Alistair has become far more somber. Reflective and a bit more serious. Since the death of his loved one, Alistair has been in a constant state of re-evaluating his life and the world around him. He's still the goofy, awkward man he has always been--but there is a change in him that cannot be undone. He no longer skates past life, a mere sheep within the heard. He has become morally conscious, and begun to think heavily on his life. The death of his loved one has left him scarred--though he doesn't show this to just anyone. He has begun to recover and live his life again, but is undoubtedly a different person than once he was. He lives as he thinks the warden would like him to, and no longer takes his life and those around him for granted. He finds himself a far more kind and compassionate person now, after all the warden has taught him. He is no longer disassociated with the world and people around him, as the monastery had nearly forced onto him. He saw how deeply the warden cared about the people, despite the fact that they often spat in his face. He cared that justice was served, and that people were happy. Alistair has truly taken that to heart, and can finally see the worth and good in people that before had been invisible to him. He saw the happiness the warden brought, and it warmed his heart. Skeptical as he may be to the human race, the warden's morals and lessons have not been lost on him. He has always been a caring man to a degree, but he has now made helping people and stopping the injustice to the innocent and weak his life's priority.[/size][/font]
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&&--A glimpse of the past
[/size][/center]Father: Maric Theirin, deceased
Mother: Unknown to him, deceased
Sibling/s: Goldanna, his older half-sister. He's only met her once...and that was more than enough for him
Other important relatives:
-Duncan: a mentor to him, but also a father figure. Duncan is now deceased
-Eamon Guerrein: His adoptive father
-Isolde: Your typical evil step-mother figure in Alistair's life
Pets: Malchik, 2 years old, a Mabari.
History: YARR there be somewhat spoilers for Dragon Age ahead. Be ye warned!
If you ask Alistair to tell you his history, you won't get the full truth. In fact, if you can even deflect his jokes long enough (by going on a long tirade about how he was raised by flying dogs, or something of the sort) to get a part of the story, you should consider yourself lucky--Alistair doesn't open up to about his history to just anyone.
What he may tell you is that he is a bastard. Born without knowing his father, his mother was a serving girl who died giving birth to him. It was only the kind nature of Arl Eamon that saw Alistair with a roof over his head and someone to take care of him. He was good to Alistair--a strong role model, protective father, and kindred spirit. But as a young child, growing up with a man of such influence and power had its ups and downs. And though they made the best of it, it mostly had its downs. Eamon was frequently busy, and despite his great respect for his surrogate father, Alistar often found himself bitter as a child, wishing to occupy more of his fathers' time. Despite that, the two were father and son--had there only been that as a difficulty, things certainly would have continued as such.
Eamon married a young woman from France--something that didn't quite sit right with his brother. Yet despite the obstacles, he loved her and she loved him. Unfortunately for Alistair, however, that love didn't spread to him as well. Isolade hated Alistair for the rumors that circulated around him, pinning him for Eamon's bastard son. These rumors had been circulating for quite some time--yet they had never bothered Eamon. Isolde, however, couldn't stand them. This came through in their interactions as well. She treated him harshly, more like an unwanted pest that she had to tolerate than a son. She found him disgusting, he found her bitchy to put it in simple terms. Sh felt threatened by his presence--as though Alistair's presence in the house would be able to tear her new, happy life at the seams. She made certain that Alistair knew he wasn't welcome in her new life and that their home was not his home. Eventually, she had even begun to wonder if the rumors were true herself--that Eamon had taken such interest in Alistair's wellfare because he was indeed his son.
Yet despite a confidence that Eamon would love him no matter what Isolde said, the decision was made when he was ten to send him away to a monestary. When he was told of this, Alistair was furious that he was being sent away--he felt betrayed by the Arl, and spiteful towards Isolde. Alistair was naught but a young child thrown into a fit of anger, feeling unloved, unwanted, and as though his own father had abandoned him. In his fury, he did something foolish. There was an amulet he had of his mothers'--the only thing he had left of her. A beautiful, silver necklace with a holy symbol engraved on the front. Amidst sobs, he tore it from his neck and threw it against the wall, shattering the thing into small pieces. To this day, it's something he's regretted deeply. Without saying goodbye (or, rather, scowling when Eamon attempted to see him off), Alistair was sent away.
What followed could only be described as hell for Alistair. He hated ever second at the monestary. They tried to teach him about scriptures and chants, but Alistair was free-spirited and impossible to chain down. As he'd jokingly tell you now, he probably spent more time in the kitchen as punishment than in the temple studying. It was a strict study comprable to military training--only with bony-fingered nuns instead of muscled-out tough men. Eamon tried to visit him a few times, but Alistair was too stubborn. He blamed Eamon for everything--he hated it there, and hated Eamon for sending him. He refused to see him longer than he was forced to. Eventually, Eamon simply stopped coming back.
Yet here there is need for pause. Though the story certainly doesn't end here, it's necessary to go back to the beginning, and investigate what Alistair left out. Alistair was born to a serving girl, having never known his father--not personally, at least. This much is true. What is also true is the fact that Alistair is the illegimate son of a king, sent away when his mother died. Maric wanted to shelter and hide the boy from his wife, Rowan. Under a man named Loghain's advice, Maric asked Eamon to take the boy. This, however, is something Alistair prefers people to not know. People treat him differently knowing that, and he doesn't like it. He'd rather be 'Alistair, the goofball', than 'Alistair, the bastard prince'.
As his time in the monestary continued, Alistair grew more and more weary. He was trained in classic, templar-style sword-fighting, but he still loathed the workings and message of the religion. He was never a religious person to begin--he believed in God well enough, but that was about the extent of his belief. He grew up in this repressed environment. 11 years he spent there--all of his teenage years, practically cloistered within the walls. On the rare chances that they did get out, it was strictly on work, and they were just as strictly watched over by the nuns. He considered running away many times, but the thought always remained of where he would go. What would he do? He had his identity and a few euros to his name--there was nowhere for him to go. The only job he had any training for was within the church. What good would it do him to run from one church to another? In all meanings of the word, Alistair was trapped.
That is, until fate smiled in his favor and sent him the greatet gift possible: Duncan. By that age, it was nearly time for Alistair to take his vows. And this, added to the fact that he was absolutely miserable, made him desperate to catch Duncan's attention. For he, along with everyone in he temple, knew what Duncan was: a Grey Warden; A trained group of secret agent-esque law enforcement officials. Heralded almost as heroes of the land, their renown was incredible. Yet almost the second Alistair felt the spark of hope, it was gone. Yes, Duncan was recruiting...but he himself was quite well aware of his own short-comings. Namely that he was nowhere near the best fighter in town. A display was put on for Duncan--fencing, sword-fighting, archery competitions. Alistair was bested by nearly every person he faced. He felt ashamed and humiliated; he had lost his one chance of freedom.
Yet later that evening, he was asked into the Grand-cleric's office. There, she and Duncan sat waiting for him. As it turned out, Duncan had decided to recruit him, much to the disapproval of the Cleric. He packed his bags that very night, and was off with Duncan in the morning. Alistair has never once looked back.
When he later asked Duncan why he had been the one selected, Duncan responded that it was his character that he admired--his good and loyal heart.
Alistair was soon introduced to the other wardens. He could have cried out of joy when he met them. These were his kind of people. There were so many different people from all runs of lives--people who had once been thieves, people who had been the army, good-humored people, serious people. Yet despite all of their differences, all of them worked well and got along well enough together. United under Duncan, Alistair eagerly became part of the skilled crime-fighting unit.
For six months, Alistair was as happy as can be. He found himself in the company of men and women who felt as he did. They laughed and partied as great friends, and protected each other on missions. It was truly the sort of family Alistair had always wished for. Brother and sisters surrounded him, all people he quickly learned he could trust. He followed orders, sassed some elder members for the hell of it, and lost just about every drinking game that took place. His new life was one part hard work, and one part pure boyish fun.
He was the youngest member, certainly, but he often wondered why Duncan kept him out of so many missions. He knew that Duncan was aware of his true lineage--a part of him felt certain that Duncan kept him safe for this reason. He did not question Duncan, however. The man had practically saved his life, and he knew he would be able to prove himself to Duncan.
He had learned in his first six months the main priority of the wardens. Living in England, Alistair had always been aware of the mafia. It wasn't until his corronation into the wardens, however, that he learned of just how huge of a threat they were. Already, it seemed, they controlled much of the island. Their hold stretched across the land, nearly threatening to over-take the entire monarchy itself. It was an underground threat--most in England cared little for its presence. Long ago, the group had been destroyed; now it was only a scary story to tell belligerent young ones to keep them in their beds. But Duncan assured him, and showed him many times how false that was. They were more clever this time, and had grown vastly in numbers before preparing to make their move. Duncan assured him that it would come down to a battle--they would not go down peacefully, and their hold in politics was too strong to take them down legally. The only way to truly defeat them, to break them apart and thus break their tight grip, would be to kill their boss.
Months passed--with each month, the threat became more real. Wardens would come back from investigations bruised and beaten--some not at all.
Eventually, the fighting caught government attention. The king himself, Alistair's half brother, began speaking to Duncan. And Cailan, a glory-seeker if there ever was one, vouched his help to fight alongside Duncan. They caught news of where the largest grouping of these mafia members were, and decided to soon set off for them.
During his frequent trips, Duncan occasionally brought back other recruits. Among them, his final recruit quickly caught Alistair's attention. A man, not completely unlike himself, saved by Duncan and brought to the Wardens.
They say that a first impression can tell you a lot about a person--this proved true in the new Wardens case. A bold man; Alistair was quickly aware that he was meeting a born leader. And so, when it came time for him to show the three new wardens what they might be dealing with, as well as escort them on their quest to find some old treaties, he had no qualms with letting the new recruit take charge. In the forest they had been traversing, they came upon a scantily clad woman. Alistair, well-versed in the wardens' files, recognized her. Morrigan. Daughter of Flemmeth--one of the most feared crime-lords to have lived. She took them to her mother, who gave them the treaties that she had held safe--Alistair, of course, kept his distance.
The new recruit arrived the day of the fight they would be having. They assumed that landing such a blow would weaken the mafia to a point where they would not be able to function. And with Cailan's help, as well as the help of powerful politician, Loghain, they were more or less guaranteed victory. And though Alistair had dreamed of fighting alongside Duncan, his hopes were again dashed. As per the new strategy, he would be going to the beacon with the new warden in order to give the signal to Loghain to send in the rest of their officers.
The battle began, and made their way up the tower. It was lightly guarded, resulting in a fair deal of fighting--but Alistair still felt himself wary for the other wardens. They lit the fire at the top of the beacon and waited; only to see, out the window, the officers who were supposed to give them back-up retreating. They could hear the clashing of foot-steps running up the stairs, the shouting of the thugs. The door broke open and, with a jolt of pain, a bullet-shot to the arm knocked Alistair out.
When he awoke, disoriented and confused, he saw himself staring into the eyes of an old woman. With a bit of shock, he recognized the woman as Flemmeth. She explained to him the horror of what had happened. Loghain, the man who was supposed to help, had ordered a retreat. His absence in the fight had cost them victory--and the lives of all the other wardens and the king.
Alistair felt like vomitting.
He nearly did.
She continued to speak, but he could hardly listen. Duncan was dead. His brothers...sisters...his new family--all dead. She explained that the mafia would continue to rise to power. In a panic, he interrupted her, asking over the fate of the new warden. She explained that he was fine--asleep in the other room and recovering from his injuries.
Far from comforted, Alistair made his way out of the cottage and paced, eyes focused on the lake and head a flurry of thought. When his companion finally did emerge, Alistair could have cried. There he was--injured, but alive. They spoke with Flemmeth briefly, trying to decide what to do. As Flemmeth explained, they were hated on both sides. The Mafia would surely be after any surviving wardens, and Loghain, the traitor, had spread a wild story throughout the country, explaining how the wardens had betrayed the king. That mid-fight, they had turned on and attacked the Kings' men--and that he had barely made it out alive himself.
It was good for Alistair that the new warden was level-headed...because he wanted to tear something apart.Yet the warden was calm and pragmatic--and they began speaking of plans. The treaties they had acquired obliged three separate groups to aid them. On top of them, Alistair suggested they go to Eamon's castle and speak to him--for he would surely help. Before they could be on their way, Flemmeth offered them her daughter--stated that she would be of great help to them. Alistair was quick to poo-poo the idea...but the new warden invited her along. And Alistair knew his place--he did not lead. He didn't make decisions for a team. He made suggestions and witty one-liners. And other than that, he simply did what he was supposed to. It was the way it always had been.
And so they set off, their rag-tag team. A criminal master-mind, and two grey wardens. They stopped in a small town known as Lothering first, hoping to get supplies. What they weren't expecting was for a holy sister and hulking murderer to join them. It was at such moments that Alistair questioned exactly what he had gotten himself into.
Time passed as they went on their quests, travelling all around the country to use the treaties and gain themselves a force capable of facing the gang. Nearly a year passed on their quest, and Alistair had but one form of solace throughout--his warden companion. Amidst the stress, the countless nights spend camping out doors, the shoot-outs with gang members, the greedy politicians who would turn blind eyes to red running through the street to assure some green in their pockets, the favors required to get people to fulfill their treaties, the new mutt companions they seemed to take on like strays, the warden stayed positive. Even more than that--stayed strong and convicted to his moral code. He was, in all aspects, the perfect warden in Alistair's eyes. Compassionate to his allies, and ruthless to his enemies. It wasn't long when Alistair realized that, somewhere along the lines, he had unwittingly developed some sort of 'crush' on the man. Sexuality had never been something Alistair had needed to question or even think about--he was simply straight, case and point. But this warden seemed an acceptation. Alistair had grown to care for him immensely; the care did not pass into sexual desire, however. No, it was a respect for the younger male, a love that extended past brotherhood and into a common-ground--a recognition of the others' personalities and feelings. He could talk to the warden, as he never had with anyone else. The warden made him feel human--a rare occurrence in the world they lived in. He could truly be himself around the man, joke and have fun. And he, the man, was the one person he had felt comfortable with for long enough to tell all of his story to. The Warden was the only one to see through his defensive layer of sarcasm, and genuinely care for him. Despite himself, Alistair realized quickly that he was in love.
Of course, Alistair kept abjectly quiet about such feelings. Even if he weren't such a failure at romance, he had no doubt that his companion was straight--and even if he wasn't Alistair had no idea how to court another man! Or...even if he would want to be with Alistair. No, the whole idea was too preposterous. And so he silenced his feelings, letting them out sparingly in quick hugs, words of endearment, and one rose that he had gifted the warden. For despite his feelings, a whole different world awaited them outside of their brief windows of freedom to spend in each others' company. He kept thinking to himself that he would tell the warden once it was all over with the gang, when they could finally take a deep breath, that was when he would do something. What, exactly, Alistair didn't know. He thought about it all of the time, wondering what exactly to say, what to do--he was like a love-struck teenager.
Yet he would never need to know exactly what to say, for he would never get a chance to say it--or anything--to the warden once it was all over. When they had finally gathered their allies and intel on the gang, 2 years after their quest had begun, the group made their way to the giant warehouse that the gang leader was known to be hiding it. As expected, and army awaited them all around the perimeter and inside. There was fighting all around as they made their way inside. They finally reached the leader--fighting past her body guards to get to her. Screams and wails filled the air around from the shooting outside. Suddenly, Alistair was afraid--he realized, quite suddenly, the true reality of the situation. They had come so far helping each other, but this was truly it. This was the true test of their skills.
Without his knowledge, his warden companion had launched into a fight with the leader. Too late was his awareness. For when he finally made it to the spot where the two had fought, there were two bodies on the ground--the leader, and his companions.
Bereft--completely and utterly drained. In the days that followed, the celebrations in honor of the warden and the collapse of the gang, Alistair passed them in a haze. He felt a phantom in the world, dissociated from the land he had helped to save. He did not want part of that reality--the one that said the man he had loved in secret had died. The one that called him a hero for saving the world, and didn't acknowledge how terribly he had actually failed. Had he been quicker, a better fighter, he could have saved the warden. Instead, he found him awkwardly standing on a pedestal day after day, forced to play the part of a hero. He stood in the place of the true hero, and every single night left him deeper in his despair. He couldn't stop thinking about what had occurred. He was wracked with guilt and remorse, feeling himself a shell of the man he was. An imposter to himself, a mere facade to please the nameless crowds of people who needed a face to associate with the great triumph.
It eventually became too much, a few weeks after the warden's death. He was at yet another celebration in some noble's manor, expected to smile and talk about what a great thing they had done. He stood at the patio, alone as the place bustled with noise inside. And he couldn't help but feel bitter. He had set out to save a nation initially, but finally realized that he hardly cared about the individuals who inhabited it. He had failed, as far as he was concerned, and didn't deserve the blind praise he received. He had come to realize so much about himself through the warden he had loved to excess, and his failure to save that man, the only person he had ever truly listened to and respected him, was the greatest failure of his life. The realization set something off in him. He was done being who the crowd expected him to be--done wearing the mask. That night, he hopped over the balcony wall and made off into the woods. He would run away from the life of a hero, from the expectations, and live as a wandering vagabond. He remembered speaking to the warden about what would happen after the fight, and the two had agreed amidst laughter that they, together, would traverse the world as renegade heroes. They would be tied down to no one, living and governing their lives as only they saw fit. In his memory, Alistair decided to go about it alone.
In such a way, Alistair has found himself in Spain after travelling through much of Europe. He has yet to get over the death--but has begun to reclaim much of his previous livelihood. If only in the wardens memory, and the knowledge that he wouldn't want Alistair to ruin his life over his death, he faces the days with optimism. He refuses to let the warden's sacrifice go in vain, promising to make the most with his life, and help other people as the warden would have.
He applied for a teaching position in La Campana as yet another quest for him. The moment he heard of the school and it's hateful message, he swore that he would do something to stop it. He deigns to bring the school down from the inside out, and make sure the students know that they are fine as they are--and that gender doesn't matter a lick if you truly love someone. He only wishes that someone could have told him the same earlier; then he could have been open with his feelings toward the warden before it was too late.
Roleplaying Sample:
A rose.
How was it possible for a thing of such beauty to exist in such desolation? Alistair stared at the thing, shocked to see the unmarred, vibrant red flower standing beside the ruined building. It had been the site of a fight--probably between gangs, if he had to guess. The walls were littered with bullet-holes, and earth brown from a heavy rainfall, as if to wash away the horrors that had occurred here. Yet amongst the despair and death, such a thing grew.
It reminded Alistair of hope; that despite all of the carnage and waste in the world, a pristine rose could still find a way to thrive in the putrid world.
He bent down and plucked it, turning to look at his fellow warden. He smiled, thinking of what a wonderful gift it would make for his companion. Something wonderful in a world of pain...perhaps it could explain his own feelings better than he himself could.