Post by Mendelson Shape on Dec 15, 2010 18:21:33 GMT -5
picture:;[/b][/size]
playby[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Concordia
Andy[/center][/size][/color]theme song[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Sunshine of your love
by Cream[/center][/size]description:;[/b][/size]
In his natural form, Mendelson is of average height, his face fairly forgettable and ordinary, his limbs long, and his body lean. There is only one abnormal feature about him. His eyes, upon observation, are a deep blue, with twisting yellow flames at the edge. They are similar in appearance to Mandelbrot’s fractal
[/blockquote]
name:;[/b][/size]
Shape, Mendelson
[/color][/center]age[/color]:;[/b][/size]
sweet 25
gender[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Male
race[/color]:;[/b][/size]
born a, Shapeshifter
should we put bricks on your head?[/color]:;[/b][/size]
MENDELSON is, 6’ feet, 0 inches tall.
no place like home:;[/b][/size] Ontario, Canada
getting lucky with ~someone~[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Heterosexual
babies coming?[/color]:;[/b][/size]
No
[/blockquote]
Shapeshift(2)-Morph
Phase
Summoning
Voice Trick(1)-Voice Cover
weapon(s)[/color]:;[/b][/size]
None
whatcha~wearin?[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Close fitting dark jeans, sunglasses, a white long-sleeved shirt, a dark jacket, and 3 watches on my left hand
transportation[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Toyota Prius, with the words “U.S.S can’t catch me bitch!” stenciled on the side. side
anything.else.you'd.like.to.share?[/color]:;[/b][/size]
An intricate, tarnished locket with an extremely zoomed in image of a fractal inside it
[/blockquote]
disposition to the law[/color]:;[/b][/size]
NEUTRAL
alignment[/color]:;[/b][/size]
NEUTRAL
likes[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Money
,People
,Living
,Gambling
,Doing new things
dislikes[/color]:;[/b][/size]
The law
,bagpipes
,Mayonnaise
phobias[/color]:;[/b][/size]
of Drills
obsessions[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Observing new Fractels
[/blockquote]
background[/color]:;[/b][/size]
Mendelson Shape is a loner by trade. Abandoned by his parents as a child for his strange moods and shifting features, life at the orphanage in Ontario, was difficult for Mendelson, at first. But as time passed, and his fellows were adopted, or went to beg in the streets, Mendelson stayed, and mourned for things he barely remembered, crying late at night.
He found though, that he could change what his voice sounded like. If he was trying to remember his mothers voice, than he would be able to sound like her, the same with his father. With time, he could mimic more voices, and increase his repertoire. He soon learned to amuse the young children of the orphanage, mimicking the Matron, saying dirty things in her shrill, gravely voice. He could soon mold his features too, and would have little plays, being first one character, than another, all by himself. He became a celebrity of sorts, until Matron caught him performing one night. But by the time she forced him to leave, he was more than prepared with his various skills, and only taking the shirt on his back, and a pair of sunglasses with him.
He travelled to Europe by plane, masquerading as assistant pilot. He stole someone’s luggage at the airport, and left in a taxi, paying him from a credit card in the bag. That night, he stayed in a hotel, using the credit card he had stolen. His first theft, he contemplated. It wasn’t a bad feeling. A trade. That person’s work making the money he used for the card, and his work taking it. He preferred being the latter, he decided. He began his travels in Germany, posing as a Magier, the German word for magician and conjurer. By day amusing children, by night amusing the adults, making full use of his mimicry, and constantly pit-pocketing small sums whenever the opportunity presented itself. In this time, he grew to dis-like the law men he met, the Polizist, who would shut him down, kick him from where he acted, and take the money he had collected. When he deemed his skill great enough, he left Germany, and went to France. It was such a lively, wild city, Mendelson felt truly at home there. He would look up the obituaries in the paper, worked in the old folks homes, and when they died, he would change into them, collect money from their banks, and then leave without a trace. He was returning from one such visit when he encountered a man in a long coat in a darker section of the city. Mendelson nodded to him as he passed him in the street, but the mans stare made him unusually uncomfortable. It was out of his peripheral vision that he saw the man turn silently as though in slow motion, the ripple of his coat as the tip of a crossbow revealed itself, the hiss as he fired. Panic overtook Mendelson, and his form changed, even as the bolt raced towards him. His brain filled with fear, his new hawk form lifted him into the cold night air, feeling the bolt brush his tail feathers. The man fired after him, and a bolt embedded in his shoulder. He wobbled, and toppled onto a rooftop, bleeding. He transformed back abruptly, pulling the bolt from his shoulder, and holding dropping it. He peered out over the roof. The man still stood there for a minute, then he was gone. Mendelson made his way back down to the street level, carefully, fear hiding in every dark corner. But he saw no more of the man that night. He changed shape and left France the next day by train. And the chase was on.
Around and around Europe they went, the man sometimes close sometimes far. Mendelson was pushed to his limit, no longer having time to build relationships with people around him, changing from form to form. Mendelson kept his distance. Though he saw the hunter on occasion, he never gave the man a chance to kill him again. There were close calls though. For 4 years, Mendelson fled and he was chased. Their cat-and-mouse led to often amusing moments, where Mendelson would be cornered in a park, but slip away in turtle form before the man could get to him. Then, one day, he stopped seeing the man. He waited, waited for a sign for him to flee, but none came. And he realized it was over. He had survived, and great satisfaction came over him, but a feeling of loss also. Why had the man wanted to kill him? Who had he been? Mendelson paid for the hotel, and left, and went looking for his pursuer.
Then, one day in a Portugese seaside, as Mendelson sat, trying to relax, the man sat down next to him. They both reacted in a heartbeat, the man pressed a silver knife to Mendelson’s ribs, and Mendelson’s hand transformed into a tiger paw, armed with razor claws, ready to slash his face. They sat there, eyes locked, the sound of waves and gulls filling the silence. The man finally relaxed, and withdrew his knife slowly, looking out at the sea. Mendelson saw his face, tired and unshaven, but the same eyes that had gazed at him 4 years ago still glinted in his face. “I have been hunting for 10 years,” he said to nothing in particular. “But in all my years, you have been the only thing I haven’t caught.” Mendelson shivered. The man chuckled half to himself. “My code dictates that that which I hunt must die, that you and your kind are evil, but you have earned my respect, changeling. I cannot help but admire someone with intelligence like my own.” Mendelson looked at him, and a grin lit his face. “I will admit, there were some close calls. You are not half bad, Hunter…” The man grunted. Mendelson leaned in, “But listen. Can we not work together? Life is too short to waste on little things. You have shown me that. But to do something bigger would require people I trust. You help me and I help you.” Mendelson contemplated his former life, alone, and without trust. Safe, it was true, but unsatisfying. No one would remember him for being safe. But if he trusted this man, the future would be different, new. And Mendelson was fascinated with new things. “Well?” The man looked at him, at his strange eyes. His look was calculating, rather like Mendelson’s own at the moment. Then he nodded, and extended a gloved hand. “What’s the worse that could happen?”
He found though, that he could change what his voice sounded like. If he was trying to remember his mothers voice, than he would be able to sound like her, the same with his father. With time, he could mimic more voices, and increase his repertoire. He soon learned to amuse the young children of the orphanage, mimicking the Matron, saying dirty things in her shrill, gravely voice. He could soon mold his features too, and would have little plays, being first one character, than another, all by himself. He became a celebrity of sorts, until Matron caught him performing one night. But by the time she forced him to leave, he was more than prepared with his various skills, and only taking the shirt on his back, and a pair of sunglasses with him.
He travelled to Europe by plane, masquerading as assistant pilot. He stole someone’s luggage at the airport, and left in a taxi, paying him from a credit card in the bag. That night, he stayed in a hotel, using the credit card he had stolen. His first theft, he contemplated. It wasn’t a bad feeling. A trade. That person’s work making the money he used for the card, and his work taking it. He preferred being the latter, he decided. He began his travels in Germany, posing as a Magier, the German word for magician and conjurer. By day amusing children, by night amusing the adults, making full use of his mimicry, and constantly pit-pocketing small sums whenever the opportunity presented itself. In this time, he grew to dis-like the law men he met, the Polizist, who would shut him down, kick him from where he acted, and take the money he had collected. When he deemed his skill great enough, he left Germany, and went to France. It was such a lively, wild city, Mendelson felt truly at home there. He would look up the obituaries in the paper, worked in the old folks homes, and when they died, he would change into them, collect money from their banks, and then leave without a trace. He was returning from one such visit when he encountered a man in a long coat in a darker section of the city. Mendelson nodded to him as he passed him in the street, but the mans stare made him unusually uncomfortable. It was out of his peripheral vision that he saw the man turn silently as though in slow motion, the ripple of his coat as the tip of a crossbow revealed itself, the hiss as he fired. Panic overtook Mendelson, and his form changed, even as the bolt raced towards him. His brain filled with fear, his new hawk form lifted him into the cold night air, feeling the bolt brush his tail feathers. The man fired after him, and a bolt embedded in his shoulder. He wobbled, and toppled onto a rooftop, bleeding. He transformed back abruptly, pulling the bolt from his shoulder, and holding dropping it. He peered out over the roof. The man still stood there for a minute, then he was gone. Mendelson made his way back down to the street level, carefully, fear hiding in every dark corner. But he saw no more of the man that night. He changed shape and left France the next day by train. And the chase was on.
Around and around Europe they went, the man sometimes close sometimes far. Mendelson was pushed to his limit, no longer having time to build relationships with people around him, changing from form to form. Mendelson kept his distance. Though he saw the hunter on occasion, he never gave the man a chance to kill him again. There were close calls though. For 4 years, Mendelson fled and he was chased. Their cat-and-mouse led to often amusing moments, where Mendelson would be cornered in a park, but slip away in turtle form before the man could get to him. Then, one day, he stopped seeing the man. He waited, waited for a sign for him to flee, but none came. And he realized it was over. He had survived, and great satisfaction came over him, but a feeling of loss also. Why had the man wanted to kill him? Who had he been? Mendelson paid for the hotel, and left, and went looking for his pursuer.
Then, one day in a Portugese seaside, as Mendelson sat, trying to relax, the man sat down next to him. They both reacted in a heartbeat, the man pressed a silver knife to Mendelson’s ribs, and Mendelson’s hand transformed into a tiger paw, armed with razor claws, ready to slash his face. They sat there, eyes locked, the sound of waves and gulls filling the silence. The man finally relaxed, and withdrew his knife slowly, looking out at the sea. Mendelson saw his face, tired and unshaven, but the same eyes that had gazed at him 4 years ago still glinted in his face. “I have been hunting for 10 years,” he said to nothing in particular. “But in all my years, you have been the only thing I haven’t caught.” Mendelson shivered. The man chuckled half to himself. “My code dictates that that which I hunt must die, that you and your kind are evil, but you have earned my respect, changeling. I cannot help but admire someone with intelligence like my own.” Mendelson looked at him, and a grin lit his face. “I will admit, there were some close calls. You are not half bad, Hunter…” The man grunted. Mendelson leaned in, “But listen. Can we not work together? Life is too short to waste on little things. You have shown me that. But to do something bigger would require people I trust. You help me and I help you.” Mendelson contemplated his former life, alone, and without trust. Safe, it was true, but unsatisfying. No one would remember him for being safe. But if he trusted this man, the future would be different, new. And Mendelson was fascinated with new things. “Well?” The man looked at him, at his strange eyes. His look was calculating, rather like Mendelson’s own at the moment. Then he nodded, and extended a gloved hand. “What’s the worse that could happen?”
[/blockquote]
Yes, Mendelson and The Hunter, Will, work together
