Member No.: 45
Joined: 6-March 08
The Name: Jessica. Or Morganne. =]
The Contacts: spanishrosejessi on AIM, firstname.lastname@example.org for the EMAIL.
How you found us: affiliated to Embraced by Darkness.
The Character #: 1.
IC Information- slight mature warning on the rp example
Name: Morganne Leo Le’Julier
Birthdate: June 13, 1870
Occupation: Black Market Dealer/Assassin.
Play-By: Josh Hartnett
Wife/Husband: The first one ( Morganne‘s first marriage was at the age of 19 ), Anastasia Novae, was shot and killed within 20 hours of their wedding. The second ( at the age of 21 ) was killed only 13 hours after the reception from poisoning, and the third one ( he was 23 ) was kidnapped and killed right after Morganne slipped the ring on her finger. Apparently, women just don’t want to die on their wedding day.
Children: Two, though he doesn’t quite know it. Juliet Romana, daughter of Millan Romana- who was the daughter of a rival gang. Lucian Cavalancci, son of Mariana Novae - his first wife’s sister.
Physical Description: They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. They say that it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Don’t listen to them. Whomever ‘they’ is, they obviously lie. For with eyes like coffee, and hair like the midnight sky, there is nothing modest about Morganne. Blessed with the lovely looks any masculine man and lusting woman would desire, he takes pride in what DNA molded his body into. Standing at about 5’7, his frame is lean and muscular, taking on the defined tone that most fighters have. It’s the obvious attractiveness that throws most off; who’d think that one so… pretty, could be such a killer?
Trained as a street fighter, a thief, a negotiator, a pirate, and a hit man, there is a long list of abilities Morganne can perform. It is with much skill that all of these are executed that leads others to believe he is abnormally perfect- denying themselves the fact that he indeed had faults. His right ear is completely disabled, his ability to hear in that ear lost when a knife managed to find it’s way into his ear canal. Strange, I know. This lack of hearing often accounts for his paranoia, and to make up for it, he tends to always stand on the left of people, so that they speak into his left ear, or he’ll tilt his head a bit to the right and expose his ear more so in a distinct sort of fashion.
Personality: Living a life of crime doesn’t do much for mental stability. Cursed with a easily sparked anger, and an even easier sparked lust, it’s known that Morganne isn’t one for thinking things over. Rather, living in the moment is his motto; not much can make him actually stop and think about things. Growing up on the streets was tough, but ruling them was tougher. With the loss of his hearing in his right ear, he became more paranoid than before, his movements quick and fast, eyes always darting about. He developed anger problems, most of which involve physical damage- abusing another made him feel better. Call him a sadomasochist, and he’ll call you right.
Though first impressions always stick, if you happen to continue your relationship with the assassin, you’d find yourself in good company. While still anger ridden, and paranoid to the max, Morganne will prove to you that having a hit man for a friend is a good thing. Not a bad one, though most would argue that point ( i.e- the three dead wives ). Loyal, affectionate, and passionate, a good friend he would make indeed, if only you could get past the faults first.
Abilities: The ability to hear beyond normal human capabilities, to sense what normal humans couldn't, and to see what most humans don't see. But this is only compared to human capabilities. He's no superman, just extremely skilled at what he does.
Equipment/Weaponry: Two silver blades made in Italy given to him by his ‘mentor’. Worn on a sheath belt that rests on his hips, or normally the sheaths are attached to his belt.
History: Born in Sicily, Italy, in 1870, Morganne entered the world on Friday the 13th. Immediately, it was sworn that bad luck would befall him, for his family was highly superstitious. They kept away from him, afraid that the bad luck would rub off, as though it was contagious. At first, being alone and neglected got to him, often bringing him to bouts of depression, anger, and thoughts of suicide( at the age of 6 this all finally caught up to him/he finally realized why he was locked in a room alone until dinner and the door was opened for a plate of food to be slid in ). It wasn’t until they sent him away to school on his first day, that he met the one person who would change his life.
Moreno Giovanni was a gentleman, through and through. Standing against the door to school, he stopped Morganne before letting him in- the school was small, about the size of two school buses stacked side by side. Morganne stared impatiently up at the old man, the anger clearly showing in his dirt stained skin, his brown eyes piercing. “Let me through, old man. I have to go to school.” Morganne spoke, running a hand through short brown hair, badly cut. The man smiled, the front tooth a shiny gold, “That’s funny. Your parents didn’t say that.
Five years later, at the age of 11, Morganne held a gun in his hand and was holding it to a whimpering man. There was something cold in the child’s face, something that spoke of a cruelty that had replaced innocence. During those years training under his new ‘father’, he had gained a better understanding of the world: it was survival of the fittest. And while he was holding the gun in his hands, he was no doubt the fittest- even to a 30 year old man who had muscles the size of his head.
By the age of 18, his kill count had become a national known number, and he went into hiding, coming out only to perform hired services. This included murder, and black market dealing. Drugs, prostitution, and death became his life- what more could a man ask for? Morganne had it all, under the name Leo he became worldwide for his massive black market dealing, and the assassinations he had accomplished. Fame, fortune, and women. The perfect equation to spark the perfect downfall.
It was a night like any other, out on a job, getting his weapons prepared. An inhabited alley served as his headquarters. He had his weapons ready, the two silver knifes tucked securely against his forearms, held there by leather sheaths made by the finest craftsman on the time. Cool, like the night it was, they filled him with that familiar confidence that brought him to a trance like state; it was a different world when death was planned.
And indeed, upon setting into the house through an open window, it wasn’t until five steps in the large expanse bedroom that the mission seemed already too easy. Though he was skilled, he wasn’t this skilled. The window didn’t need prying, the snores of the fat man he was supposed to dispose of completely silenced. He turned back towards the window, but there was a small whoosh of air, and then the world went black.
It wasn’t until he opened his eyes that he found himself hovering over a grotesque scene; his body lie quite obviously dead, and he was being eaten whole. He didn’t know who these people were, why they even killed him ( though the thought that he probably tried to kill them first made sense ), and why they were digging into his body as though it was dinner and desert. They even had forks and knives to go with their table napkins.
Days became weeks, and weeks months, and after 2 months he began to wonder if 2 months had even passed. Perhaps it was a year, or perhaps it was less. He lost time as the mist began to overtake him, and within time he went through the mandatory meeting most go through to enter the October Country. It was taken in with stride, that blank ‘get-to-work’ kind of trance that most killers enter: this was another job, another place to get ahead in.
Nobody could help him, and although he wished there was some way to escape, he also wished for nothing more than her presence. Her bite. Her touch. He could smell his own blood, that sweet iron that filled the air and tainted it a lovely crimson. And so naively innocent was the way Bete Noire felt dizzy with it’s scent, that if Modesto was not beside him he would’ve turned to lick it away. To taste his own liquid life as it slowly flowed away. But he restrained his childish lust for the crimson wine, and with a slow, deep breath, closed his eyes. He could not look Modesto in the eyes, not now. It would provoke way too much for him to handle. So instead he played upon her image in his mind, those demented cerulean pools of sin, and that wicked jaw. Her ordinary but ordinarily unique body, her pelt rippling as she slowly circled his fantasy. And with the wound in his neck dripping exaggeratingly with blood, he watched as she took a step forward, lapping it up like a cat would milk. She could dispose of his life at any moment, for not only had she injured him, she had him caught in her demonically woven web. She could bite him once more, and there was a high probability that he would allow. But would he allow her o dispose of his life so easily? Was he truly that submissive?
And it was out of this defiant act of will that Bete Noire let his bared teeth be cloaked by his black lips, his nose twitching just slightly. He would not show her fear, for it was not fear he wanted to give, or for her to receive. There had to be a certain balance between lust and pain, and in that only fear could be revealed when the balance was broken. In this bond of demon and a mere advocate, there was only demands. He knew that she would not tolerate anything that went against her word, nor against her cold frozen heart. Such a presence the bitch had that commanding obedience was natural when one looked upon those crazed eyes. “…as long as I find use in you.” commanded, knowing full well Bete Noire would not defy her in any way. She had his attention; she had him on a leash and collar, and held the remote to his actions. Even in that seductive purr of her, still lied the threat of violence, and the threat of fatality. Every inch in his body was screaming for enough, but he knew that he could ride this rollercoaster just a few more times before he would give into his body’s wish. Modesto was still a mortal, and though she had injured him, she too, could bleed. Even gods can be felled.
Whether Modesto wanted him for pleasure or for routine, Bete Noire could feel the mocking edge to her voice, and it made him open his eyes once more, turning his head slowly to gaze into those eyes. And though her tone was surprisingly gentle, he could feel the way she was slowly caging him in; soon he would have no escape. He did say what she told, and even worse, he had no intentions of denying it. That purr was back, that purr flared with a mocking innocence, so enchantingly deadly that he could not help but wonder what it would be like to crack that heartless shell of hers. What was she like on the inside, beyond that fleshy cage. If he took a bite, would she truly bleed the same red blood that he would? Or would it perhaps taste different, flow different, or look different? And the look in the bitch’s unstable eyes let him know that her tone was not meant to comfort him. No. But rather to remind him who was the real danger here.
He didn‘t flinch as her tongue touched his neck, and as she ran her tongue over his wound, tasting that elixir that even he craved to taste, he realized what she was saying. She recognized his defiance, and with that knowledge, she was warning him what could happen lest he slip away. “Teasing? No. I was merely inquiring, dear Modesto. I will let myself be used for as long as you need be; pray though, that I should not expire before then, though.” And it was then that his still body finally moved, pulling away from Modesto’s reach only to return to face her directly. He stretched his body, keeping his eyes on her, white depths filled with only blank lust. That look of a hungry desire. He finished, standing to his full height, not much taller than her by only by a few inches. But his head was lowered once more as he crept forward, his muzzle reaching forwards as if to touch her own in an act of pure curiosity, to test her and her acceptance of his own actions. He had allowed her as much as to mark him, but would she allow his own touch?
If there was a hell, surely Modesto had ensured him first class tickets to it. Not only that, he probably got front row seats. He could feel his heart pounding with that unbeatable heat that the mortals called excitement; adrenaline. And between his legs the same heat carried, though the mortals most definitely didn’t call that excitement. It was far more than that. It was the heat that brought woman to their knees, and the heat that made men stand before them. That heat that caused so much passion, and that heat that caused half our world’s wars. And that same heat coursed through him, on a destructive path that could only lead to one ending. He was sure that the light at the end of the tunnel wasn’t heaven. But it might be equally divine.
And the demon was defying all his morality, the morality he had so carefully built up when he left his old pack. I swear, I fucking swear to the gods that I will NOT revert to my old ways. If I take a life, let it be for my defense, and if I take a mate, let it be for love and not lust. The vow that he had so expertly followed through on had taken a different course when he reached Doutaini. It was different now, there were exceptions. I swear, I fucking swear to the gods that I will try not to revert to my old ways. If I take a life, let it be for my defense if I think it proper, and if I take a mate, let it be for love, or that which I think of as lust. The whole concept had changed, especially since he had met Modesto. Amaterasu had brought him back a little, and Shiana helped as well, but Modesto… She was the fucking plaque and they were measly little herbs, claiming to be the remedy, but only helping him mentally. He needed a damn chastity belt, or something, over his poor shriveled soul, that way no demon, no matter how wickedly tempting she was, could twist and corrupt his soul.
“To be something greater?…” for a moment, glory was envisioned in those suddenly clear white eyes. The sight of him reigning powerful over the wolves in Lune D'Ardeur, Shade by his side and his siblings at his feet. Something greater? Could anything truly be greater than that? For a moment, he almost screamed yes, but he knew better. He was foolish, yes, but he was not a fool. “I have seen greatness, and I have been there to witness it first hand. And the only trouble about being so damn great, is that when you fall, nobody wants to help you up…” he sighed, as if experiencing that crashing feeling of being alone all over again. He looked at her, tilting his head. There was still something intoxicating about her, like the way fire burns beautifully, but scorches everything in it’s path. And when he had reached out to touch her, she had let him. It was an act of pure curiosity, testing the devil to see his patience. Obviously, she was not ready to bite his head off quite yet. And that was fine with him. But when the time came, could he trust himself to his lust, or would he have to pull back for fear of her tolerance.
Pulling back his muzzle, so that once more he was but a few inches from her, he tilted his head, imitating that same raised brow, though on his handsome features, it did not seem so demonic; rather he seemed only more naïve; so painfully innocent. “Tell me, darling, if it does not bother you so, do you plan on making me greater? Or do you plan on breaking me until you are the only thing I could even consider great?” there was no attitude in that question but the blank stare of innocence. Bullshit. Innocent, my ass. He knew that he was pushing her tolerance to see just how far he could go, and sooner or later, he would probably get his ass whooped for it. But she was worth the risk. Anybody who made him shiver with both desire and fear deserved every inch of his curiosity. Whether they wanted it or not.