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diveronarpg · 6 years ago

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Congratulations, SIDNEY! You’ve been accepted for the role of FORTINBRAS. Admin Jen: From the moment I finished reading about what drew you to Faron, I was immediately sold on your vision of him, Sidney. You encompassed everything that makes him who he is – his greed, his cunning, and most importantly, his ambition – and you explored it so intricately. From the extensive plots, to the intriguing interview, everything came together to form the ruthless, magnetizing image that we were all expecting of Faron. I was completely overtaken with him by the time I finished reading and I can’t wait to see more of him on the dash!. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Sidney Age | 22 Preferred Pronouns | She/her Activity Level | I’m fairly active! I’m usually here when I’m not working or sleeping, and most likely mobile and available to plot. I get to replies within 1-3 days depending on muse and time management! On a numerical scale, I’d say I’m a 6-7/10. Timezone | EST

In Character

Character | Fortinbras / Faron Vasiliev

What drew you to this character?

Any man who’s ever been down on their luck or at the end of their rope knows the name Faron Vasiliev. He is the hammer that falls upon those who think it wise to try and cheat the God of Debt—of Death, to those who dare to run. The streets of St. Petersburg quaked with each step of his leather Gucci loafers, and this is perhaps what draws me into a man such as he. Unapologetic in his hunger, his need to take and take and take, and to offer nothing in return, for selfishness knows no other purpose but to consume. And that is essentially what Faron does, isn’t it? Nothing survives the wake, nor the storm that follows his merciless entrance into a poor man’s life. With his teeth bared and sharpened to a fine point, he’ll drive them right into your flesh without ever giving it a second thought because to him, you aren’t worth more than your weight in gold, and by the time he’s done with you, Faron will have already turned your annihilated bones into glittering diamonds atop his gilded crown. Very little means more to him than power, and it is this desire to which I am so attracted. Dissecting its motives and rendering it defenseless, that’s what I want to do, and what better way to accomplish this than through the hands of a man with his grip now wrapped tightly around Verona’s throat.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

AVARICE — Who among us can resist the long legs stemming from the green dress of greed? The color of money, his favorite. Faron considers himself a collector of many things, beautiful people, designer clothes, crisp dollar bills. If he could, he’d build his entire empire out of the stuff, out of the millions he’s made by simply being the smartest man in the room. What he is never lacking in is hunger; he’s rotten with it. Always wanting and needing more— power, more money, more glory. It’s not as if he fails to recognize it oozing from his every step, radiating in waves off of him wherever he goes. His soldiers used to fall silent whenever he entered a room, a certain reverence reserved for the King of St. Petersburg. The man who’d built himself up from nothing, who’d taken every opportunity given to him and turned it into gold. The proof was in the Armani suit he dons and the Jaguar he drives, and that’s just on Thursday. Of this month. Faron is a greedy bastard, no understatement, just truth. And he flaunts the wealth he wholeheartedly believes makes him worthy of doing so all over town, whatever city he decides to put up residence in. He can arrive at sunrise and by sunset the entire people are in the palm of his hand. Such is the way of a man with an endless supply of honey on the tip of his tongue. But upon his arrival to Verona, while flashy and with a flair of dramatics (just because he can), is a splash into a far bigger pond than he’s used to. He’s new money in a city whose wealth goes back not just generations but centuries, legacies just beyond every other wrought iron gate and gilded doorstep, and he a self-made man. I have a feeling the sheer audacity of him will be jarring against the refined tastes and likes of those born and bred in Italy, but Faron has always been a man who never apologizes, and he isn’t about to start anytime soon. They will make room for him whether they like it or not. After all, he was invited. And that was their first mistake. The second will be when they hand over everything they have, he’ll make sure of it.

SUBTERFUGE — Does a lie not sound a hell of a lot like the truth coming from a man with enough conviction? If there is one thing Faron knows how to do it is will falsity into truth. An easy thing to master when you already know how to turn copper into gold, but much harder to slide down the gullet of a superstitious man unless you coax it down. Deceit is a six letter word, etched onto the folds of his heart, and each time blood pumps through, it transforms into something more palpable to the masses. He knows he’s not everyone’s cup of tea; his arrogance alone is enough to garner the fiercest of fists to his jaw, but what he lacks in favorability, he makes up for in promises. In sickly sweet lies on the tip of his golden dagger tongue, dipped in sugar so it doesn’t hurt so much when it slits your throat. Lying is what he does best simply because he only lies when it benefits himself, and when his own prosperity is on the line, one can be guaranteed Faron will deliver. It was so easy when beggars came knocking at his door, hoping for a few grand here, a couple thousand there, just enough to keep them on their feet. Loans he knew they couldn’t possibly payback, which just made the retrieval all the more fun. But now entering Verona, the stakes have never been higher. Though he walks the walk, talks the talk, a man as hollow as he surely has something to lose in a city filled with roots he can’t begin to comprehend. He fancies himself the axe to chop them all down, the blade to sever the ties that bind the city to its masters, if for no other reason than to bring them under his heel once more. I so want to explore the lies with which he’ll surround himself as he ventures out into the city whose streets are already drenched in blood—none of which is his yet. To him, he’s not even shed a drop. An outsider with the goals of a lifetime worshipper of the underbelly’s chaos, but do they see him for what he truly is? A victor. Let them fight amongst themselves as he makes his way into the back alleys and dark corners, like a thief in the night, just watch as he comes for all you hold dear. Venom coats his tongue, disguised as something sweet despite the way it oozes from the corners of his mouth. He froths with hunger. For destruction. For ruination, forreclamation of what he knows to be rightfully his. This entire city and all its contents, and he’s willing to do, say, or kill anything standing in his way.

TREACHERY —Who can you trust when everything you touch turns to gold? There are very few people he considers honest and trustworthy. Calina is one of few, but the rest of the Montagues may as well be strangers to him, all of whom need to prove themselves worthy of the titles they wear with such pride. Soldier. Captain. Emissary—the title he himself wears, but not with pride. Disdain. Hatred and disgust for its unimportance. Bosssounds more like it. Underboss sounds better but still not quite right, and regardless, there’s quite a few standing in his way. All of whom he trusts as far as he can throw them. Faron has never considered himself a paranoid man, always knowing he’s covered his tracks and left nothing to chance. He’s a planner, and if there is no outcome that benefits him, he doesn’t move forward. He came to Verona with a clear vision in sight, but his arrival was less than what he’d hoped for, and there’s much work to do. It takes a village, they say, and while he’s recruited some, (Trinity, his huntress. Grace, his monstress.), he knows he will need more to flock to his aide. Though it seems he fits right into this den of thieves, this city called Verona, filled with just as many liars and twice as many cheats. He’ll make his alliances, shakes as many hands that extend his way, broker any deals that can get him ahead, but what he won’t do is think himself safe in this place. He won’t be safe until every door is torn from its frame and the palace is tossed. Faron won’t rest until he’s gutted everyone who thought him loyal and strung them up as a warning sign to those who dare to think he’s on anyone’s side but his own. I want nothing more than for the Montagues to test his loyalty, to push him. The tether they have on him is long, but oh, so very thin, and he can snap it at any moment he wishes. He could slip a knife between Damiano’s ribs while he sleeps with his mouth hanging open, he could take his life and be gone before the sun even rose, not a soul the wiser. But he doesn’t; why? Because he’s smarter than that, than most who have the same goals as he. Faron knows it’s easier to dismantle from the inside, to grab the bull, as it were, by the balls and squeeze until he bends to your will. The Montague Patriarch saw something in him, perhaps it was potential. Maybe Damiano saw great things in Faron’s future. But if he were a betting man, and he most certainly is, he’d venture that the Italian saw a threat and wanted to extinguish it before it became a threat. Foolish man, doesn’t he know acquisition only stokes a conqueror’s fire?

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes.

In Depth

In-Character Interview: What is your favorite place in Verona?

He thinks for a moment, mulls over the few places he’s bothered to venture into. It’s been just under a month since he’d arrived and though he’d like to think he’s already made his mark upon Verona, he still knows very little of its nightlife. “I stayed at the Emelia when I first arrived,” he clears his throat and takes a sip of the bloody mary in his hand, stirring the crimson liquid with the celery stick within the glass. “It was quite nice but,” lips pursed he chooses his words carefully, “not exactly my taste.” A drill sounds in the distance, the murmuring of construction workers floating out onto the balcony. “As you can see I’ve been a bit preoccupied. Construction is a nightmare no matter the country,” he lets out a defeated sigh, leaning forward to set his drink down atop the glass table between him and the woman asking the questions. “I’m rather curious about the, the gambling hall–” brows furrowed he struggles to recall the name he’d heard in passing last weekend, a casino on the tip of the tongue of some hostess as she seated him for dinner, “what’s it called?” Finger tapping against his chin, he looks toward sliding glass door to think, eyes landing on Calina as she reaches for a coffee cup from the rack above the machine. “The Dark Lady,” the thought clicks as soon as his eyes rove over her frame, from head to toe as she stretches, his white button up shirt looking far better on her than it ever looked on him; Faron always did think better when his gaze was trained on her. “Such a shame the Capulets get all the fun.”

What does your typical day look like?

“Well,” he gestures around him, arms outstretched, “a whole lot like this.” A laugh, pearly whites bared as he crosses his legs, arms falling onto the back of the couch where he sits. “Welcome to my new office, temporary of course, but until that racket is finished,” he smacks his tongue against his teeth, frustrating licking up the sides of his throat as he spoke, trying as best he could not to let the loathing he felt for the men still traipsing about his new home choke his words, “I’m here.” The truth was he could do his job from anywhere, as long as he had a strong cell tower nearby and the occasional wifi signal always helped, but most of his career had been built on his voice. On the deals he could make and the money such an arrangement would guarantee. He’s made offers standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, ruined lives as he smoked a cigar at the base of the Louvre, made millions as he sipped wine on a yacht in Fiji. “As long as I’ve my phone, I can work.”

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

It caught him off guard, the question. So abrasive, so intrusive. He blinks in surprise and irritably carves at the stubble along his jaw with two fingers. “You ask that often?” he scoffs, “and people answer honestly?” It’s a foreign concept to him, complete transparency, and had he known it was going to be required upon his arrival to this city, he might have given the move a second thought. Faron values his privacy, all his secrets hidden behind a six-foot thick wall of invisible ice, buried away from everyone else. A hilarious notion as he mulls over the few things he doesn’t wish to share, all his mistakes are what he would consider personal failures. Choices he wished he hadn’t made, but did so anyway. Decisions which were the result of his heart rather than his head, rationalized away as a young and dumb kid who hadn’t realized his true purpose yet. But that was for him to know, to accept and move forward from, and her—this interviewer—to never find out.

“I don’t make mistakes,” he says calmly instead. “That would imply I have regrets, and I can assure you, I don’t.” The world is cruel to those who think it is on their side, to those who think they have any favor with such a vixen as she. And so Faron became the one thing its people cannot live without: a King. “Only lessons I’ve learned,” someone to live and die for. A man to fear, and what is fear if not the greatest currency there is? Second to gold, of course.

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

He’s getting angry now, not enjoying her prying any more than she can be enjoying his scowl, pointed right at her where she sits, eyes narrow and domineering. Faron tries to read her, tries to garner as much information as he can from what little time he’s spent with her. If she has an ulterior motive, he can’t tell. She sits before him, legs crossed with a pen in her hand, small smile painted along her delicate features. A picture of the innocence surely to be lost once he makes this city his home. But what he hates about her question altogether is the assumption of failure once again, as if it is the default and he should be made to explain himself. Faron owes her nothing, no explanation nor the drink in her hand or the seat on which she resides. He had been more than courteous, but she was pushing her luck.

“You mistake me for someone who takes orders.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and Montagues?

“Is it a war?” he has to laugh, a hand clutched to his chest, head tossed back if for no other reason than to better let the sun beam down onto his glistening tan skin, all anger and resentment dissipating at the hilarity of her question. He was nothing if not picturesque, even when laughing in the face of a fool. “Enlighten me, please,” his accent is thick as he smoothes out the lapel of his jacket, the perfume of his arrogance wrapping tightly around the girl’s throat but he can’t even be bothered to look in her direction. Instead his vision is drawn outward, toward the city he’s meant to rule. “If it’s a war, then where’s the bloodshed? Are these streets meant to be the battlefield?” He’s musing now, taking pleasure in her squirming, which he can see out of the corner of his eye. “One dead, and you call that a war?” Hand lifted to his face, he wraps a finger around the Versace shades shielding his eyes and slides them down his nose just a bit to get a glance at her, to expose the hue of his irresistible baby blues. “Zolotse, now that’s a good joke,” grin now plastered along his face, he leans forward and removes the sunglasses completely, using them to make his point when he spoke more than anything else. “Your war,” he scoffs, “looks a lot more like peace to me, and peace is a poor man’s game,” he shakes out his wrist dismissively, frustrated now and it’s evident in the way he crosses his legs, then his arms. “Where I’m from we build empires,” his scowl shifts slowly into the ghost of a smile, one reserved for a man who can so clearly see the future and the fortune it holds, “and it’s high time Verona got a taste of royalty, don’t you think?” I’m not here to fight your war, he thinks. He is here to end it.

Extras:

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SMALL HEADCANONS:

— ASTROLOGY: Born January 29th, Faron is a aquarius; a very deep thinker, he’s often planning things, always ten steps ahead of those around him. He’s very intellectual and stimulated by people who are the same, favoring good conversation over most anything else, but he also so values his alone time. To him the world is a place full of possibilities, but his mind will always be his safe space to just be. Perhaps his biggest struggle, though, will be that of feeling trapped or constrained in any way. He wants the world to be his oyster, and if stuck in one place for too long, he will begin to claw his way out and take no prisoners.

> Element: Air - the one element found in all others, most notably by keeping a fire burning. He widens lungs, offers room to breathe and represents the personal freedom to do so. > Ruler: Saturn - always looking to the past to better prepare for the future, encased in ice which creates a nice barrier between him and everyone else, but above all else he is a master of time and order who expects nothing less from the people he surrounds himself with. > Color(s): Black, brown - deep Earthy tones, all scattered throughout his wardrobe save for the ten or so items he has to match with Calina; he strives for simplicity and offers a straightforward approach, surrounding himself with the dark comforting hues of nature.

— STRENGTHS: Progressive, original, independent, poised. — WEAKNESSES: Arrogant, unforgiving, condescending, temperamental, uncompromising. — ALIGNMENT: Chaotic evil, though I sometimes think he can appear within chaotic neutral just as well. He has so many goals, so many plans he wishes to enact, not always for the sake of evil and chaos itself, but for his own personal gain. And while he’d love nothing more than to dismantle a failing system already in place, he also envisions erecting an entirely new one in his own image. If that’s evil, then so be it, but he’ll still be a King on the throne while you curse him from the crowd.

#accepted: fortinbras #accepted

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