Post by corbin on Jul 29, 2010 17:09:15 GMT -5
Corbin 'Marc/”Little Crow”' Narcisse
" “I told you. You have lost because I plan for everything, even the unlikely event of my defeat... You will still lose. I do not have the luxury of failure. "
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» TELL ME SOMETHING I DON'T KNOWALIAS 'Little Crow'
AGE Twenty-nine
GENDER Male
SEXUALITY Heterosexual
ETHNIC France
FACTION EU ~ France
POSITION Commander ~ Special Tactics/Security Bureau
» YOU'RE IN THEN OUTPERSONALITY “A man must not Deny his manifest ability, for that is to evade obligation”
~ William Feather
This saying is truth incarnate in Corbin's mind. Do to his political and social beliefs he considers every man to have a function in the “Ampiltudo Ratio” or Grand System of the universe. These roles are as inexplicable and complex as the natural world itself. Everyone has his or her place in the system, whether as a mindless wheel suitable for only menial repetitive labor to the complex plans, in his mind even the opposition to the system, though hated and inconvenient plays a role in the grand scheme. Everyone has a worth according to his potential, no man is equal and each is deserves only what his personal ability allows, to deny your skills is to deny the will of the universe. It is for this reason alone that Corbin does his duty, that he thrives in it. He does not try to suppress his devious mind, nor does he bother with anything so mundane as the rights of others. His talent lies in oppression, in the organization, manipulation and control of information and politico-social terror. He is a man suited for the world of the spys and agents, by blood and by training and he intends to use his ability to rise to the station he is most fit for. He sees his job as twisted duty to the world, even though society as a whole would frown upon his dark actions. Yet he sees himself as a hero of the people, of the world. An unseen but integral part in the grand system.
“There will never be a quiet world until you knock patriotism out of the human race”
~ George Bernard Shaw
Corbin is french only so far as his birth, he is truly a man of the world his studies having driven him across the known world. This lack of an identifiable home or national pride has driven him to despise the patriotic machinations of every kingdom. He has in the past used patriotic feeling as a weapon in his plots and deceptions but he believes that everyone except for the most menial mind should be immune to the sensations of useless national feeling. He is of course tactful enough to keep his political and social views to himself so long as he's not capable of doing anything about them. He does however refrain from the celebration of any patriotic holiday or celebration when he is able to avoid it... Which is more often than not on every occasion. “Obsession is by nature both a gift and a curse. A man obsessed is a man driven, is a man relentless while at the same time weakened. Just as an obsessive compulsive washes his hands a thousand times, finds his hands all the cleaner but his time all the shorter.” ~ Anon
Corbin is a man with many obsessions, he is obsessed with learning and all avenues of the mind. He is obsessed with collecting and perfection, obsessed with cleanliness and all sorts of things. That is the nature of his own psychological absorbency... He is an obsessive compulsive of an extreme variety. He compulsively collects things that catch his interest, cleans, learns, plans and works. It is weakness he wields like a power, using his obsessive mind he has achieved more than many men can dream of learning psychology, media arts, anatomy and intelligence in addition to strategy and tactics and knightmare operation. But just as it makes him formidable it weakens him, his obsession is the source of his crippling insomnia, his constant desire to plan and to lay traps when a simple application of force might be better served. It drives him away from social contact and though he wants for nothing it keeps him from having meaningful relationships with others and causes him to drop in function in situations outside of his sterile zone, what he can and has prepared for. All of his controlled and pent up emotion are prone to explode at the slightest puncture of his protective bubble... In his younger years he could be reduced to quivering and bawling jelly over such a thing as a hole in his hose or bursts of violent physical rage over something as simple as an unexpected touch. Though in his age he has grown to limit and control these outbursts, in private and in extreme situations he is still just as vulnerable.
“Corbin? The name 'Little Crow' is well earned. He is always watching, with his own eyes or those he buys. Anything that happens at court and out he knows! Oh they say he is nothing but a clerk, other men laugh when I grow quiet as he limps by! But my father God rest his bones laughed just like them and choked to death on poison in his soup! I shall not laugh at the Little Crow or speak out when he stalks the halls!”
~ The Captain LaMont, dead in his sleep.
How true... Corbin is as obsessive with showmanship and illusion, as he with anything else. He is a perfectly rational and patient creature who uses his knowledge of the world and human nature with a mastery so esoteric that few people alive are capable of fully understanding his actions. He is capable of staging an elaborate defection, carrying on a ruse for years only to spring the trap at a moment so opportune he seemed to have had it planned all along and indeed in most cases he just might have. His policy is that of illusion, of misdirection. He gets his enemy to look exactly where he wants them, to see what they desire and then to act in the way that most suits him. He is a master as manipulation from the personal to the social levels and it's this ability that makes him an a saint of his profession. The more in-depth and elaborate the ploy the more taken he becomes with it and it's not unheard of for him to not share a single detail of his design with anyone and those who tend to press have a way of learning quickly he is not a man above turning his ingenious mind against those who serve with him. It is his steadfast dedication and manipulation that has made him into one of the most feared and respected members of the EU military complex, unless directed otherwise by the Presiden himself no man is above his machination. Laws exist as guidelines for social niceties... Not out of practicality.
ADORES
- Interesting problems
- Learning
- Working with interesting intellects.
ABHORS
- -Touching-
- Modern Styles and Music
- Free-Thinkers (Thats his job.
)
- Fighting
- Open Conflict
- Getting blood on his cloths
SKILLED
- Manipulation
- Information Control
- Torture
- Facilitation (He can turn a street gang into a cohesive unit with duct-tape and a bit of gum)
- Acquisition (You need it. He can find it.)
- Network (He has a vast covert network under his command, he has contacts on all levels of society across the world)
FEARS
- Dieing (OUCH!)
- Losing control
- Actually having to engage in direct combat.
)» MEMORIES, SUPPOSED TO FADERELATIVES Gregor M. Narcisse-Father
Isella K. Narcisse-Mother
Francouis K. Narcisse-Brother
Cossete L. Narcisse-Sister
HISTORY Born the favorite son of a wealthy family Corbin had the world from birth. His father Gregor was the chairing head of the World Unity Corporation a comparatively small but highly effective and sought after Private Military Contractor. His family had it all, money, influence and near total political immunity due to powerful governmental contracts. Corbin was a troubled child due to a severe case of obsessive compulsion but was pampered and guarded like a treasure, he was privately schooled by the best of tutors, his father and isolated from those who might upset him or do him harm. His fathers position was a public one and death-threats on the family were common. Though Corbin and his siblings knew nothing of the workings of the company or indeed much of anything outside of the compound they lived in.
The family was happy father, mother and three children.
But that happiness was doomed. The World Unity Corporation was involved in many unsavory parts of the world. They operated as an oppressive force for hire. They trained and assisted those governments who could pay with everything from brutal repression tactics to genocide. As is the case with all such enablers of violence, violence eventually came back to them in the form of a terrorist attack on the family compound in the countryside of France. At the age of eleven Corbin was seized along with his father, mother and siblings by a militant group called the “Blue Horizon” a small organization that had been formed by former WUC employee's that had grown idealistic and disgusted with their work and who felt Gregor had slighted them. They used their connection with the group to gain access to the compound and put their plans into action.
After seizing the compound the group immediately killed off the families staff and guard and released a prerecorded message to the world media, beginning one of the most highly publicized and tragic hostage stand-offs of modern times. The group which numbered over twenty brutalized and tortured Corbin and his family, issuing statements and demands. The group, being made up of hardened mercenaries was more than a match for the police and swat forces put up against them. At the culmination of the stand-off, with pending military action by the French government Corbin's mother and father were decapitated and their bodies thrown over the walls of the compound.
This was the last straw for the forces involved, after weeks of inaction the moment the bodies appeared the order was given to breach. The terrorists had expected the police to hold of longer considering they still had the children in their power, but when the police breached the compound a pitched battle began with seventeen officers and fifteen terrorists killed within the first few minutes of close quarters combat, the surviving mercenaries barricaded themselves in the basement buying themselves a final few moments which they used attempting to finish off the children, Corbin's brother and sister were both shot in the head, but the gun jammed as it was turned on the young boy of eleven the panicked men turned to the more brutal method of strangulation as the cou'p degrais for the boy, using a length of rough hemp rope they attempted to end the boys life. The police managed to break through the door just in time to save young Corbin's life, finishing off the last of the assailants and rushing the badly abused boy out of the home.
But the damage was done, the trauma caused by the strangulation tore up the the boys neck, scarring him for life and causing a mess of internal damage to his neck and vocal cords forcing him to speak through an implanted vocal-synth chip for the rest of his life.
This single traumatic event was the marr on Corbins's childhood. From that moment onward nothing was ever again the same for the young boy. Bounced from relative to relative who quickly dwindled the family fortune to a shadow of it's former glory and WUC officialy ceased operation when Corbin was fifteen, the boy was withdrawn. Throwing himself into studies and the obsessions in his life he drove away the emotion of the past and upon gaining the controlling power of his fortune once again upon his eighteenth birthday he began to travel, using the money left to him to enroll in prestigious universities across the world. Studying psychology and sociology through correspondence and his fathers documents and papers on the side. His obsessive personality disorders took free reign driving him around the world, leading him to develop his theories on the grand system and his personal drive in life. At the age of Twenty-four he received an offer from the EU to act as a psychological analyst and for several years acted with distinction, rising through the ranks until he became head of the international surveillance division.
» WHAT I LIKE ABOUT YOUNAME Genther
RP-HISTORY SINCE THE DAYS OF MUCKS!
SAMPLE NOTE! (This Post is Rated R and Contains some Nudity!First came the sting... Thats how it always happened you know? It never started out as much, that little tingling feeling but your mind made it much worse than it really was. After the sting, naturally came the warmth, wet and hot and after that a much more acute sensation.
What sensation...?
Panic of course.
It hit everyone differently that foreign fear. Some people grew hysteric and made a deal about it while others just shut it away and ignored it. Neither of those ways were particularly effective though, hysteria only ever serves to make matters worse and when you run around like a bird with a cat on it's tail-feathers you cant think clearly enough to solve your problem. Locking it up? Not much better of course, when you lock *that* kind of thing up, you only let it grow worse with time. Every lock has a breaking point, even the strongest. Eventually that lock breaks and everything you'd been bottling up to that point rushes out to consume you like a tiger that hadn't been fed for weeks.
No... The best way to deal with it was to let it run it's course, to guide it. Giving yourself over to panic will make you useless, dominating it will just prolong it. Guide it on the other hand, let it run it's course without trying to dampen it and you can use it to your advantage, the mind in panic doesn't think as deeply of course, but it thinks much more sharply and swiftly. The body in panic breaths shallowly but is stronger in it's desperation... Yes... Letting the panic run it's course was the best action one could take.
Or so Pontius thought as he stared at the reflection of his own green eye in the side of the curved and bloody knife on the ground beside him. It was eerily fascinating, the way his own eye seemed to burn up at him from the side of the blade, the blade that due to it's landing, seemed to grin up at him with a Cheshire smile, it's slightly-curved spine like lips and it's edge, stained a frothy pink with a mixture of soap and blood, looking so much like lips. Oh yes... It was almost malevolent. What a way for a bad omen to come huh?
Pontius took his eye from the razor as he pulled the rag he clutched to the side of his neck free for a moment to examine it. The cut was at an awkward place, just under his chin on the side of his neck and with the water of the bath in which he sat stained an opaque whitish-pink he couldn't get a good look at the wound. The rag was stained with red blood, bright and harsh. The pressure of the cloth gone he could feel a renewed trickle of the sticky red liquid run down the side of his neck and down his collarbone, down across his chest to the water that came up to just below his shoulders adding more pink to it's color. The cloth returned and stemmed the small flow but with a little less pressure... It had been almost three minuets since he'd cut himself and things were looking good. He dident feel light-headed... His vision was still fine... Breathing wasn't any harder.
When he'd felt the sting and the blood he'd been worried he'd accidentally cut his own jugular, of course the lack of arterial spurting hadn't done much to disuade that notion. It was a common and deadly misconception that said all cuts to a vital artery bled like water through a dam. His dabblings in necromancy had taught him that long ago, such things were important in those kinds of spells.
Severing an artery would result in a cascade of blood, the victim bleeding out in minuets or sometimes even seconds depending on the speed of the cut. But that was when you severed the artery, a quick knick... Such as with a careless shave, could lead to a very prolonged but surprisingly painless death. Of course a healer could take care of such an injury with a bit of time and luck, but sitting alone as he was in the bathing tent, up to his chest in luke-warm water in a large wooden basin he had not had such a healer close to hand.
Pontius sank a little deeper into the water, his eyes shutting and his head tilting back. The water, disturbed by his movements lapped against the tattoos that covered his body, causing the black marks to glisten oddly in the strange greenish light that leaked in through the roof of tent above. His hair, damp and clingy stuck to the side of his face, soothing his flesh. The lather still clung in a few spots along his chin and neck, the shave had only been half finished by the time he'd slipped and cut himself. He had been worried at first, but now as time passed and the chances of the cut being fatal shrunk... Well... He couldn't help but marvel at the situation... How ironic would it be for him to die shaving? Before his work was done? After so many long years... Just as things were beginning to move in his favor? To die from an unlucky slip of the razor. To bleed out in the bath doing something he did only once every month or so? How ironic indeed!
His eyes slowly opened again as he hooked his elbows over the lip of the tub, allowing his body to float under the water. Red blood dripped slowly from the corner of the small cloth... The bleeding had nearly ceased now, but the cloth was still fairly soaked in it. His free hand made lazy circles in the water as he stared at the empty ceiling. Ripples danced along the water, across to his body, to the all seeing eye centered over his naval.. Softly he started to hum and though it was tuneless and without form it echoed in the night and his mind. His fingers moved to trace the eye then to trail up along his body following the lines and whorls of his life-markings, across his chest and up to a small scar, an ugly bit of puckered skin just below his shoulder on his chest.
He traced it, the marr on his body, a single long digit trailing down across the slightly puckered tissue... It was so ugly. He despised it so much. He moved the cloth from his neck, tossing it to the side, a small trickle of blood dripped once more down the side of his neck but pooled at his collar bone and did not flow further... No danger... His eye closed once again as he shifted his traceing finger up to splay hand across side of his face. Maybe he would gain anouther on his neck? What kind of excuse could he use then? He took great pride in his looks, in his body... He liked to be admired whether by friend or foe... Victim or Lover. He adored the sensation of eyes upon him, he reveled in it... His hand slipped down from his face tracing his body once more... But his wandering thoughts snapped back into focus the moment that his eyes settled on the moon high above the tent... It was time for the show.
He stood slowly, his naked body cast in the light of moon, dripping watery-emeralds to the floor below as he set about gathering his cloths for the long night to come.
~~
The night air was harsh and oppressive, the green moon high in the sky lit the paths of the camp but no breeze stirred the air this night. The night hugged those who moved through it in heady warmth that tingled the skin with sweat and made the air hard and heavy to breath. But still people moved and stirred in the camp, those who lived within it were dutiful as they went about their businesses, mending cloths by the fire or playing instruments that filled the night with hauntingly wonderful melodies. No two instruments played the same song yet all were slow, almost dirge like in the plaintive notes that they formed. The musics clashed with one another forming an entirely new and unique song. A siren song without any words or rhythms yet just as inviting as it was blood-chilling. Torches wound through the camp, not for those who lived within but to those who came from without. Men and women who had come earlier in the day came again late this night, young men moved in groups speaking to one another in low undertones as they eyed each other and those whom they passed. None eager to be noticed yet all eager to see this rumored show... This Circle of Flesh.
For three nights word had spread of this show... This show that played only when the moons were high in the sky and the siren music filled the night. Men came for miles because a friend of a friend told them of it, rich men and poor they all came to see this show that friends and family had spoken of in hushed whispers and eager eyes. 'It was a show where your wildest fantasies came true.' they claimed...
So they came, winding their way through the maze of torches to the lone tent that was lit, a gaudy green thing that seemed almost sinister in the light of the moon high above. All around the tent the sweet smells of cloves and mint assaulted the senses and an unnatural low fog covered the ground, a fog that did not wet the feet yet played and danced around those who passed through it, like little hands reaching and grabbing. At the tents entrance a pair of burly bare-chested Rakshasa stood guard. They were both impressive specimens standing a good seven-feet tall with piercings in their long ears and dyes dotting their furs beside each lay a careful assortment of weapons all belonging to those who had entered the tent for no weapon was allowed within. Before these cat-men was a much smaller individual an Erodian woman who might have been beautiful if not for the fact she was barely over 3 and a half feet tall.
She was dressed as one might expect the most bawdy prostitutes of the harshest cities to be dressed, simply in miniature. She sat smiling and batting her eyelashes at men and women who approached from atop an iron bound chest, between her spread legs and her pretty skirts a slot was cut into the box through which money might be dropped. As men and women put in the fee she would wiggle her fingers and giggle a bit before reaching up to pluck a pretty-colored stone from behind the startled customers ear to place in the palms of their hands, those who blushed to heartily would be rewarded with an inviting peck on the cheek. Whispered instructions would inform them that the color of their stone corresponded to the section and row they would be seated in when they entered the tent.
Some individuals brought books instead of coin, informed by their friends that they would be accepted as currency. The small-woman would smile and giggle just as she did when money was placed into the chest and put the book behind her back, mutter a few words and when her hands came around again it would be gone, replaced by a black stone which she would say put them at the very front of the show.
Slowly the tent filled with the curious. Men and women who had come before waited with bated breath and eager anticipation their minds and eyes clouded with the heady thoughts of what was to come.
The tent was high and arched, curving benches of varying heights ran in rings around the tents center a space large enough for three grown men to stand hand to hand and barely span. Each bench was painted a color to match a stone while a black ring of carpet ran along the edge of the center area upon which eager individuals already say cross-legged or lounged languidly.
The tent, though seemingly to small, fit nearly a hundred people and already the place was almost filled to capacity, an hole in the roof cast natural moon light upon the center circle of fabric that was the site of the main attractions and made the shadows around the edges of the tent all the darker and thicker. Here and there support posts held the weight of the tent above those within strung from one post to another were silks and chains and all manner of things and at the base of each pole a burly Turan stood, eyes accustomed to the darkness ever watchful for trouble before and after a show. They were there only to stop fights and thievery, nothing else and so still did they stand that many people failed to even take note of them.
Between the black-ring of carpet and the center were small braziers that smouldered and gave of the heavy smells of incense that assaulted the senses and fogged the mind. The show was getting ready to begin... Slowly the curtains over the entrance began to close, cutting off all light from outside save that of the moon from above.
~~
“This is a world of Dreams you mortals have entered.” The voice was quiet when it began yet seemed to reverberate through not only the air but the very core's of those who were within the tent. It was as if the voice was coming from far away, through and beyond vales.
“This is the world of your Dreams. Here you are all welcomed. Not as friends or as lovers... But as Gods in your own dominions.” This time the voice was louder, coming closer and more corporeal, the braziers at the edges of the center-circle began to sputter and come to full flame casting eerie orange shadows across those who sat closest to them, playing dancing and flickering shows upon the walls of the tent behind them. Smoke from the braziers flowed towards the center of the tent, crawling like snakes upon the floor.
“This is the Circle of Flesh. Where gods are made and the darkest of fantasies are bound in flesh!” Now the voice was among them at the center of the circle the smoke from the braziers twined upwards and around itself forming the outline of man... Then as quick as the serpents they brought to mind they shot upwards and out through the roof of the tent leaving behind a man who a moment before was only an outline... A dream... Now made flesh.
~~
Pontius took a moment to clear his mind and catch his breath. Pangs of weakness shot through him but he ignored them as he always did at the start of the taxing and complicated show. His abilities with the Arcana of illusion were in truth unimpressive, his powers was suitable for creating complex and short-lived images and the start of the show taxed his abilities with that Arcana to the limit.
His mind always screamed it's protests as he forced the spells from the wells of magic deep within his body and with magic slowly fading from the world the spells came all the harder. But in truth the hard part had ended, his part in the show now depended far more on his most comfortable school of Arcana. He closed his eyes, spreading his arms wide as if accepting some praise from far off. The tent was silent onlookers sat with bated breath, their minds filled with wonders and muddled by the incense that still filled the air. That state had been exactly what the start of the show had been created to induce, all of it was conducive to the use of his Psionics, prepared and ready minds were harder to feel than those of individuals who were relaxed and muddled.
Slowly he let the psychic tendrils of his mind slip forth invisible lines of thought that moved out to touch all those who had come to see this performance. Pontius opened his eyes as the thoughts of those who watched him began to seep into him, the basic most simple of thoughts but thoughts that would guide him and make this show as with all others... Unique. “You who were once men... You who were once women. I am Pontius. I am Master. You have come to this realm and for your courage you shall be rewarded with all that you most desire.” He brought his hands together before his chest slowly, clasping them tightly together and as he did so the flames from the braziers vanished once more they smouldered and filled the air with their heady aromas.
The air shimmered and came to life above the center of the arena, a chest appeared and swung open to reveal the ransom of a king, gold and gems shining and sparkling with greedy hands digging out handfuls that seem to be replaced by yet more riches even as the hands returned. A simple illusion for Pontius and one made all the more real by his Psionics and the eager minds of those who watched. The chest shimmered and vanished, replaced by a vision of a man standing triumphant over a hoard of goblins and orcs, his shining silver armor resplendent and bright a sword of great power held high over his head stained with the blood of his foe.
“I am Pontius. I am the Master. These are our servants.” His voice was a deep bass purr, hypnotic and fine as he spoke with hints of secret mirth.
From the entrance of the tent people began to slip inside. Performers all they came one by one, all manner of peoples both male and female every one of them a perfect specimen.
There were a few tanned men bare chested and leather-bound who's oiled and muscled bodies flexed with ripples of muscle in what little light there was in the tent. Women followed them their bodies draped in cloth so fine and insubstantial as to be woven from air itself and who's long hair seemed to flutter in breezes that did not exist, they did not walk so much as dance beside the men.
Cat-people who prowled with feline grace and ferocity their fur painted and brushed with their sharp fangs gleaming, both male and female far stronger and more fierce than nearly any other race upon Tur their bodies clothed variously from rich robes to barbaric cloths.
Northern tribes-people, bedecked in furs and feathers so that they seemed as much beast as the Cat-men mingled with their southern counterparts pale men and women who wore only loincloths and painted their flesh blue with designs of tribal totems and virility. Their numbers were few in truth but the grandness of their entrance was designed to make up for that and as they entered they did not move to stand at the center but instead spread out moving down isles between benches and amongst the crowd.
“See. Touch. Admire. All things are yours!” Pontius purred, his voice rolling through those present. He himself moved out amongst the benches, his rich cloak trialing behind him his arms wide. It was time to allow the watchers to adjust, to adore and to take a moment to let their minds wander to what they truly desired and it was time for Pontius to gather himself for the next stage of the show. Where the entertainment truly began.
NOTES Find me a Picture and I shall worship you.
