LORCAN DMITRI LĘGLISE-D’EATH
DO YOU WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THE,
DEAL THAT I'M MAKING?



»» and you must keep your soul like a secret in your throat

I'D MAKE A DEAL WITH GOD,
GET HIM TO SWAP OUR PLACES
----»» OOC SHIZZ .

----»» YOUR NAME: Em
----»» AGE: Fifteen
----»» GENDER: Ladyparts
----»» CONTACT INFORMATION: AIM = lovecraaftian
----»» HOW YOU FOUND US: I’m Remus, fool!
----»» DID YOU READ THE RULES: The sun is overrated.
----»» ANYTHING ELSE?: I’m awesome.
----»» RP SAMPLE:

COME ON BABY, COME ON DARLING,
LET ME STEAL THIS MOMENT
----»» BASIC INFORMATION .

----»» FULL NAME: Lorcan Dmitri Lęglise D’Eath—however, he goes strictly by Lorcan Lęglise while at school.
Lorcan – of Irish or Gaelic origin; means literally ‘little fierce one’
Dmitri – of Greek origin; ‘follower of Demeter’, the Greek goddess of corn and the harvest; mother of Persephone, who is the wife of Hades, lord of the Underworld.
Lęglise – French; literally ‘of the church’

----»» NICKNAMES: His mother occasionally calls him her little Dimmi—from Dmitri—but only in one of her many wine-soaked stupors.
----»» AGE: Sixteen
----»» HOUSE: Slytherin
----»» GENDER: Male
----»» BLOOD: That’s rather complicated. He’s a pureblood, if you count the wizard in him; Alexandre Lęglise was descended from one of the oldest most noble Wizarding families in France. His mother, though, is Appoline D’Eath, the daughter of Paul D’Eath and Marisol Sanguini; both Paul and Marisol were descended from ancient Vampiric families, practical nobility in Spain and France.
----»» ALLEGIANCE: Neutral. If anything, he sides with the vampires.
----»» WAND: Thirteen and three-quarters inches, ash, unicorn-hair core.
----»» SEXUALITY: He doesn’t know. Straight, preferably; it really doesn’t matter.
----»» CANON/ORIGINAL: Canon, but very obscure.

OH COME ON ANGEL, COME ON,
LET'S EXCHANGE THE EXPERIENCE
----»» PERSONA .

----»» LIKES:
Music
Alcohol
Good-looking women
People that know how powerful they are
His family
Flirting
Attractive men
Getting things done well and on time
Green eyes
Being attractive
Having skills that other people lack
His earring

----»» DISLIKES:
Vampirism
The texture of blood
Sleeping
The Hospital Wing
Weak people
Failure
Losing arguments
Having his decisions overturned
Being questioned
Pudding
Not knowing something in class
Sunlight (even with the potions, it still makes him itch something terrible)
Kissing (there’s just something about it that turns him off. Only a few people can make it good.)
----»» QUIRKS & HABITS:
Chews his fingernails—he doesn’t bite them, but he chews them
He has to fall asleep to music
For some reason—a reason he really doesn’t want to get into—he loves the feeling of being tattooed.
He needs a cigarette as soon as he wakes up. No exceptions.
For some reason, he loves Alice in Wonderland—he doesn’t even know where he picked up the story, but he abso-fucking-lutely loves it.
He sings in the shower, much to Evan’s annoyance.
As you would suspect, he’s got a bit of a blood fetish. He likes the taste of it—not the texture (it’s far too thick), but he loves the taste.
He can’t feel anyone’s pulse without feeling really strange—it might be hunger, but he doesn’t like to entertain that thought for long.

----»» BOGGART:
The vision of himself, alone onstage, in an empty, lonely theatre: unsuccessful and unwanted, unknown.
----»» PATRONUS:
A swan, strangely enough—he can remember being a little kid, six or seven, chasing swans at his grandparents’ estate with his cousins, Leonard and Armand—those big male swans were mean bastards. The memory he uses is one from September of 1970: he’s ten years old and getting his first letter from his father, and his heart is practically bursting with joy.
----»» DEMENTOR:
“My mother, telling me that she was marrying Xavier. It wasn’t the fact that she was marrying him—I actually ended up liking him, after a couple of years—but it was that feeling of fear. I was so sure that I was being replaced.”
----»» MIRROR OF ERISED:
Himself on stage, in front of thousands of screaming fans: he’s holding a guitar and he’s alone, basking in the glory that he created for himself. This is the one thing that his family can’t help him with, that no one can say he got because of his grandparents: this is his.
----»» AMORTENTIA:
Coffee (an ever-present smell at his house, thanks to Xavier and his mother), the coppery smell of blood, and incense—nag champa.
----»» SECRETS:
He’s a half-vampire and he shouldn’t even be in Hogwarts—he’s absolutely terrified that he’s going to hurt someone.
He’s a virgin.
----»» STRENGTHS:
He’s not particularly handsome, but he’s charming as all hell.
He can get along with literally anyone—even if he isn’t friend with them, he can stay in the same room without killing them.
He can make anyone believe anything.
He’s an excellent guitar player and a decent vocalist.
----»» WEAKNESSES:
He’s cocky as hell.
He can’t stay in the sun for more than a couple of hours or he starts to get a terrible sunburn.
He relies on potions, three times a day, seven days a week, to keep him in his right mind.
He’s got too many secrets.
He’s extremely argumentative—don’t ever tell him that he’s wrong.
----»» GOALS:
Become a well-known musician
Never let a record label or producer influence how he writes
Go through school without anyone finding out his big secret
Find a steady girlfriend (or boyfriend)
Make his mother proud
----»» FEARS:
Becoming a corporate whore
Being poor (not that he would ever admit that to anyone)
Becoming unattractive
Shaming his family
Hurting or killing someone because he can’t control himself
----»» OVERALL PERSONALITY: Lorcan Lęglise pressed his forehead to the mirror and tried not to think.
That was the only way he could go through with it, he told himself. He concentrated on the relief of the mirror’s cooling touch, wondering how one went about forcing one’s mind into blankness, particularly after sixteen years lived on the axiom that the constant, clearest, most ruthless function of his mind was his foremost duty. He wondered why no effort had ever seemed beyond his capacity, yet now he couldn’t manage the effort to stick a few pearl studs into his shirtfront.
He had known for a month that the Hallow’s End Ball was approaching, but he had still been rather surprised that it should be tonight. He had promised Evan that he would attend back in September, safe in the knowledge that the ball was a long way off and he would attend when the time came, as he attended to every duty and class on his overloaded schedule. Thus he had forgotten about it—until yesterday. Thankfully yesterday had also been a Hogsmeade visit, presumably designed for such an occasion, and he had been able to pick out the needed clothes. He had been absorbed all that day in a particularly vicious essay for Slughorn until Evan had reminded him, at half past eight, that the Ball started in half an hour. He had rushed upstairs and started tearing off his clothes, going through the routine of dressing, conscious only of the need to hurry, not of the purpose. When the realization of the purpose struck him like a sudden blow, he stopped.
He had never spared himself an issue. When a problem came up in an essay or a class, his first concern was to discover what error he had made; he did not search for anyone’s fault but his own; it was of himself that he demanded perfection. He granted himself no mercy; he took the blame. Now he was trying to figure out what had possessed him to agree to this madness... Just a few more minutes, he thought, standing against the mirror, his eyes closed.
He could not stop the thing in his mind that went on throwing words at him; it was like trying to plug a fire hydrant with his bare hands. Part words, part pictures, kept shooting at his brain; hours of it, he thought, hours to spend watching the eyes of students getting heavy with boredom if they were sober or glazing into an imbecilic stare if they weren’t. He shook his head violently, opened his eyes, and stepped back from the mirror. He tried to reach for the shirt studs and instead found himself reaching for the mail on his dresser; Elettra had brought it up—on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays, he had a class at five thirty in the morning and subsequently missed breakfast and the arrival of the post owls. He’d had no time to read his mail until now. A newspaper clipping fluttered down to the floor, an editorial entitled “Wainwright Anti-Vampire Legislation”. He had to read it: there had been too much talk about this in the past few months, ominously too much.
He did not believe that the bill would pass. He was incapable of believing it. Having dealt with the clean reality of cause and effect all of his life, he had acquired the conviction that one had to concern oneself with the rational, not the insane—that one had to seek that which was right, because the right answer always won—that the senseless, the wrong, the monstrously unjust could not work, could not succeed, could do nothing but defeat itself. A battle against a thing such as that bill seemed preposterous and faintly embarrassing to him, as though he were being asked to compete with a first year.
He had told himself that the issue was dangerous, but he had no thought to spare for it now. He crumpled the editorial and threw it in the wastebasket; he felt the leaden approach of exhaustion, the kind he never felt in class—the exhaustion that seemed to wait for him and catch him the moment he turned to other concerns. He felt as though he was incapable of any desire except a desperate longing for sleep. But he told himself that he had to attend this party—that they had the right to ask this of him—that he had to learn to like their kind of pleasure, not for his sake, but for their own. He wondered why this was a motive that had no power to impel him. Throughout his life, whenever he became convinced that a course of action was right, the desire to follow it had come automatically. What was happening to him?—he wondered. The impossible conflict of feeling reluctance to do that which was right—wasn’t that the basic formula of moral corruption? To recognize one’s guilt, but feel nothing but cold and profound indifference?
Just a few more minutes...

UNAWARE, I'M TEARING YOU ASUNDER,
THERE IS THUNDER IN OUR HEARTS
----»» APPEARANCES .

----»» PLAY-BY: Julian Casablancas
----»» DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Four tattoos:
Three guitars on the back of his left calf— http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b30/Sawn...firsttattoo.jpg
An eight-inch snake on his right forearm—
http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b30/Sawn...econdtattoo.jpg
A twelve-and-a-half-inch Christ on the cross that starts on his left hip and ends high on his ribcage—
http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b30/Sawn...thirdtattoo.jpg
The Latin ‘flectere si nequeo superos, achaeronta movebo’—‘If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell’ in two-and-a-half inch letters on his stomach.
----»» VOICE: Singing voice—tenor, capable of bass; speaking voice—hoarse and gritty.
----»» BODY TYPE: 1.803 m, 53 k (5’11, 112 lbs)
----»» APPEARANCE: He sat at the window of the train, his head thrown back, one leg stretched across to the empty seat before him. The window frame trembled with the speed of motion; the pane hung over empty darkness and dots of light slashed across the glass as luminous streaks, once in a while.
His leg, sculpted by the tight denim jeans, its long line running straight, over an arched instep, to the tip of a foot in silver-heeled boots, had an elegance that seemed out of place in the train compartment and almost incongruous with the rest of him. He wore a battered leather jacket that had been expensive, wrapped shapelessly around his slender body: the coat collar was almost raised to the slanting brim of his hat. His face was made of angular planes, the shape of his mouth clear-cut, a sensual mouth held closed with inflexible precision; his eyes were closed. He kept his hands in the coat pockets, his posture taut, resentful of immobility.
He was alone in the badly-lit car, expecting solitude: he could have permitted himself sleep, but he disliked the slack indifference of sleep, disliked the idea of vulnerability. He opened his eyes, stood abruptly, shrugged off the battered coat, knocked the hat back off his head: a sweep of dark hair fell into his face and he pushed it back impatiently, long, bony fingers starkly pale against the sleep darkness for a moment. He debated in his mind for a few seconds: go outside and be forced to socialize, or stay inside and contemplate the rather unpleasant prospect of his NEWT year.
He crossed the room in three long strides: he held his body tall and straight, with the easy elegance of good breeding; few people held this—not his actual physical appearance, but the way he moved, spoke, the aura he projected. It was confidence, pure confidence, and those were two people in the entire school he had spotted this trait in: Evan Rosier and Sirius Black.
No one wondered if he was good-looking or not; it seemed irrelevant; when he entered a room, it was impossible to look anywhere else. He had an air of distinction, too authentic to be modern, and he moved as if he had a cape floating behind him in the wind.
No one, he thought, remembering what his grandmother had told him a long time ago, described the Sanguini bloodline as Latin-looking, yet the word applied to Lorcan—not in its present, but in its original sense, not pertaining to Spain, but to ancient Rome. His body seemed designed as an exercise in consistency of style, a style made of gauntness, of tight flesh, of long legs and swift movements. He had the irrefutable and indomitable power of certainty, emphasized in every swift, easy movement he made.
----»» FEELINGS ON THEIR APPEARANCE: “I suppose I’m handsome enough—people don’t run away screaming at the sight of me, and that’s good enough. I’m not going to try and base my career off of being pretty. I’m a musician, not a model. That doesn’t stop girls from chasing me, though—which doesn’t really bother me all that much; in Slytherin, it pays to look like a stud, even if you’re not. I look like my father; vampires are supposed to have that clean, patrician beauty—classical—but I don’t think I do. I think that some people would be quite disappointed to see what a real almost-vampire looks like.”

YOU DON'T WANT TO HURT ME,
SEE HOW DEEP THE BULLET LIES
----»» BURIED IN THE PAST .

----»» NATIONALITY: French
----»» BIRTHPLACE: London, England
----»» PARENTS: Appoline and Xavier (stepfather) D’Eath; Alexandre Lęglise
----»» SIBLINGS: Elettra D’Eath (stepsister)
----»» OTHER FAMILY: Marisol and Paul D’Eath, George and Maxine Lęglise
----»» PETS: A tabby cat named Malky.
----»» FULL HISTORY:
“I am not a wizard. I am not a vampire.
“I think I am a monster.
“I don’t know what I am—neither does anyone else. We differ there, though, myself and the rest of society: they literally have no idea what I am, physically and mentally; to them, I’m simply Lorcan Lęglise, a little strange, a little distant, but no more odd than anyone else here. They don’t know, can never know.
“I suppose the best term to describe my personal lack of knowledge is governmental—I don’t know what I am in the eyes of the Ministry, in the eyes of the country, of the general public. I know what my kind are to the wizarding society: we are not half-vampire, half-anything: to them, we are monsters. Is it so far off? Doesn’t it make me a monster—the urges, the burning when the unfiltered sun hits my skin; the hunger that claws so thoroughly at my stomach that it spreads to my entire body and before long I need sustenance or I think I’ll go mad? Doesn’t this make me a beast, a monster, an abomination under God, wherever or whatever he is?
“Enough. This is marked ‘history’, so I think I should fill that out adequately. Shall I start with my grandparents, or an overview of vampiric history, or my earliest memories? I imagine that it will all tie in well enough eventually.
“Vampires have been around as long as wizards, and well longer, I believe. The D’Eath and Sanguini families were what wizards would call ‘purebloods’—vampires took a far more sensible line on all of that, though, and realized early on that only breeding with other vampires would eventually lead to inbreeding and five-armed babies. However, there are enough vampires that the D’Eath and Sanguini families never had to breed with Muggles or wizards; my mother can trace her bloodlines back to the second century.
“My grandmother, Marisol Sanguini, was a very wealthy and very noble woman from Spain, bred of high-mannered and elegant stock. My grandfather, Paul D’Eath, was much the same, minus the wealth—the D’Eaths were just as noble and well-bred as Marisol’s family, if rather older, and a great liking for large castles and expensive horses and a strong appreciation for wine seemed to have been passed down through the generations; the family wealth had been squandered several generations back. While they were nowhere near living in poverty, the Sanguini fortune would be a wonderful addition to what little wealth remained.
“Paul and Marisol met on their wedding day and eventually fell in love: they had six children—Raymonde, the oldest, Thomas, Marguerite, Nathaniel, Marcus, and Appoline, the youngest. Raymonde and Nathaniel went away to Spain to school, Marguerite to France; Appoline and Marcus went to London with their parents.
“When Appoline was eighteen, she went to Paris to study, masquerading as a normal human. On her second day there, she met a young man, a fellow student: his name was Alexandre Lęglise. He was handsome and charming; she was young and naïve and looking desperately for romance in the City of God. They began to date, casually for the first few days, then more seriously; by the time she had reached the end of her first semester at the University of Paris, they were engaged. She brought him home to meet her parents and deliver the news: Paul was shocked and pleased, her mother less so; Alexandre was an attentive and amiable boy, full of the Parisian romance that Paul found familiar. He seemed a good match for the flight Appoline.
“Later, Marisol dropped her pretense of happiness and pulled Appoline into a side room to demand two things: whether she had been honest with Alexandre, and whether she was pregnant. Appoline laughed off her mother’s first question, telling her that she would tell him when the time was right, and insisted that she and Alexandre were in love, and that she was most certainly not pregnant. She was unwittingly lying that night: I was three days old and growing.
“Alexandre had no idea what his bride was, still, after asking her hand: in all fairness, they had been dating for only four months, and she didn’t know that the Lęglise family was one of, if not the, oldest wizarding families in France.
“However, months progressed: in March, Appoline’s belly began to grow, and by April, there was no denying it: she was pregnant, and the child could only be Alexandre’s.
She told him what she was on May sixth, knowing that I would be a half-blood, knowing that, as a baby, I would look different than the others.
“He took the news with a stoic face: he left her on May eighth, leaving behind a letter to her and to me: my letter was sealed and marked to be opened on my tenth birthday; it explained everything. Hers was full of apologies and he signed it with an ‘I love you always’; it explained nothing.
“I was born on August seventh at St. Mungo’s in London; Appoline had finished her second semester poorly and didn’t go back. Marguerite, now with three children of her own, and Marisol, who had overseen the births of eleven grandchildren already, looked over my birth; it was quick and easy.
“For the next ten years, I was a quiet and, my mother said, remarkably easy child—or, perhaps, as easy a child as a boy with an indulgent mother, a plethora of cousin, and adoring grandparents can be. Add to that mixture the fact that all of us lacked in absolutely nothing and you have quite the spoiled brat; my mother, though, knew when to put her foot down. Being the only son for ten years had certain drawbacks, too.
“The only-child drawbacks were removed when my mother remarried four days before my tenth birthday. I ahd met Xavier and had rather liked him—but I had never allowed myself to entertain the notion that he could replace me as the most important man in my mother’s life.
Whatever friendly feelings I felt for him disappeared when he married my mother. They came back, after a time, but from eleven to fourteen, I hated my stepfather with the burning, complete hate of a child: he had replaced me.
“And he brought a girl with him, little Elettra, two years my junior: she was as unhappy as I to have a new adult and a new child crowding into the life she shared with his father. I didn’t hate her, but I was quite indifferent; she is a full vampire, from what I understand, and that is why she and her father go by the surname D’Eath instead of my mother taking their name: unless the woman wishes to take the male’s name (as Marisol did), he becomes part of her family.
“My mother gave me Alexandre’s letter on August seventh, 1970. It was two pages, front and back, and explained, as I mentioned before, everything: he was a wizard, he had to leave Appoline for reasons that he simply couldn’t explain properly here, he wanted to know me, his son—and he gave me, in that letter, the information that would prove utterly invaluable.
“Maxine and George Lęglise , 152 6th Avenue, Paris, France: my grandparents and their address, so that I could contact them to find him.
“I showed my mother the letter and told her, quite calmly, that we, as a family, were taking a vacation—tomorrow. She didn’t argue.
“We finally found Maxine and George Lęglise on August ninth, Appoline and I; Xavier and Elettra were at the hotel.
“Appoline explained who we were, but halfway through her explanation, George smiled at her and motioned her inside, telling her that they knew who we were; he and Maxine had been expecting us for a decade.”

BE RUNNING UP THAT ROAD,
BE RUNNING UP THAT HILL
----»» okay, listen up! this application page was made by OPERATIC SKELETON , of CAUTION 2.0. Inspiration came from everywhere, lyrics from running up that hill by kate bush, which is a good song so i suggest you listen. this is my first ever template, so be nice... feel free to tweak things, but leave the credits on, else i shall have pete wentz and his band of rebellions hunt after you and kill you in your sleep.

1. You've already been accepted as 54 other characters, Em. xD
2. But make sure you keep them active as well -- especially Remus.
3. NOW LEMME GO BACK TO MY AP WORLD HISTORY HOMEWORK. 8D
4. I'm still crying over the fact that you didn't use Gaspard Ulliel

ACCEPTED !
You can make your relations page and start role playing with us.