Ichabod Basilio Afof

[Ichabod Afof]

Character Name:
Ichabod Basilio Afof

Gender:
Male

Race:
Demon

Character Age:
Thirty-Four

Height:
Six foot two.

Weight:
One hundred and sixty-five pounds.


Character Appearance:
Ichabod has a very dark, and yet somehow inviting look to him. His attractive face has a sharp, villainous look and still manages to look rounded in the cheeks (enough to not look completely evil). His eyes betray his contrasting demeanour however with an almost pure evil glint in them. The iris' of them are of a noxious green colour and his small pupils manage to relay a sense of dominance. His nose is on the larger side, slightly too big to make his lovely face symmetrical, but still a pleasant size that would not have any woman or man turning from him in disgust. His lips are thick and his dimples are large, creating a false sense of security when he smiles. The dimples are also quite useful in the game of seduction. His eyebrows are often raised in curiosity or joy, but when they are drawn together in anger they reduce his attractive face to a palate of rage. Not only rage, either. Pure malice. His profile has the ability to be twisted into such a face that one could never imagine in their nightmares... As such, he controls this quite well.

Ichabod's hair is of a dark brown colour and tastefully styled. He has one or two premature whites, but the style manages to cover them for the most part. His hair is soft unless he refuses to wash it for months, which doesn't happen often. What would he do if people were turned away by the grease of his hair?

Ichabod's skin seems to change in different lights. In darkness and low-light situations his skin looks pale, ghostly white in fact. A shade that one could compare with a bare skeleton. However, in the bright sunshine or at least when the sunlight has a chance of hitting his face, his skin looks peach and even close to on the tan side. Ichabod is not at all thin or scrawny, in fact he is rather muscled although it may be hard to tell. He works out his legs far more than any other body part for fast movement and escape, which makes the rest of his body seem slightly thinner in comparison.

Being a demon, Ichabod obviously has the marking of one such a being. The marking he bears is on the backside of his right shoulder blade. The marking seems to appear like a horn with rough vine or snake-like lines exuding from it.

Ichabod commonly wears loose fitting clothes to allow for comfortable movement. His clothes vary but normally consist of a long sleeved velvet collared shirt of dark greys and black while over top he wears a dirt-brown, shimmering damask-like vest which flows beautifully. His trousers consist of a similar fabric and style of his shirt but normally is a tad darker or slightly more on the blue side. His shoes are shiny black for special occasions and are otherwise tattered brown.

His demon form is a dark black, or possibly green, horse-like creature. It has two dangerously pointed horns, a pair of feathered wings, scales running down it's strong legs and talons where hooves would normally find their place. Although most expect the eyes to be a piercing green like him in his humanoid form, they are merely white balls, empty. He is blind in his true form.


Special Power/Ability:
His story-telling prowess, he's a loremaster.


Personality:
Ichabod literally oozes charm and wit, and yet somehow manages to still seem dark and give off a slightly uneasy feeling. He has a lovely voice to listen to and is a masterful storyteller. He loves to share the tales he's collected over the years and will tell them to anyone who would listen, and most people would. He is quite the entertainment, after all.

When Ichabod meets a new person he will chat in a friendly manner until he determines his own opinion about the newcomer - this mostly depends on if they will hear his tales, but sometimes regards on other matters. The only kind of person that he could easily adhere to would be someone who could write properly and put the legends he tells into a book. He cannot do this on his own, due to his dyslexia.


Sexual Orientation:
Straight

Likes:
Ichabod likes bards, good listeners, talking, art (including paintings, statues and architecture), hearing new stories he has never heard before, going on adventures and quests to create new tales.

Dislikes:
Small animals, cute or not. He considers them useless. He also dislikes people who constantly stop him in telling his tale or people who tell a tale he knows before he has a chance to tell it himself. He especially dislikes people who won't tell him their personal tales or their secrets.


History:
Ichabod grew up in an extremely dysfunctional family. His father was a starving artist, his mother was a starving drunkard, and his two sisters were both complete sociopaths - not that he wasn't. Well, he wasn't at first.

He was the only Demon born into a Human family. His mother explained an odd gene, but his father thought she was cheating - she was the dominant one, however and so she beat him, and chided him, into believing her. Ichabod's name was given to him by his "father" (his mother was too drunk to care) and it literally means 'no glory' which was obviously the angry Human's point of view.

Ichabod was relatively innocent, he tried to keep out of trouble and didn't have many friends. During his schooling he mostly kept to himself - merely hanging around near the other kids to hear the stories they had to tell. Whether it was drying their dog with a heat spell or demonic creatures waiting at the very bottom of your water basin. He loved these stories. More than anything. He desperately wanted to become a writer but couldn't understand words on a page. He was extremely dyslexic. He could not write a word or even read one, and so he had to turn to telling them. He told them again and again, starting them off with a new trade mark of his own: "This is a tale from a friend of a friend of mine." Later he would use this to create a new name for himself.

The other children weren't too fond of his manipulation of their stories and shunned him. Luckily for Ichabod, they just had to then find out about his unusual heritage. The suspected adultery was more than enough for them to tease young Ichabod more. He dropped out of school, it wasn't helping him at all anyways.

Home wasn't a much better choice, of course. His "sisters" were there. They were horrible people. They would burn him with fire magic they could do (that he could not), they would strangle him to the point of near-death. It wasn't something a young boy could take for his entire short life.

One day they tackled him and began to violently beat him, he couldn't take it anymore. Reaching, reaching, reaching for something deep inside of him. He transformed.

He moved quickly, and his horns went through. His two sisters lay impaled, one on each horn. Dead as they could be. He pulled the horns back, allowing the blood to flow out of their wide, open wounds. He stared, weak from the new experience and realizing what he had done. He had no remorse about it. He instead transformed back, took a quarter staff he knew his sisters has - they had used it on him before - and he bludgeoned the bodies before cutting off their hair that they so dearly loved. And then he had an urge that he could not resist. He are the skin off of their bones.

Discovering his new want for revenge he killed his mother and father as well, using those same horns that had been hunted and hung long before Ichabod had ever been there. They bled more than his sisters, and their taste wasn't quite so sour when he allowed himself a chunk of their flesh.

He changed his last name to end the association to the family, and to avoid any enquiries by people who enforced laws. He could not bring himself to change his first name, but he changed his last name to Afof. A name inspired by his own stories. He became a friend of a friend.

Since then he has merely wandered the world in search of the best stories. He's learned more from a series of wenches stupid enough to believe he wanted to have sex with them - all he truly cared about was enticing their stories out of them, torturing them to the breaking point and then enjoying the flesh they had to offer - and not in a way where she would leave with a pulse.

Ichabod tends to be found at taverns and pubs, telling his stories both gruesome and foul to a drunk and rowdy audience who would like nothing more than yet another helping of Ichabod's lovely charisma and exuberance in story telling.


Base Stats:
From the old site.
"Strength: 1
Dexterity: 12
Wisdom: 2
Luck: 250
Level: 7
Gold: §3,288
EXP: 2,199
Health: 49
Fate Points: 1"


Roleplay Example:
Ichabod loved people. It was not only the wonderful scents they gave off when afraid, it was not only the natural salts that marinated their bodies as they quivered it fear… No, it was the way they could be amused by Ichabod’s favorite stories. It was the way they strained their ears to hear his every word and the way their faces lit up at the opportunity for a supposedly fictional tale. People were such a treat, and the best thing about them was that no matter how many he… entertained to the brink of near death there were more being made. There were always more, always another one born – what was it? – six seconds? And more were developing their own stories everyday, stories he would have them recount for his use in future bars in future performances…

Performances such as this one where he would use his utter brilliance to take up a new role where he would convince this strange looking – demon? – to relay his tales. He would not make a meal of it, however. No, he was not hungry enough to resort to stiff male flesh. It was not nearly as potent, soft, trim. His mouth watered at the thought of it, and he had to take an inaudible breath as the man spoke, the breath was both in order to calm himself and it order to keep his hunger from pooling at his groin – such thoughts were always so pleasurable. Such acts were always so divine. He licked his lips as if they were dry and chapped.

He took in this new sight with glittering eyes, passing over it quickly to form a clear, unchanging image to press into his mind. To leave an imprint so that he would be able to describe it oh-so perfectly. The sunken, starved to death seeming face and the eyes so remarkable in the way the balls of them stuck out of the skull, allowing moonlight to reflect upon the glistening liquid coating the (surprising sturdy) orbs. The bone that stuck through the peeling flesh made Ichabod’s heart jump with joy and inspiration that he would not show now… But his enthusiasm would definitely be apparent when he told the story of this monster whom would seem far more lethal in the webs he would spin. The horns were a perfect addition along with the wings and lizard-like tail – the whole thing seemed like a picture from a dream for Ichabod and he looked on unblinkingly as he took in these features. The point of the horn looked so dangerously sharp, and Ichabod longed to press his finger against it to test the theory. The wings looked sparse and Ichabod could not help but feel curious about how the bone would feel against his finger – you see, he had never touched the bone of a wing no matter how many bones he had cleaned so thoroughly with his inhumanly white teeth. The tail, bony and pointed, looked like a perfect weapon and Ichabod barely held in his grin… And then there was that fog, the fog that took the place of the man’s legs and Ichabod felt it was so unreal that it would have become the perfect tale to relay. A tale of a monster, and an innocent woman who could not defend herself…

He licked his seemingly chapped lips again.

The other man pulled in closer, as if enraptured by the glow of Ichabod’s eyes and the glamour of his teeth. As if his high cheekbones and that face that had caused many a woman’s knees to go weak had held a strong effect on this man. Such features were what had got him many meals – he had only had to pay once, and that was his first after his so-called family… The other man leaned in, and Ichabod felt no repulsion as he took his chance to take in the scent of the other demon (he was sure that was what the other creature was). It was not as he had expected, not foul like one would believe would come from a peeling face and skinless bone.

The other creature finally spoke, and Ichabod puffed up slightly with a proudness that would only come from an egoist such as he. His eyes found light that wasn’t there, his smile was as white as – well, the other man’s bones. And from the looks of it, said bones were quite white as they caught the moon. Ichabod’s grin grew slightly with the pride of him and he took a second to himself before clearing his throat as if to speak, reaching his arm out as if to pat the other man on the back.

He was not fast enough however, and the other male began circling Ichabod like a predator moving around its prey… That was not the way it would be however. Ichabod was never the prey. Never. The creature arrived back in front of him, and seemed to see something absolutely frightening. Ichabod had to mentally check to make sure he was in fact using the face of a person who would not frighten, not the face of something even worse than his other form. It had not changed, and yet the man had gasped and jumped back. Ichabod’s eyebrows raised quizzically and he forced a small, gay laugh.

“Did you see something?” He turned about and put a hand on his brow as if blocking out bright sunlight. He moved about in an almost comical fashion as he looked to see what may have scared the other man before turning about with a very human smile. “I don’t see any-”

The man asked who he was, and he opened his mouth to introduce himself when the other demon gasped, spoke his own name and asked the question again. Ichabod smiled with entertainment and logged the reactions away in his mind for use later, when he was coming up with his story.

“Ichabod Afof, story teller extraordinaire at your service, Sir Blackthorne,” He performed an embellished bow and went on loquaciously, “I am certain you have heard of me, I travel the globe telling the most compelling of stories in taverns, parks, pubs and all varieties of places. Alas, I must regret that I have no way to get them in parchment or song – so my stories have yet to travel to their fullest extent. Still, you must be aged enough to have heard me, or of me. If not, then mayhaps you will have to accompany me to my next show – I’m sure you would enjoy it, even if others may now enjoy you!” He laughed heartily, and slapped lightly at his knee as he had noted men doing during his speeches. His voice was not as whispered, as eerie. Not now. This was his stage voice – the one full and well articulated. His human voice. He would save his own for later, when performing.

“Do you like stories, Sir Blackthorne?”


Country of Origin:
Malscure

Country of Residence:
Muerte

# of Characters:
Two

[Mellie]