Okay, here's my SU. I hope it's okay...I'll admit that I'm a bit rusty. Let me know if I need to adjust anything!
Name: Charles Ashland
Position: Tint [Purple / Right Palm]
Age: 17.5
Gender: Male
Page from: Murasaki
Distinct Skills:
As expected of a man hailing from the fashionable avenues of Murasaki, Charles has an uncanny ability for detail oriented work. Ever studying the world around him, Charles' infamous, observing eyes take in his surroundings, while his gentle, artistic hands craft the scene to memory on paper.
Charles always keep his sketchbook at arms length, with drawings of vistas, animals and architecture quickly filling its pages. If he finds an object of extreme interest or beauty, it goes in the book. His sketches are his most prized possession, a window into his soul. Should someone get a hold of its contents, they would instantly know what he cherished. As of late, fewer and fewer drawings seem to be granted the warm embrace of his paper, however.
Faults:
Reserved and shy, Charles is not a good communicator and would rather spend time with paper than people. He will actively go out of his way to avoid confrontation with others and will drive others mad with his perceived passiveness. It's not that Charles doesn't care for others, quite the opposite actually. Inside that passive shell of a man, rests a bleeding heart. His feelings are intense, but locked away with lips that can't properly relay them to others.
If an argument were to ignite, Charles would either step to the side and let other hotter heads waste their breath, or quietly throw himself in the middle to douse the flames of fighting with calmness.
Appearance:
In the dictionary, the word "average" has both a definition and a picture of Charles sitting right next to it. A boy graced with neither breathtakingly beautiful features, nor a grotesque profile, his whole life he has been served as just another person.
Just slightly taller than the typical male, his frame is thickly built but not chunky. His neatly trimmed and styled hair sits squarely above two large and obviously perceptive eyes. One look into those eyes and you can see him thinking; processing every detail as if it were a book to be studied.
From the gentle slope of his nose and down to his solid legs, the rest of his body is fairly unremarkable except for the palm of his right hand. Underneath his right hand, typically covered by black, leather gloves even in the warmest of seasons, you'll find his color. The entirety of his right palm is dyed in a royal, resplendent purple. Charles does his best to hide this 'defect' at all times, covering his hands or shoving them in pockets when necessary.
Besides the gloves that he keeps on his person, he is known to wear typical, black slacks and a white, button-down, cardigan with the faintest of of twill patterns in its weave, patches on the elbows and the ever famous 'Made in Murasaki' label inside.
Personality:
In parallel with Charles' shyness and the rather unflattering faults that adhere to it, he is typically a gentle soul and appears calm and rational to those on the outside. With a serious facade and tender mood, he is yielding to different philosophies and points of view. Secretly harboring thoughts of his own, he will venture them forth if asked but never quite willingly.
Perhaps unsurprisingly of one who is characteristically shy, once Charles gets to know someone, he will open up and actually joke around with people who have become his friends or family. He's been told he can be quite funny when his mouth actually puts forth the effort to form words.
Outwardly confident in posture and inwardly insecure, he hasn't known himself to be different than he is today. While others start shy in childhood and quickly emerge as social butterflies, Charles is ever stuck as the reclusive caterpillar.
History:
Born the only child of two rather handsome human beings, Charles never did without nor did he ever really want. His life as a child was splendidly quiet, if a bit lonely. Perhaps had he possessed siblings, he might have been a better communicator in his young adulthood, but that's all conjecture at this point.
His dad was a low-level fashion designer and his mother a sculptor. Charles was very close with his parents, themselves being one of the few people that had that distinction. They would often laugh and play games in the family home, Charles' personality being much more jovial and relaxed in that comfortable setting.
Ever encouraged to seek out his passion, he quickly discovered his love of the pen and pencil. With just such an instrument in his hand, he could craft worlds such as had never been seen before, making the form of them like a god and filling them with life. In his old and worn notebook, the very first page is a drawing of his apartment complex. It wasn't a glamorous building, but it was home. If one were to look closely enough, they could spot his mom and dad through the third level window. Over the years, pages like chapters of his life, became fleshed out in that book.
He rarely understood other people on the inside, doing him a great disservice in school. Charles was the antithesis of popularity. A form of social outcast, he found himself going through the motions, drawing more than studying. He had no true friends, just casual acquaintances of the school 'reject table' at lunch.
The day of his home's erasing is still rather vague in his mind. Charles had heard the news of such a thing happening in other pages, but never did he imagine it would happen to Murasaki. Waking in the city of Kuro, he was alone. The void filling and supporting system that was his family had vanished and while much of his time growing up was spent being a loner, never had he felt so isolated.
What does a man have to live for if he has nobody to share life with? That is a question Charles asks himself more and more on a daily basis. He think himself a freak and hates how his 'tint' makes him different than everyone else. A large burden is resting on his shoulders and he doesn't believe he can handle it any longer. While he doesn't await death, many who see him say he's already dead.
Opinion on 'Colour':
Charles hates color. He views it as a perversion and a blight on himself and humanity. The vile spread of his own color is repulsive to him and he himself can't even stand to look at the hue that graces his palm. The gloves he wear shields him not only from the disgusted looks of others, but the hate that he harbors towards the appendage. If only life would stay monochrome.
Extra:
Hates when people call him Chuck.
RP Sample:
The park was quiet, it always was around the time of day that Charles snuck out of lunch to come and sit by the water. Sprawled out on the grass, his eyes were closed and ears attuned to the buzzing of mid-summer's insects as they saw to whatever business such insignificant creatures tended to. As he listened, a smile slowly curled on his lips and his body found contentment.
He knew this park well, in fact, he had drawn it several times from varying angles within the book that currently rested on his chest. Thrumming the fingers of his right hand on it's hard binding, he thought about the park's vast pond, with flittering creatures and children that filled it in earlier hours.
Even lost in thought and with closed eyes, he could see the shadow that cast over him as someone approached and loomed overhead. Opening his eyelids, he looked at the handsome, if aging man from a slightly upside down vantage point.
"Hi dad," he greeted him quietly, his voice mellifluous and low like a purr. "Care to join me?"
"Charles," his dad responded sternly with a hint of anger. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
"Maybe…" Charles said with a smile and looked away. "It's only lunch. Besides, the pond is better company than most people in that place."
With a sigh, his father sat down next to him and looked over disapprovingly. "If you're going to cut school, don't do it at the park across from your house when your father works from home." Before Charles could stop him, his father grabbed the sketchbook from him and flipped through the pages. "You know, there's never many people in this book. You're so talented, Chuck." Charles flinched from hearing the nickname that he hated and rolled his eyes. "Why don't you ever make room for people now and then? Get a girl for god's sake!"
A slightly amused chuckle escaped Charles now as he sat up and retrieved his book. "Girls hate me, dad. I can't be like Tarik Forester next door. I'm just the weird, quiet guy who can't talk with people."
"You're talking to me right now."
"But you're different, you and mom both are. I don't have to think about what I say to you guys, it just comes out."
"Then stop thinking so much," his father retorted with a sly smile that he always wore when he won a discussion.
"Yeah, stop thinking. I think that's called being dead, dad."
"Everyone's gotta die sometime, son."
Position: Tint [Purple / Right Palm]
Age: 17.5
Gender: Male
Page from: Murasaki
Distinct Skills:
As expected of a man hailing from the fashionable avenues of Murasaki, Charles has an uncanny ability for detail oriented work. Ever studying the world around him, Charles' infamous, observing eyes take in his surroundings, while his gentle, artistic hands craft the scene to memory on paper.
Charles always keep his sketchbook at arms length, with drawings of vistas, animals and architecture quickly filling its pages. If he finds an object of extreme interest or beauty, it goes in the book. His sketches are his most prized possession, a window into his soul. Should someone get a hold of its contents, they would instantly know what he cherished. As of late, fewer and fewer drawings seem to be granted the warm embrace of his paper, however.
Faults:
Reserved and shy, Charles is not a good communicator and would rather spend time with paper than people. He will actively go out of his way to avoid confrontation with others and will drive others mad with his perceived passiveness. It's not that Charles doesn't care for others, quite the opposite actually. Inside that passive shell of a man, rests a bleeding heart. His feelings are intense, but locked away with lips that can't properly relay them to others.
If an argument were to ignite, Charles would either step to the side and let other hotter heads waste their breath, or quietly throw himself in the middle to douse the flames of fighting with calmness.
Appearance:
In the dictionary, the word "average" has both a definition and a picture of Charles sitting right next to it. A boy graced with neither breathtakingly beautiful features, nor a grotesque profile, his whole life he has been served as just another person.
Just slightly taller than the typical male, his frame is thickly built but not chunky. His neatly trimmed and styled hair sits squarely above two large and obviously perceptive eyes. One look into those eyes and you can see him thinking; processing every detail as if it were a book to be studied.
From the gentle slope of his nose and down to his solid legs, the rest of his body is fairly unremarkable except for the palm of his right hand. Underneath his right hand, typically covered by black, leather gloves even in the warmest of seasons, you'll find his color. The entirety of his right palm is dyed in a royal, resplendent purple. Charles does his best to hide this 'defect' at all times, covering his hands or shoving them in pockets when necessary.
Besides the gloves that he keeps on his person, he is known to wear typical, black slacks and a white, button-down, cardigan with the faintest of of twill patterns in its weave, patches on the elbows and the ever famous 'Made in Murasaki' label inside.
Personality:
In parallel with Charles' shyness and the rather unflattering faults that adhere to it, he is typically a gentle soul and appears calm and rational to those on the outside. With a serious facade and tender mood, he is yielding to different philosophies and points of view. Secretly harboring thoughts of his own, he will venture them forth if asked but never quite willingly.
Perhaps unsurprisingly of one who is characteristically shy, once Charles gets to know someone, he will open up and actually joke around with people who have become his friends or family. He's been told he can be quite funny when his mouth actually puts forth the effort to form words.
Outwardly confident in posture and inwardly insecure, he hasn't known himself to be different than he is today. While others start shy in childhood and quickly emerge as social butterflies, Charles is ever stuck as the reclusive caterpillar.
History:
Born the only child of two rather handsome human beings, Charles never did without nor did he ever really want. His life as a child was splendidly quiet, if a bit lonely. Perhaps had he possessed siblings, he might have been a better communicator in his young adulthood, but that's all conjecture at this point.
His dad was a low-level fashion designer and his mother a sculptor. Charles was very close with his parents, themselves being one of the few people that had that distinction. They would often laugh and play games in the family home, Charles' personality being much more jovial and relaxed in that comfortable setting.
Ever encouraged to seek out his passion, he quickly discovered his love of the pen and pencil. With just such an instrument in his hand, he could craft worlds such as had never been seen before, making the form of them like a god and filling them with life. In his old and worn notebook, the very first page is a drawing of his apartment complex. It wasn't a glamorous building, but it was home. If one were to look closely enough, they could spot his mom and dad through the third level window. Over the years, pages like chapters of his life, became fleshed out in that book.
He rarely understood other people on the inside, doing him a great disservice in school. Charles was the antithesis of popularity. A form of social outcast, he found himself going through the motions, drawing more than studying. He had no true friends, just casual acquaintances of the school 'reject table' at lunch.
The day of his home's erasing is still rather vague in his mind. Charles had heard the news of such a thing happening in other pages, but never did he imagine it would happen to Murasaki. Waking in the city of Kuro, he was alone. The void filling and supporting system that was his family had vanished and while much of his time growing up was spent being a loner, never had he felt so isolated.
What does a man have to live for if he has nobody to share life with? That is a question Charles asks himself more and more on a daily basis. He think himself a freak and hates how his 'tint' makes him different than everyone else. A large burden is resting on his shoulders and he doesn't believe he can handle it any longer. While he doesn't await death, many who see him say he's already dead.
Opinion on 'Colour':
Charles hates color. He views it as a perversion and a blight on himself and humanity. The vile spread of his own color is repulsive to him and he himself can't even stand to look at the hue that graces his palm. The gloves he wear shields him not only from the disgusted looks of others, but the hate that he harbors towards the appendage. If only life would stay monochrome.
Extra:
Hates when people call him Chuck.
RP Sample:
The park was quiet, it always was around the time of day that Charles snuck out of lunch to come and sit by the water. Sprawled out on the grass, his eyes were closed and ears attuned to the buzzing of mid-summer's insects as they saw to whatever business such insignificant creatures tended to. As he listened, a smile slowly curled on his lips and his body found contentment.
He knew this park well, in fact, he had drawn it several times from varying angles within the book that currently rested on his chest. Thrumming the fingers of his right hand on it's hard binding, he thought about the park's vast pond, with flittering creatures and children that filled it in earlier hours.
Even lost in thought and with closed eyes, he could see the shadow that cast over him as someone approached and loomed overhead. Opening his eyelids, he looked at the handsome, if aging man from a slightly upside down vantage point.
"Hi dad," he greeted him quietly, his voice mellifluous and low like a purr. "Care to join me?"
"Charles," his dad responded sternly with a hint of anger. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
"Maybe…" Charles said with a smile and looked away. "It's only lunch. Besides, the pond is better company than most people in that place."
With a sigh, his father sat down next to him and looked over disapprovingly. "If you're going to cut school, don't do it at the park across from your house when your father works from home." Before Charles could stop him, his father grabbed the sketchbook from him and flipped through the pages. "You know, there's never many people in this book. You're so talented, Chuck." Charles flinched from hearing the nickname that he hated and rolled his eyes. "Why don't you ever make room for people now and then? Get a girl for god's sake!"
A slightly amused chuckle escaped Charles now as he sat up and retrieved his book. "Girls hate me, dad. I can't be like Tarik Forester next door. I'm just the weird, quiet guy who can't talk with people."
"You're talking to me right now."
"But you're different, you and mom both are. I don't have to think about what I say to you guys, it just comes out."
"Then stop thinking so much," his father retorted with a sly smile that he always wore when he won a discussion.
"Yeah, stop thinking. I think that's called being dead, dad."
"Everyone's gotta die sometime, son."
