'''Name:''' Carmine Lisette
'''Age:''' 23
'''Race:''' passive
'''Place of Origin:''' Muffey, Anaxas

!!!Backstory

Carmine was the middle of three children born to a pair of thespians. Although they'd all but retired from the stage after their first child, his youth was a blur of colorful frills and menthol-smelling cosmetics, all whitewashed in the phosphor glow of light spells. They were fanciful folk and made the cringe-worthy choice of naming all their children after flowers – bright Hyacinth, little Violetta, and bloody crimson Carmine. The boy was close with his big brother and they'd often ditch their baby sister for more manly pursuits, such as falling out of trees and throwing things into the creek.

Hyacinth entered Brunnhold three years before his brother and was suitably brilliant. But he had come into the world with a twisted leg he would carry always, and no amount of magical aptitude could blind his parents to the fact their firstborn was a cripple. So with Carmine’s tenth birthday fast approaching the Lisettes rested their hopes on their little red flower, so pretty and healthy.

They were disappointed.

The family's favorite tested flatline zero and was dragged away to serve in the belly of Brunnhold. From the moment he set foot in the kitchens to the night he broke out, the boy was in a constant fit. He was lazy and petulant, calling down the disdain of the patrons and older servants. Before long, the other young servants paled at the idea of being on duty with Carmine the Terror, upender of coal barrows and breaker of dishes.

He was a favorite of one of the younger Patrons. He took the boy under his wing, letting him slip away from work and giving him small presents. But there were razors in the sweets. The relationship dissolved into anything but paternal in Carmine's later years.

That same Patron later threw himself off the Astronomy Tower. Carmine likes to think he had nothing to do with it.

Other than that one callus, seven years at Brunnhold weathered on in a dreary haze of whip scars and fresh bruises, each worn like a badge of honor. All that spitfire and narcissism earned him few friends, but among those few was his weedy room-mate, Harold. Together they plotted their escape -- they were besties, it was going to be two against the world. Over the course of his seventeenth year they plotted the break out, Harold scheming with escape routes, Carmine slithering around The Stacks for ill-gotten coin to pay the ferryman.

Harold came with him as far as the Gardens before getting cold feet. And with that, all the fire for freedom drained out of him. He didn’t want to be in the big free world, not without his bestie by his side. And yet – Carmine soldiered on without him. He was too embarrassed by Harold’s frailty not to. He had to be brave for the both of them. He crossed that damn river and crossed it alone because he was too afraid of being a coward.

When he hit Vienda, the world was a blur. Harold’s half of the ferry fund was piss to the wind, all squandered on booze. He earned his keep in unsavory ways or brawling in The Basin. But with the pseudo-freedom of Vienda came a world of stress -- Seventen crawling the streets, the looming shade of Brunnhold just across the river. Carmine wanted to be far, far away. He was barely there for a year before he looked down the Arova River.

Old Rose proved to be much more comforting than Vienda, hidden in its cloud of smog and free of galdori law. The Harbour was already crawling with whores – pretty and practiced female whores – so there was little ill repute work for loose-virtued men. So he became honest as one can in the Rose, back-breaking labor by night sprinkled with the chance mugging by day.

On one of his drunken forays Carmine ended up blacked out in an alley, which was not particularly uncommon. But what was uncommon was that on that night, a boy with naught but a ukulele and a nose ring took pity on him, rousing him from his stupor and dragging him to his flat. His name had been Hedwig, a young wick from a small family of Laughing Sky drifters, all ardent Vitanists. He was a traveling street musician alongside his daoa and baby sister. The boy was scrawny and horse-faced and Carmine never really loved him, but it’s the closest he’s ever gotten.

Their not-really love ripened for only a year or so before Hedwig turned up gutshot in an alley. So it goes. Carmine never learned the who or when or why of it, nor does he want to. Old Rose has a way of doing that to you. You almost love something, that something dies, and you just bite your cheek and make sure nobody sees that it broke you in half. It’s been nearly a year past, yet he’s shown no flinch of grief.

He’s still surviving.


!!!Personality

All the simmering aggression and hard conceit of his boyhood never faded away, though Carmine doesn’t have much to be conceited about. That’s not to say he’s impossible to befriend. If caught in the right mood, he’s quick with a gap-toothed grin or a filthy story. He’s just the kind of savage one can expect to never bail on a fight, to be unflinchingly loyal even in the face of pain – especially in the face of pain. He has a stupid, ardent love of fighting and taking risks, a love that shows on every battered inch of him.

Carmine still knows how to wear the mask of the spitfire drunkard washing away a hard night’s work, but his love of drink is far more sinister than it seems. It doesn’t take long to see that the man – hardly a man, more of a boy – is a stone cold alcoholic. It’s a rarity to see him without a bottle in his hand or a flask strapped on his body.

He regards all magic users with a swill of fear and anger, and is suspicious of anyone he considers to be a ‘godsdamned intellectual’. This is probably because he has the reading ability of a seven year old.

But for all of this, at his core, Carmine is a fragile piece of work. His inner most thoughts and feelings are a like a sword wound, deep and bloody and soft to the touch, kept bound up in the hard wraps of savagery and bitterness. The kind he bears with a hard face of ignorance, telling himself that it isn’t fatal. Really. He does not want – and will never, he swears – look weak.


!!!Physical Description

Carmine could have been something pretty, once upon a time. The genetic blessings of his galdor heritage are still clear in his thin nose, high cheekbones, slender frame. But these similarities are buried down deep in the pixyish curves of his bones. His very flesh seems to be in a rebellion to hide it.

His wispy cinnamon curls are close cropped above his ears – and when the light hits it ‘just the right way’, there is no charming hint of another shade, only a show of grave dust. His skin, once milky pale, has darkened to a light olive shade all discolored with bruises and freckles, riddled with calluses. His smoky-blue eyes, wide and almost childlike, are dark with bags and ever bloodshot. The sclera is beginning to show the first hints of jaundice yellow. Carmine has a body like a jack-knife, all straight lines and hard edges, narrow from shoulders to hips, though his chest and arms are well-muscled from years of brawling and manual labor.

His chest is a no man’s land of old burns and stab wounds. The passive tattoo on his arm has suffered the most damage. It is warped with scars, as if someone had been trying to carve it off the bone. He has a hatcher’s smile, countless bar fights having chipped some of his teeth to jagged flints, something fanged and predatory .

Carmine’s short stature, ropy arms, and general dirtiness make him easy to mistake for a human youth. Not that he has any problem with that.

There is a constant reek of bad whiskey around him.


!!!Inventory

Weapons
*shovel
*two bowie knives
*flintlock pistol, won in a bet at The Basin


Stuff
*hip flask
*boot flask
*a pair of striped ladies stockings, often worn around his neck. he considers them a good luck charm


!!!Career

Grave Digger
*strong arms
*chronic insomnia
*doesn’t much mind dead things

!!!Diablerie

Detonation

!!!Goals

In order of most achievable to the ones he knows deep down he’ll never do:

*don’t die.
*don’t get evicted.
*apologize to Hedwig’s daoa. wherever she is.
*run away to Mugroba.
*stop drinking.

Ello, love! We welcome the new addition, and thank you for your patience as the mods discuss your sheet. We'll get back to you soon!

Lightly edited for a bit of redundancy.

Thanks for your patience. Only a few edits and then you'll be ready to go!

1) Wickling is not really a canon word. It would just be a young wick. Children are bochi in Tek, but I understand that you're not implying that. You just meant a young wick, but it's best to use that instead of wickling.

2) You don't need to mention the rank of your diablerie. All diableries are very powerful.

3) Some of your choices of sentences are a little confusing, and while I understand what they're saying, you may want to consider some of their implications. From what I understand, Carmine was a trouble maker and defiant while a passive servant in Brunnhold. Yes, he would've been beaten in an attempt to win better behavior out of him, but it was probably not as severe as perhaps outside the confines of the school may have been. I don't think you need to edit your sheet, however. Just something to keep in mind, I suppose.

edits posted. c:

Looks great! You're approved! Go have fun