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sebastian cade whynter

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sebastian cade whynter	Posted: Aug 18 2008, 12:47 AM .quote
Newbie Group: pending. Posts: 4 Member No.: 11 Joined: 16-August 08	WE CAN�T BE OBLIVIOUS, WE ARE NOT IGNORANT BLOOD IN OUR HEARTS, BLOOD IN OUR HANDS As a musician, I find it ironic that silence is the loudest noise I�ve ever had the displeasure of hearing. Hey there, hot-stuff. The name�s Megan, or at least that�s what mom said fourteen years ago. I�ve been hanging about for three years, and I think I�m pretty good. Juliet, Sebastian, and Lucas happen to agree with me. Besides the world of personal messaging, you can hit me up at cartesianpizza@hotmail.com. Peace out, homie! WE�RE HUMAN, WE REASON, WE�RE BREATHING, PROTECTING THE LIVING AND DYING, SURVIVING, WE'RE TRYING Name tags have informed me to go by Sebastian Cade Whynter, but you�ll probably be screaming Sebastian. I�ve been wandering aimlessly for physically, nineteen years. Yep, since February 13, 1731. You might not know it from first glance, but I belong to the vegetarian vampire world. My heart�s been taken by no one, and I don�t see that changing any time soon. But don�t lose all hope, I am just a boy after all. I�m not ashamed to admit that I�m straight, not to mention agnostic and uninterested in today�s polotics. Awesome, right? LIFE HE SACRAFICED, SOMEONE WHO PAID THE PRICE BLOOD IN OUR HEARTS, BLOOD IN OUR HANDS I�ve heard people say I look like Justin Chatwin. I�m not sure, but I�m flattered by the comparison. I�ve never been one to care much for my appearance. Granted, I don�t have to anyway because I�m now apart of the population undead. As a human, I wasn�t raised with any time to preen over myself in the mirror; I�d just take a bath and know I was at least clean. As an immortal, I have seen myself in a reflection more than most people have in their lives, though I don�t even look everyday, and I�ve seen my unchanging physique through eyes that don�t miss a detail. Besides the characteristics all vampires have (cold, hard, white skin that sparkles in the sunlight and eyes that are red, in my case gold, shadowed by a deep purple), my features take on a baby-face appearance. My round face and the dark eyelashes give me a cute kind of look, or so I�ve been told, and long hair and angled nose accenting the boyish sides of my expression. My hair, a light, chocolate brown, hangs roughly low enough to be considered a shag, and covers my forehead. My lips, small and pale, are usually pressed in a thin line, and along with my relaxed eyelids, give me the appearance of boredom. Which is usually pretty accurate. I have the look and build of a musician; that is, thin and not very muscular. Not muscular, for, you know, a vampire. My long legs, arms and fingers are perfectly suited for any instrument, as they were even before I entered my current life. I�ve got a lean torso and a thin chest, which is often covered by a thin cotton short-sleeve with the name of an artist I�ve taken a liking to. Along with that, you probably won�t ever see me in anything other than a comfortable pair of jeans and my black converse sneakers. At home or in public, it doesn�t matter where; I�ve definitely got my guitar slung across my back, if not in my arms being strummed. I think I do a pretty good job of blending in, overall. Maybe I�ll slip up here and there, but you�d understand if I said I was only human. WE�RE CRYING, WE�RE FIGHTING, IT�S WARFARE, WE�RE DYING BELIEVING WE�RE WINNING, IT�S ENDING, WE�RE SINGING If someone had to sum me up in one sentence, they�d probably say: Sebastian is, by far, the worst vampire I�ve ever seen. But I�ll be a little more detailed for you. I�ve never been too serious of a person. Sure, there are some things I can�t take jokingly, but you can generally assume that I�m the one tossing witty remarks in conversations. My humor is dry and is most often understood by the general public, though I do crack some inside and intellectual jokes here and there. I�m a lot more of a friendly person than most other vampires are, especially to humans. I miss my old life (though, don�t get me wrong, I am so glad Desdemona saved me from a soundless Hell), so sometimes act like I�m human again, and I socialize with the little things. I know, I know. Not healthy for myself and a little hazardous (alright, a lot hazardous) for the others involved, but I can�t help myself. It�s like a stoner addicted to a placebo. Eventually all the sugar must get to his head, right? I spend my time with pretty open-minded humans, who are always good for a laugh. I�m their go-to guy if they need some cheering up; just let me know and I�m slipping side remarks and smart-ass responses to lecturing teachers. You�ll be doubled over before you can count to ten. Not a great quality, I�ve been kind of one to dwell. I remember once, in Italy, I was (attempting at) courting this beautiful woman working in a tailor�s shop. I sat in that shop for hours, flirting with the pretty girl every single day we were there; playing songs and singing, awaiting her blush and giggle that always came in no time at all. This went on for a week or so, until, of course, I asked her if she would see me outside the shop. Bella (that was her name) then shook her head and looked up at me sheepishly before mentioning to me for the first time that she was married to the tailor himself. Gabrielle was the only member of the opposite sex that I dared to speak to for four months after that. Okay, that�s a little dramatic, I realize this. But the whole dwelling thing was a habit of mine that I never seemed to be able to let go of. Even now, I�ll do or say something stupid like that, and I won�t be able to pull my foot out my mouth for a much longer time than it would anyone else. The act itself is embarrassing, usually even more than the reason I�d be in that mess. Overall, I�m pretty good at heart. I�m unusually kind, a sorry sucker for pathetic things, like children (the image of the small and helpless), sick puppies (even more so), and the little humans who try picking fights at school with one of my siblings (if only they knew). I mean, sure, I�d be on my family�s side over anyone else�s, but I wouldn�t be able to hold myself without voicing some sort of pity for the sucker about to take a supernatural beat-down. Alas, they very well might deserve it, and I won�t be able to do a thing to save their sorry ass. I�m also pretty generous. I mean, I don�t really need anything to survive except for blood, so why would I need all this money? It�s not like I wander around looking for things worthy of donating to. But If I happen to see a beggar, a Santa with a donation pale, anything, I won�t be able to stop myself from spotting them. This is just who I am, you know? WITH A LIFE ON THE LINE, THAT CONSUMES OR REFINES TO ASCEND OR DECLINE, TO RETREAT OR TO CLIMB I owe my current existence to Desdemona and Wroth Whynter, and so does Hawthorne, Delaine, Jack, Kallin, and Neava. Awake. This must be Hell, considering I�m on fire. I suppose that�s only fair. Oh, is that voices? Well, at least I can hear again, thank God. I suppose Hell can�t that bad, then. Burning. �BURNING I could have been screaming. I probably was. The pain� made me want to wish for death all over again. I begged to relive the worst parts of my human life again and again without cease if the burning would simply end. And so I did. Maybe the fact that I ran through all the gory details of my past life during transformation was the reason that I can remember it so clearly. Unfortunately, it didn�t stop the pain. February, 1731 was not a good month for my parents. They owned a local pub called the Frolicking Faun, in Liverpool. Taxes were way, way up on liquor and hardly anyone stopped by our store anymore. Not even our loyal regulars could afford to stop by for their daily snort, and we were lucky to see them more than once a week. On top of that, some bloke was stealing the shipments that came to our harbor. Not that anyone could blame him. I like to think that my birth was an upside to this horrible time, but I was never very good at kidding myself. The last thing anyone needed, especially my parents, was yet another hungry mouth to feed. I was the youngest and last of seven children, and (of course, with my luck) the only boy. Growing up in Liverpool with no money and six older sisters was not a fun experience for me. My father was a sickly man, coughing and weezing all the time. I often had to stay home from school to work his shift in the pub, helping my mother wash tables and clean dishes, wipe the windows and serve the customers. By the age of twelve I could whip up near anything you could throw at me, and if I couldn�t, well, I�m a quick learner. I had to be; I was beaten with a paddle black and blue every time I couldn�t satisfy a customer. At fourteen, any free time I had was spent at construction sites, to earn money for a college education. I was a dedicated person, or stubborn, maybe that was the word. Anyway, it didn�t matter how many times someone told me I wouldn�t amount to anything; I was going to make a difference. The day I turned seventeen was the morning I high-tailed out of there without so much as a goodbye. It was the last I saw of my parents and most of my family. It was my second night in London that I found my calling on a casual stroll in Hyde Park. It was mid February, twilight, and the wet England air hung heavily in the cold park. I had been trying to organize my mind, attempting to decide on a major for when I started school the next week. I had argued this countless of times before, never able to finalize a decision. I was just weighing the pros and cons of becoming a physician, when the sweetest sound faintly tickled the inside of my ears. I stopped walking completely before abruptly picking up my speed, and everything I was just thinking of dropped from my mind like dead flies. My first and only priority was to discover the source of the euphony that was challenging my senses. Around the next bend, perched on a wall, were two men and a woman. All holding curious little items; each strikingly different, and yet, somehow exactly the same. The first was a thin wooden pipe about a foot long, riddled with holes. The woman holding it (she did not speak often, and when she did, it was in flowing, fluent French) was blowing into a hole in the side and covering and uncovering the other holes. This came to be known to me as a piccolo, which created the soprano harmony that weaved in and out of the main melody. The next was fairly simple, a wide metal ring with some animal skin stretched across one opening, with smaller metal discs in the ring itself. It made noise by being shaken rhythmically, keeping time with a jingly undertone to the song. The man wielding this �tambourine�, as I was told later, had a heavy Russian accent. Last, but definitely not least, was the instrument that made up the melody of the harmonious sounds. Shaped like a teardrop with an elongated point, it was made of some soft, light wood. Metal wires were attached to the top and bottom, which the man pressed down upon smallish regular ridges that rose up on the flat neck, and plucked on the base, above a gaping hole that exposed the hollow body. It was stunning, in beauty and in sound. The same, fat, jolly man was singing in Italian, but I somehow understood every word. I sat on the ground, listening to them play their music until the sun peaked over the buildings of London, England. After they finished, the man introduced himself, his band, and his mandolin to me; he was the only one of the three who spoke English. I knew the minute I head their symphony that this is what I was meant to do. To cut a long story short, I withdrew my money from my college education and joined the band. Their names were Gabrielle, Mikkhail (who we just called �Micky�), and Jenoah. Jenoah began teaching me how to play the guitar, as well as French, Russian, and Italian. I had never received much formal education, but it was now apparent that I had a definite knack for learning things, especially languages and musical instruments. In as little as two years, I was fluent in all three and could play the acoustic like nobody�s business in six months. He would say to anyone who asked that I was �la mia pupilla dotata,� or his gifted pupil in Italian. Meanwhile, we traveled all over the continent, and sometimes, even parts of Asia. I loved the music, and it loved me in return. It was my outlet, it was my passion, it was my life. I began to find music everywhere, in the places you were least likely to find it. On the street; people�s high-pitched babble melodically playing around the horse�s hoof drumline on the cobblestone roads. The rushing canals of Venice harmonizing with the rhythmic swishing of the gondolas, and people munching in a variety of pitches in the cafes alongside. I should of known that I would get sick eventually, what with exposing myself to all these environments. It was just a month after my nineteenth birthday that I fell ill. We were in Romania, sleeping on haystacks in the barn of a kind farmer who enjoyed our playing. Gabrielle, whose mother was a medical assistant, figured I was infected with some sort of mold from the rotting hay. They took me to a local hospital and waited with me for weeks while the nurses tended to me. It was incredibly kind of them; normally they would simply move on, especially because we didn�t have any idea of how we were going to pay the bill. But I guess I had grown on them, and we were more like family now than friends or travel mates. In the hospital, I taken to sleeping for incredibly long amounts of time. My twenty-third day in the infirmary, I fell asleep for two days and awoke with a start. Someone had been shaking me, but when I gazed up at them sleepily, their mouth was open and throat vibrating. I didn�t know what to think. Micky took his hand off of my shoulder and silently expressed his relief of my awakening. I blinked, and started to ask him why he wasn�t making any noise. I blinked when I heard nothing come out of my throat, and asked again. My mouth was moving. So was my adam�s apple� What was going on? I lifted a hand to my forehead in confusion and started at the blazing heat. At that moment of understanding, my eyes widened with shock and tears. I started shouting, louder and louder; shouts I couldn�t hear. Tears spilled down my cheeks. Deaf. I vaguely remember seeing my family�s tears of sorrow and loss as they hugged me bye and silently wished me a good rest of my life. Gabrielle, the one I was hands down closest to, lingered longer than the rest. For a little bit, she just sat on the edge of my bed and sobbed into her hands before looking up, startled, by some sound. I suppose someone had called her name. Anyway, a panicked look crossed her face and she took my face in her hands and it. The first time anyone had ever told me they loved me, and I couldn�t even hear it. Pulling my face to hers, she kissed my sweaty forehead, stood up, and with one last longing glance in the doorway, stepped out of my life forever. The rest is a faded blur. I remember seeing an angel saunter into my room through my lashes, and lift a finger to her lips. Picking me up, she gently closed my eyes with her first two fingers, and I felt a rush of wind on my face; when I opened my eyes, we were outside, the town rushing by. I closed my eyes again, and the next time they were open, I was in an unfamiliar kitchen. The woman was there, speaking slowly to me, maybe hoping I could read her lips. I�m not entirely sure of what passed through my mind at that moment, but I crossed the dim room and picked up a steak knife. She didn�t stop me; I looked back at her and she had confusion in her eyes. Abruptly, I plunged it into my chest. I collapsed onto something hard, not far down enough to be the floor, and felt something sharply cold on my self-inflicted wound. MERCY SCREAMS ITS VIOLENT LOVE JUSTICE AND MERCY, JUSTICE AND MERCY Of course I read the rules! After all, ---admin edit. See Lucas Clearwater, thanks a bundle.
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