[span style="background-color: #525252; padding: 1px; color: #B3B3B3;"]ONE DON'T PICK UP THE PHONE[/span]
name rialto
age 79
bde considerable
snapshot externally a blue-eyed youth with black hair tied past his collarbones, flashing fangs when he smiles, charming and amiable until you meet him for 15< seconds.
substantial relationships
- friends?
- respected
- people who owe him (not a lot)
- people he owes (many)
- people that regret meeting him
appearance + + + Without any focus his face turns vacant, a touch less bored than blank - almost empty, a dainty face lifted to the roof of his carriage with his gaze boring past the metal for the hours before sundown. He takes only half a moment to shift gears when there are others to attend to; adopting an immediate little smile, eyes flashing any degree between sly and perfectly chivalrous and, despite an air of disparaging lethargy, wholly alert. He wastes no attention on his appearance; clothes going unwashed for long periods, grime accumulating under his nails, even smudges of dirt on his face unchecked. They can peer into modern mirrors, but Rialto hardly brings himself to do it. And if he does, sometimes he'll add another smear.
His black hair falls straight, albeit unruly, below the base of his neck just over his shoulder blades, cleaved at the bottom in a clean but roughly diagonal line and tied at the base just as roughly. The windswept hair that falls into his face isn't maintained, only pushed aside, and his loose ponytail rests over his collarbone without any other decoration. He scarcely cleans it, or himself, beyond dunking it in water and letting it air-dry; it itches, frequently, and having his hair grow longer than halfway to the elbow makes Rialto's fingers twitch for a knife. It's long enough as it is, and already a little too long - there are no barbers in San Creado, and the little knives he has don't do for good hacking jobs. He'd ask Cat if he didn't fear decapitation.
It is a disenchanted sort of ugly glaze he has plastered over all his movements. Rialto's regular stance leaves nothing to the imagination. He sprawls, drapes himself over others as though he can't bear to stand up unsupported, takes up the whole surface of any horizontal plane the moment he lies down, like the amount of surface area one occupies is directly proportionate to how much of a big deal they are; Rialto slumps, scowls, scratches his stomach under his shirt in plain sight and hardly even shies from doing worse things, like jamming a whole finger into his ear if he can't be assed to listen. He smiles just as much as he gives charmingly disgusted looks, but he piles so much grease and damned insincerity in it that it all means the same thing; he gives the worst of smirks, eyes lidding and expression nothing less than spitefully amused, by which the definition shifts to them being the best in stimulating others to start swinging.
What he puts on takes equally as little effort. Anything loose, open, and able to be worn in any remotely incorrect way; he's lazy to button, and doesn't find it necessary to iron out wrinkles. The things he wears have folds beyond folds, and he has approximately two sets of clothing that are for remotely formal occasions but even when these occasions roll around he never deigns to put them on - or maybe he does, while no one's looking, dressing up in the dead of night and peering with a weak semblance of nonchalance in his tiny round mirror, but he takes them off just as fast. His form of narcissism regarding his own features is a strange one; it's utterly assured, yet - more than he would admit freely - abashed. There isn't any reason to dress up in this town.
The bottom line is, Rialto's conventionally pretty - blue eyes clear like San Creado's neighbouring ocean isn't, features pleasant like how not thinking too much about Rialto's sad failures in marketing and self-expression makes you feel, tall and leggy and whatever else - but after coming to meet him you're sure he isn't, or after you speak to him for the first time, you'll go home, throwing off your shoes, rubbing your temples, and struggle to remember what his face even looked like, because his personality (and the grime) tends to be the biggest distractor.
All in his master plan, you know.
- build
- everything else............... eee..... expressions, height
- wax poetic abt his pretty eyeballs
- way he walks?
- externally 19 yo
- ooooo comparison to cat!
personality
bc im never going to finish this, dotpointès
- LAZY ASSHOLE
- not good like poster child, but good like he'll laugh behind his hand at ur unrealistic hopes and dreams instead of bolstering u with fake compliments, so good meaning bad but at least u Know. u know?
- actually not a good person. lies and embellishes and frustrates, and for the most part Doesn't Care about people, esp. not about pleasing them w/o needing to, but he's easily shaken by the simplest demonstrations of good intent
- big mean streak. his casual statements that translate as unblinking insults? u don't wanna hear them.
- cuts the crap when he needs to, but likes tiptoeing dramatically around just 2 be a shit
- headstrong, though he Will grovel if it means getting spoonfed.
- strong world view. been through enough to scorn those that think they're above others.
- healthily sceptical, though it looks like he plays along with everything
- charismatic somehow
- not v honest with himself
- quick on the uptake; slowed down because he doesn't take anything seriously
- super sloppy; Big Mess ™. doesn't mind his appearance/image, at all. he's hard to take seriously. most people kind of end up feeling sorry for him.
You wouldn't call him a gentleman, and it's a good thing, too. You couldn't say it without seeing only the top surface of his behaviour on the days he strolled through town, his arms packed full of glittering rustling works that caught the light, the lift of his voice, maybe a second's nod if your eyes lock. Maybe he's polite when he tries to sell his things, and he carries on the smiling complimentary affair just enough to get the common layperson interested for about ten seconds.
Then Cat, or Alex, or both, shuts it down, and - well, anyway, you could probably liken his sales pitches to a Venus flytrap. As in, when he actually makes them sound appealing.
For all that there's a world of difference between his reclining indifference and the smiles he sends prospective customers, the latter is not what one would strictly classify as a farce. That's what people will call it when they see the dichotomy, namely people bearing no qualms with giving him a chop to the neck and asking if he's ashamed of swindling people, but strangely, it scarcely feels like a lie. He pours his earnest attention into people that chatter, drinking in their stories, leading them through the warehouse he has folded up in his Ferris wheel carriage; the rapture breaks when one of the gang pokes their head in and interrupts, but he'll simply play innocent. The casual, affable pleasantries he slips into around strangers don't come at any expense, and his aim isn't to hide, nor even particularly to sell - it's an unconscious search for variation, a personable leak of a life not being a nasty vampire, a homeless vagrant. To some extent, maybe it's because Rialto likes to talk, and not only in jibes.
His liquid shifts between distinguished and unsalvageable are just like him slipping in and out of his Ferris wheel. At some point one has to realise that both sides of him are one and the same.
He's easier to read than he'd like to admit. A vanilla want for attention, poorly stifled gratification gained from even backhanded validation, his face unabashedly cycling outright through disgust and pity even in normal conversation. His penchant for calm is less seeking to be alone (though, simultaneously, it is; there is only so much trouble one can get into with no human interaction) and more taking time to bask in the total lack of immediate conflict, stretching his limbs out as far as they'll go just to take up space, never dressing up just because he doesn't have to.
Rialto had once been a hair-trigger gun. He went off instinct, and to some extent still does; animal. Watching people's eyes, hands, lips. Before, his notion of self control was little to none; stop biting, stop barking, sit still. It hadn't barred feral aggression, pent up rage building up until his infant vessel shook, and tiny Rialto would have certainly tried to brutalise every single person that spat on his name (in itself, though, a greater focus on wanting to defend - pay back as much as he owed, but anchored). Today was thankfully different. Like all the hate was squeezed from his body after a long period of experiencing nothing but, his current persona oozes lackadaisical, unconcerned. He couldn't care less whatever was said about him - Rialto's defining characteristic is how it seems he'd be perched on a lawn chair at world's end, sipping a bloody margarita.
For the record, if there was nothing he could do about it, then that image was valid. On the other hand, in other situations he'd claim not to involve himself if he loses more than he benefits, but while Rialto is not selfless nor benevolent, somehow he's righteous. He'd claw to the top on someone's behalf if they're unable to do it themselves, if for a moment he meets their eyes and sees desperation but determination - he'd never claim to be empathetic, either, but he adopts people's lives like putting on new clothes; works backwards, laying their perspectives and motivations that he can see before him flat like a newspaper. In a strange way, he understands people. What drives them at the basest level: desire, greed, jealousy, hope, love. He knows what hurts them, as we all do. A cold, omniscient pariah he might try to be, Rialto gets invested (in swirling emotion, the tangles of mortal pettiness, their struggles) - and, in reality, he's much more emotional than he'd ever independently realise.
It has its limits. He wouldn't claim to be better than anyone else, and in many parts he couldn't - he didn't push if the victim dug their heels in, didn't persist if they let go. He scorned certain people, however much he said he wasn't an inch above the rest of them; people that gave up. People that never tried, and never wanted to. Rialto didn't spare much thoughts for lost causes - one of the bitterer known facets of being an immortal with too much experience and too little sway. If someone didn't want to, you couldn't make them. The verbal cruelty he's capable of spilling, the nasty statements that bubble up at the peak of his nonchalance
- mention PTSD. maybe complex machinery - doesnt react well to guns. sleeping difficulties. doesn't talk about anri.
- still possesses a fear of death, a subtle one he doesn't realise until it's right in front of him; he's young
- another surprise (or maybe it isn't): totally easy to catch him off-guard. in theory
age 79
bde considerable
snapshot externally a blue-eyed youth with black hair tied past his collarbones, flashing fangs when he smiles, charming and amiable until you meet him for 15< seconds.
substantial relationships
- friends?
- respected
- people who owe him (not a lot)
- people he owes (many)
- people that regret meeting him
appearance + + + Without any focus his face turns vacant, a touch less bored than blank - almost empty, a dainty face lifted to the roof of his carriage with his gaze boring past the metal for the hours before sundown. He takes only half a moment to shift gears when there are others to attend to; adopting an immediate little smile, eyes flashing any degree between sly and perfectly chivalrous and, despite an air of disparaging lethargy, wholly alert. He wastes no attention on his appearance; clothes going unwashed for long periods, grime accumulating under his nails, even smudges of dirt on his face unchecked. They can peer into modern mirrors, but Rialto hardly brings himself to do it. And if he does, sometimes he'll add another smear.
His black hair falls straight, albeit unruly, below the base of his neck just over his shoulder blades, cleaved at the bottom in a clean but roughly diagonal line and tied at the base just as roughly. The windswept hair that falls into his face isn't maintained, only pushed aside, and his loose ponytail rests over his collarbone without any other decoration. He scarcely cleans it, or himself, beyond dunking it in water and letting it air-dry; it itches, frequently, and having his hair grow longer than halfway to the elbow makes Rialto's fingers twitch for a knife. It's long enough as it is, and already a little too long - there are no barbers in San Creado, and the little knives he has don't do for good hacking jobs. He'd ask Cat if he didn't fear decapitation.
It is a disenchanted sort of ugly glaze he has plastered over all his movements. Rialto's regular stance leaves nothing to the imagination. He sprawls, drapes himself over others as though he can't bear to stand up unsupported, takes up the whole surface of any horizontal plane the moment he lies down, like the amount of surface area one occupies is directly proportionate to how much of a big deal they are; Rialto slumps, scowls, scratches his stomach under his shirt in plain sight and hardly even shies from doing worse things, like jamming a whole finger into his ear if he can't be assed to listen. He smiles just as much as he gives charmingly disgusted looks, but he piles so much grease and damned insincerity in it that it all means the same thing; he gives the worst of smirks, eyes lidding and expression nothing less than spitefully amused, by which the definition shifts to them being the best in stimulating others to start swinging.
What he puts on takes equally as little effort. Anything loose, open, and able to be worn in any remotely incorrect way; he's lazy to button, and doesn't find it necessary to iron out wrinkles. The things he wears have folds beyond folds, and he has approximately two sets of clothing that are for remotely formal occasions but even when these occasions roll around he never deigns to put them on - or maybe he does, while no one's looking, dressing up in the dead of night and peering with a weak semblance of nonchalance in his tiny round mirror, but he takes them off just as fast. His form of narcissism regarding his own features is a strange one; it's utterly assured, yet - more than he would admit freely - abashed. There isn't any reason to dress up in this town.
The bottom line is, Rialto's conventionally pretty - blue eyes clear like San Creado's neighbouring ocean isn't, features pleasant like how not thinking too much about Rialto's sad failures in marketing and self-expression makes you feel, tall and leggy and whatever else - but after coming to meet him you're sure he isn't, or after you speak to him for the first time, you'll go home, throwing off your shoes, rubbing your temples, and struggle to remember what his face even looked like, because his personality (and the grime) tends to be the biggest distractor.
All in his master plan, you know.
- build
- everything else............... eee..... expressions, height
- wax poetic abt his pretty eyeballs
- way he walks?
- externally 19 yo
- ooooo comparison to cat!
personality
bc im never going to finish this, dotpointès
- LAZY ASSHOLE
- not good like poster child, but good like he'll laugh behind his hand at ur unrealistic hopes and dreams instead of bolstering u with fake compliments, so good meaning bad but at least u Know. u know?
- actually not a good person. lies and embellishes and frustrates, and for the most part Doesn't Care about people, esp. not about pleasing them w/o needing to, but he's easily shaken by the simplest demonstrations of good intent
- big mean streak. his casual statements that translate as unblinking insults? u don't wanna hear them.
- cuts the crap when he needs to, but likes tiptoeing dramatically around just 2 be a shit
- headstrong, though he Will grovel if it means getting spoonfed.
- strong world view. been through enough to scorn those that think they're above others.
- healthily sceptical, though it looks like he plays along with everything
- charismatic somehow
- not v honest with himself
- quick on the uptake; slowed down because he doesn't take anything seriously
- super sloppy; Big Mess ™. doesn't mind his appearance/image, at all. he's hard to take seriously. most people kind of end up feeling sorry for him.
You wouldn't call him a gentleman, and it's a good thing, too. You couldn't say it without seeing only the top surface of his behaviour on the days he strolled through town, his arms packed full of glittering rustling works that caught the light, the lift of his voice, maybe a second's nod if your eyes lock. Maybe he's polite when he tries to sell his things, and he carries on the smiling complimentary affair just enough to get the common layperson interested for about ten seconds.
Then Cat, or Alex, or both, shuts it down, and - well, anyway, you could probably liken his sales pitches to a Venus flytrap. As in, when he actually makes them sound appealing.
For all that there's a world of difference between his reclining indifference and the smiles he sends prospective customers, the latter is not what one would strictly classify as a farce. That's what people will call it when they see the dichotomy, namely people bearing no qualms with giving him a chop to the neck and asking if he's ashamed of swindling people, but strangely, it scarcely feels like a lie. He pours his earnest attention into people that chatter, drinking in their stories, leading them through the warehouse he has folded up in his Ferris wheel carriage; the rapture breaks when one of the gang pokes their head in and interrupts, but he'll simply play innocent. The casual, affable pleasantries he slips into around strangers don't come at any expense, and his aim isn't to hide, nor even particularly to sell - it's an unconscious search for variation, a personable leak of a life not being a nasty vampire, a homeless vagrant. To some extent, maybe it's because Rialto likes to talk, and not only in jibes.
His liquid shifts between distinguished and unsalvageable are just like him slipping in and out of his Ferris wheel. At some point one has to realise that both sides of him are one and the same.
He's easier to read than he'd like to admit. A vanilla want for attention, poorly stifled gratification gained from even backhanded validation, his face unabashedly cycling outright through disgust and pity even in normal conversation. His penchant for calm is less seeking to be alone (though, simultaneously, it is; there is only so much trouble one can get into with no human interaction) and more taking time to bask in the total lack of immediate conflict, stretching his limbs out as far as they'll go just to take up space, never dressing up just because he doesn't have to.
Rialto had once been a hair-trigger gun. He went off instinct, and to some extent still does; animal. Watching people's eyes, hands, lips. Before, his notion of self control was little to none; stop biting, stop barking, sit still. It hadn't barred feral aggression, pent up rage building up until his infant vessel shook, and tiny Rialto would have certainly tried to brutalise every single person that spat on his name (in itself, though, a greater focus on wanting to defend - pay back as much as he owed, but anchored). Today was thankfully different. Like all the hate was squeezed from his body after a long period of experiencing nothing but, his current persona oozes lackadaisical, unconcerned. He couldn't care less whatever was said about him - Rialto's defining characteristic is how it seems he'd be perched on a lawn chair at world's end, sipping a bloody margarita.
For the record, if there was nothing he could do about it, then that image was valid. On the other hand, in other situations he'd claim not to involve himself if he loses more than he benefits, but while Rialto is not selfless nor benevolent, somehow he's righteous. He'd claw to the top on someone's behalf if they're unable to do it themselves, if for a moment he meets their eyes and sees desperation but determination - he'd never claim to be empathetic, either, but he adopts people's lives like putting on new clothes; works backwards, laying their perspectives and motivations that he can see before him flat like a newspaper. In a strange way, he understands people. What drives them at the basest level: desire, greed, jealousy, hope, love. He knows what hurts them, as we all do. A cold, omniscient pariah he might try to be, Rialto gets invested (in swirling emotion, the tangles of mortal pettiness, their struggles) - and, in reality, he's much more emotional than he'd ever independently realise.
It has its limits. He wouldn't claim to be better than anyone else, and in many parts he couldn't - he didn't push if the victim dug their heels in, didn't persist if they let go. He scorned certain people, however much he said he wasn't an inch above the rest of them; people that gave up. People that never tried, and never wanted to. Rialto didn't spare much thoughts for lost causes - one of the bitterer known facets of being an immortal with too much experience and too little sway. If someone didn't want to, you couldn't make them. The verbal cruelty he's capable of spilling, the nasty statements that bubble up at the peak of his nonchalance
- mention PTSD. maybe complex machinery - doesnt react well to guns. sleeping difficulties. doesn't talk about anri.
- still possesses a fear of death, a subtle one he doesn't realise until it's right in front of him; he's young
- another surprise (or maybe it isn't): totally easy to catch him off-guard. in theory
[span style="background-color: #525252; padding: 1px; color: #B3B3B3;"]TWO DON'T LET HIM IN[/span]