PLOT TAKEN, THANK YOU FOR YOUR INTEREST!
The name's Sekah, I'm a new player on E. I would love to find a talented roleplayer willing to play out a preconceived idea with my character Crow. Your character would be his son, who finds his father literally hundreds of years later. The ensuing relationship to be built and plot to be created involves Crow trying to be a father, with very rigid ideas of what a good father is, with a son who becomes the centerpiece—perhaps centrifugal force is a better description—of his universe, and who owns him in the same way you own a car or a dog.
“I was never faithful, and I was never one to trust. Borderline and schizo, and guaranteed to cause a fuss. I was never loyal, except to my own pleasure zone. I’m forever black-eyed, a product of a broken home.”
SLAVE | 415 | JAPANESE | YOUKAI / CROW TENGU [JAPANESE FOLKLORIC CREATURE] | VERSATILE
Crow is a cruel, vain egoist with a bent for torture. If he embodied a cardinal sin, it would be lust. His sense of himself is warped and grandiose, though if you peel back enough layers you’ll find a bitter boy who learned the wrong lessons too soon. That doesn’t negate his nasty personality—on the contrary, it makes it worse that he would bully others to exorcise his own ghosts—but it does shed light on the psyche of a man who has an affinity to despair, his own and others.
A fighter and a trichophiliac of such proportions that it’s a wonder he gets anything done when he sees another man’s well-kempt hair, Crow is hardly a nice character. He’s pathetic at times, but shouldn’t be pitied for it. He’s a bully to anyone he can be.
Crow was born with the name Beast in Mio, a small coastal village in Edo-period Japan, to a human mother and a crow tengu father, though he had no knowledge of his sire. Yoshitsune Masayoshi fathered Crow without realizing. His mother was Emi, a low-level courtesan in a dockside brothel.
Crow grew up in abject squalor, to a woman who spent more time imbibing drinks and drugs than tending her young son. He was a vicious bully as a child, taking his rage out on animals and other children of the brothel. When he was around eight years old, he scarred the grandson of the owner of his mother’s cathouse. That was a bad mistake. The pimp beat Crow within an inch of his life, and confined him, selling him as a pain whore for years to come.
Crow’s father, returning to the brothel he’d frequented several years ago, felt an energy similar to his own, and walked into Crow’s dungeon. Crow was afraid he would be raped. Instead, the stranger asked, “Boy, who is your mother?”
The truth ascertained, Yoshitsune killed Emi and took Crow away to live what Crow calls a “proud, nomadic life.”
He idolized his father. They traveled the world aimlessly looking for amusement. Crow’s father had no goals in life and led a rather dissolute lifestyle, which was part of why Crow turned out so profligate. He groomed his young son partially out of his own narcissism, and partially because of the vague sense that Crow would one day be useful to him. Crow never knew that: he idolized his father and loved him in a burning, consuming, obsessive way that never eased, cherishing the gifts his father bestowed on him and soaking up all his father’s worst ideas like a sponge.
Eventually, Yoshitsune’s crimes caught up with him. Ambushed by enemies in China, Crow was able to escape, now a youngster on the cusp of manhood. His father was not so lucky.
He watched in his hiding place as they killed his father. Overcome by grief and rage, he grew older, though as a youkai that took centuries.
Time passed. Crow lived on, gaining money and power in spades over the years. One day, he met a haughty young nobleman he became unhealthily obsessed with.
He was refused, time and time again, so one day, he drugged the young man and raped him, taking pains that his crime not come to light.
He underestimated the boy, who raised hell and high water and sounded the alarms. Crow was convicted, and forced into slavery for his crime. He made plenty of enemies in his life. Now they’re circling like sharks, scenting his blood in the water.
Location of Birth: Mio, Japan
Positive Traits: Confidence, ambition, organization
Negative Traits: Arrogance, egomania, greed
Turn-ons: Blood, hair, power
Turn-offs: Cheap food, cheap wine, cheap talk
Here's some info on the son's background as I had originally conceived it—but keep in mind, all of this can be altered or changed.Character name suggestion:
403Face claim suggestion:
[up to roleplayer] Location of Birth:
The biography below are merely some important points included in the request. All of this can be negotiated or changed.
Min-sun was born in the Joseon period of Korean history, to a noblewoman of the Cho clan who was disgraced by his birth. She raised him under protest, and there was no love lost between them in his youth. After all, everyone and their brother knew that she, a noblewoman, had been impregnated by a boy whore. It was a scandal that rocked the aristocracy at that time.
Min-sun knows his father’s name: calling yourself Crow in the dominant language of wherever you happen to be is uncommon, after all, and Crow ran in circles Min-sun knew of, generated gossip Min-sun couldn’t help but overhear.
What he doesn’t know, having never met the man, is that Crow was recently convicted of the rape of a young man. Min-sun came to the slave markets to relax, and have fun. How embarrassing, to find out that dear old dad’s on sale there.
And, finally, a roleplay example of Crow:
The noxious sludge was forced down his throat, Crow sputtering, biting back the pathetic shouts for mercy that were on the edge of his tongue, gagging as they overdosed him until he was weak and shivering, drugged to the gills with poison.
Crow was eventually tied up. His hands were bound and he was hitched over the whipping post. He was strung up, kept there. The crowd was enthralled, excited, as any town at a public hanging, even some of the slaves. Crow was anything but well-liked.
And Taiga, who had volunteered for the duty, had a flogger in his hands. It was a long whip with multiple tips, with little barbs locked in the strands. He began to untangle the tails.
“Slave, you attacked two masters.”
Crow didn’t have a name anymore.
“And there’s some here that think you ought to die for it.”
There were howls. The wolves wanted blood.
“And I’m not too opposed. But I know for a fact—”
He knew because he’d given it to others, many times.
“—that there are worse things than death. And for what you’ve done, you’ll get your just reward.”
As his cold, lonely voice spoke, the whip was prepared. While he unwound it he was thinking and he was thinking hard about where the first strike should land.
He decided. And there would be the first crack. And then another. And then it went on and it went on, with the clothes on the man’s back being torn beyond repair. Blood started to roll and so did the sweat, with each lash going deeper than the last. At first, Crow gasped. Then he yelped. Finally, the pain was too much and he screamed, never letting himself form words, never begging for their mercy. There’d be no mercy, and after hours of fatigue and when Taiga believed Crow might have slipped away, he was doused with a prepared bucket of sea water. Salt was his prize before the lashes began again and Taiga’s cold, calculated, restricted manner broke down with joy. He began to hit him harder, quicker, the time between lashes bare.
Pound for pound it was taken out of Crow’s flesh.
Until it finally stopped. Whether Crow was still alive at that point would be difficult to discern. But the bloodlust of the masters? It was gone. Replaced.
Watching a man get whipped was fun for a bit. But when the hours went long and the body looked less like a body it began to become revolting. It was sick to watch. It was ugly.
“Take him,” he told the nurse, Rashmi, all the slaves having been brought up to bear witness too. He shook out his hand, accepting some water from Gareth, ignoring what was left of Crow: tattered skin; exposed flesh; and rags that barely covered anything. Crow felt lighter too, like a child almost. He’d lost a lot of blood.
Wariness colored his expression as she brandished keys and opened the lock. Her hands in his hair were expected, obvious from the context. Crow had met men with a love of their own beauty, and there had been times he’d destroyed it, simply to take away something someone loved. Honestly, he thought it was a matter of time before someone hacked or shaved his hair. Her leg sweep made his knees buckle, unfeigned. He sunk hard into a kneel with a heavy thunk, his lips twitching as the concrete floor of the cell bruised him.
When Gräfin put her hand to his back, however, conscious thought was wiped blank in memory and pain.
It was a disorienting experience. He’d never truly forgotten his boyhood beatings, so he remembered the pains exactly as they were reincarnated on his flesh.
It triggered flashbacks, many flashbacks, an intense orgy of flashbacks so vivid it was like he lived through them again, scores of beatings bad enough to scar rolling through his head.
His head tipped back, back arching hard, a throaty scream ripped from him this early in the game, his eyes rolling behind his lids. It may be said that, despite his vaguely insulting, annoying voice on an average day, his scream was beautiful.
His yell ended when he bit down hard on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, body shuddering at phantom memories of pain from beatings that had made him wet himself and even weep as a child (though of course he did neither now).
When the intense agony and nostalgia let up, he came back down into his conscious mind aware of the hand tugging his hair and milking the headache starting in his temple, confused as to why his body felt so big and lanky for a moment, before he remembered it had been centuries since then.
He shivered under the touch of her hand, a dull pressure through the dead ridges of the scars, eyes staying closed before opening and rolling back to keep a wary eye on her, wondering with trepidation what he’d be forced to experience today.[/s]