Title: Elden Truefitt
'Ninette - August 4, 2008 06:17 AM (GMT)
Name: Elden Corwyn Truefitt
Hair, length && style: Brown, just barely past the ears, kept brushed back
Body build: thin
Height: 5' 11"
Scars: plenty on his hands
Other Distinguishing Marks: There is a tiny hole in the center of his forehead. It is almost unnoticeable unless one is looking for it or if one is very very close to his face.
Personality: Elden suffers from one of the most acute cases of multiple personality disorder ever recorded. The catch is that a specific personality will only emerge when Elden comes into contact with a corresponding scent. So far the doctors have cataloged over 50 different personalities, each with a unique name only revealed when the personality has emerged at least once, but Elden can recall each personality as long as it has come to the surface at least once. Elden does not "black out" when a different personality emerges. Each personality is cognizant as long as he is conscious and he can even internally converse with them. For instance if a doctor wishes to speak to the personality "the Red Tyrant" who is brought forth by a cinnamon fragrance, Elden will act as a go between for whoever is wishing to talk to the personality. Though they all have the same memories as they share the same brain, each personality is better adapted to certain situations and each has their own set of skills, strengths, and weaknesses.
Religion: depends on who you're talking to...Elden himself is agnostic
Quirks: I believe this has been dealt with sufficiently...
*History && Relations
Family . Friends . Enemies: Family supposedly back home in London, still running a small combination apothecary and barber shop.
I remember: Vanilla, Lavender, Neroli, Orange Blossoms, Vetiver, Patchouli, White Musk, Ambregris, Bergamot, Aldehydes, Sandalwood, Amber, Lilacs...I was going to be one of the leading perfumers. I can only remember times in my life by scent...otherwise I have no way of distinguishing when or where something happened. It is an odd predicament. My father spoke of how he used to take me down the street to Penhaligon's where he would sit for hours and converse with the men as Sir Penhaligon would bustle about concocting new fragrances. I remember playing with the oils and my father would scold me...but old man Penhaligon would always smile and allow it when my father's back was turned...unless of course I mixed too much of the rarer ones. Although it seemed there were endless possibilities with what he had, I always had it in my mind that there should be some way of capturing scents not so lovingly thought of. The power of sweat, the expansiveness of the air after a thunderstorm, the oppressive nature of a wine cellar...I wanted to capture these things.
One day when I was eight or so, I remember it because of the smell of mother's new stew in congruence with freshly ground talc, as I was playing with a new shipment of green pharmaceutical bottles, I felt an incredible pain in my head. At first it was just enough that I had to quit making noise, but soon I was rolling on the floor screaming and vomiting. I could not make it stop. The doctors could not begin to deduce what it was that was causing my endless headache. The only way they could calm me down was to sedate me, and as soon as it wore off there was no end to my wailing. They tried everything, different tablets, injections, every traditional and medical cure they could think of. Nothing was working. It went on like this for weeks. I was quickly becoming a drug addict at an early age because of my condition. The pain never stopped. My olfactory nerves were haywire during this time. I was getting a constant kaleidoscope of scents so strong and pure that it often made me nauseous.
One day Penhaligon stopped by and told my father that one of his cousins used to suffer from frequent headaches, though nothing so bad as my own, and that the only thing that helped him was for a tiny hole to be drilled in the middle of his forehead. Apparently it had been done by a Chinamen in Knightsbridge, adding that it was perfectly safe and that we may as well try it since we'd exhausted every avenue of relief. He gave my father the address and we prepared to set out the next day. Old Man Penhaligon promised he'd come along.
The next day we traveled across the city into Knightsbridge and they took me into the rather small but pleasant smelling abode of a Mr. Xiao Feng. I later learned the sweet dreamy scent of the place was because of the opium Mr. Feng was so fond of. I don't remember much of what happened other than that because I was so sedated myself. Suffice to say that the operation was a success and as soon as I came out of my stupor my pain was gone. After I had time to detoxify my system from all the sedatives I'd been fed for weeks, I was almost as good as new...except for one (many, rather) very peculiar thing...
My problem as you all know it today had manifest.
The first thing I smelled when I woke up was the saltiness of my own sweat soaked in the linens of my bed. My name was no longer Elden to those that addressed me, and my mannerisms were starkly opposed to my usual cheerful and inquisitive nature. I was Heinrich X. Thalamus, and I looked upon my meager surroundings with scorn, endlessly upset that my family could have been happy with so little. I stormed downstairs to let them all know that I would not stand for living in such a swarthy domicile. As I entered the kitchen I caught a whiff of mother's stew and I became Jean-Pierre Saint Josephine the Just. I insisted that my mother rest her weary legs while I prepared dinner myself...
As you can see from that time forward my life was to be very different. I can sometimes be dozens of different people in one day, sometimes in one hour. If I stay in one place I can control who I am somewhat...but usually not for very long. It is truly amazing how scents can travel. Thankfully I was able to recognize fairly quickly what scent brought me back to being Elden, and its not something one would think of as a scent. The scent is water. Yes, pure water itself DOES have a scent...but its very hard for me to describe. I suppose its slightly akin to the rain, which does have a watery scent mixed in with many other things, or perhaps if you've ever been near lightning as it strikes the ground...the air around that spot has a very distinct smell that is much like the scent of water magnified a hundred times over. Some concoctions of exotic flowers and citrus fruits can produce something near it...but not quite. Yes, the scent of water itself. Thankfully I have been able to distill this scent, with the help of Sir Penhaligon, down to its essence, and I carry around a little bottle with an atomizer of it wherever I go. Some say the scent makes them think of looking up in the sky, and some say it reminds them of their life before memory. Perhaps that's what I have distilled. The essence of tabula rasa, a blank slate...
If you're curious, stop by any time...I'll let you get a whiff. But I promise you, you'll be fumbling over yourself trying to place where you've smelled it before. Let me tell you the answer to save you some time...its you.
I want to: Catalog as many of my personalities as possible, and have those scents available so I may be who I want, when I want. This will be helpful because some of my personalities are, how should I say...less than savory.
You should probably know: Anything else that needs to be said about your character can be put down here. IE: I eat people, etc.
*Sample of Role Play:
The air filled with civet, a virile animal musk, as Elden made his way through the Welsh woodland. Immediately his frame became more erect and powerful, his gait confident and sure. He closed his eyes as Elden and opened them as R. Foxfire. The sound of a horse drawn carriage coming closer and closer was apparent to him after a few moments. A wry smile played upon his lips as he thought about what the encounter might bring. The carriage was soon in view and inside he could see what he had hoped for. The shape of a lady's festooned dress was visible as he approached. Not wanting to shift to a less wily mood, he covered his lower face with his scarf and pressed on.
"Whoa there, travellers," he called out as they neared. "I was wondering if I could trouble you for a ride back to town, I started on a walk and I've tired myself out! Of course I can pay."
The driver was more than happy to oblige and Foxfire entered the carriage on the opposite side of the lady. He introduced himself as Aaron Renard Esquire, a tailor from Nottingham. The lady was Ellie Stolwith, an American en route to meet her husband.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance Mrs. Stolwith, pardon my scarf but I've got a bit of a cough."
"Oh it's quite alright, sir, I thank you for your foresight."
Foxfire was a thief. Well that is what he would be called by others. In actuality he was a thorough kelptomaniac, and as they conversed he had managed to steal one of her pearl earrings, a bit of lace from her hair, and three sapphires from the jewels on her dress. He was also very charming and very taken by ladies. In other words he was constantly horny.
He kept moving closer and closer as the two chatted on about various things. She seemed very impressed with his knowledge of lady's dress and very up to date on fashion.
"Why no I haven't been to Paris in years, but I simply must introduce you to Madame Brouillard before your next trip. I think someone of your astounding beauty would be very well complemented by her dresses."
"That would be splendid, though my husband very rarely lets me indulge in such things."
"A fine creature such as yourself should have entire rooms filled with accoutrements for her choosing. One for every beautiful and astonishing angle of your demeanor, which I must say is utterly pristine."
"Oh do stop, you're making me blush."
And on it went until he was sitting next to her. He had relieved her of almost every jewel she had on except the rings on her fingers, which he knew would be much too noticeable to swipe just yet. Soon after he produced a flask of fine liqueur which they both drank from. After a few drinks her face was as red as the rubies that previously adorned her dress and she was leaning on his shoulder. He turned and their faces met. He forgot himself and lowered the scarf, taking in a nose full of her rosey perfume.
His eyes widened then narrowed as he found himself kissing her. His change was complete, and he was no longer the dashing rogue. The person simply known as Victus bit down hard on her lips with an animal-like rage. She screamed in pain, though it was muffled, as he began gnawing at her face, pouncing upon her with a new ferocity. Strange how such a soft and pleasant scent would bring out one of the worst monsters in his menagerie.
When the carriage returned to Cymwryn, the driver opened the door to find only one passenger. Her dress was torn to shreds and blood pooled on the floor of the cab. Her nipples had been bitten off and her throat torn out. She had also been raped. Her eyeless sockets stared up in bleak horror, her teeth red with blood, totally visible as her lips had also been bitten off along with much of her right cheek. The man he had picked up was nowhere to be found
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