Post by Zib on Dec 17, 2010 6:35:49 GMT -6
RPG: Only
Name: Dorian "Zib" Zibowsky
Date of Birth and Age: Not sure, though he's probably in his mid-twenties.
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Relationship Status: Single
Physical Looks: Zib is of average height, if not a bit on the tall side. He is athletic, but his build is nothing out of the ordinary, though he is a bit thin for the average American. He isn't terribly intimidating as far as size goes, but his casual, confident, and controlled demeanor can be somewhat disconcerting. There's just something about the way he carries himself that implies that every movement he makes has a specific purpose.
His skin is fairly tan and his hair a dark shade of brown. He keeps his hair short, because it would otherwise get in his eyes. However, he is not much of a barber, but his messy hairdo is easily concealed beneath a jazzy, brown or gray fedora. The hat also hides a small scar on his forehead, which is truly the only purpose of the hat.
His confident golden eyes easily hold a steady gaze and would seem to imply that he knows something you don't. Whether or not that is true, however, remains a mystery.
Personal Belongings: Aside from his trademark fedora, Zib wears pinstripe pants, and a white, long-sleeved shirt under a black, dark brown, or gray overcoat. He is never seen in such an outfit without a black tie or black shoes. Now, this is his usual apparel, as Zib quite likes to appear jazzy. He is, after all, a 1920's buff. (Despite all affections toward jazz, Zib believes that Frank Sinatra possessed no talent whatsoever.)
When he wants to feel a bit more casual and modern, he wears dark blue jeans, a gray or black or white or navy-blue or dark-red crew shirt under a brown or black vest, and, of course, a dashing black fedora. The black shoes are a constant.
Zib is never seen without a good pocketknife, a fancy pocket-watch, a notepad and pen, and, naturally, a loaded handgun. He would carry ammunition had he not hidden loaded guns and spare ammunition all throughout the city he lives in. Careful, he even keeps a pistol in the peanut-bowl...
Other than that, he owns the city of Boston, Massachusetts.
Personality: Zib is a very casual, laid-back kind of guy. He approaches everything with such a calm indifference that anyone who had not known him for more than a week might almost think him careless. Yet every movement he makes seems meticulously considered, including those spontaneous, unsolicited actions that people make now and again.
He has also been known to hum unusual jazz tunes as he goes about his day, particularly when he is deep in thought. Interestingly, most of the "songs" are completely improvised.
On the inside, Zib is a bunch of organs, muscles, and blood vessels. But that's beside the point. He really is quite on the inside like he is on the outside. He is usually calm and has the strange ability to keep his emotions under control. He is slow to anger and quick to amuse. He enjoys laughing, as it helps a person's emotional health, makes one's day that much better, fends off bad moods, and, most important, keeps a person in solitude from losing his mind. This is actually a rule of his and among the most important. After all, one's mind is a terrible thing to lose -- who knows who might find it!
Now, there are dark shadows in Zib's mind, shadows that he prefers to keep down in his deeper nightmares. One shadow is the scar left by the loss of his partner -- his closest friend. The problem with shadows is that they occasionally creep up and must ultimately be brought to light, lest they blacken one heart completely. Unfortunately, Zib has a habit of pushing shadows down and keeping them contained in the secluded storage rooms of his mind. These shadows will likely prove a serious complication in the future.
On a different note, Dorian Zibowsky has a curious mental condition called synaesthesia. This interesting little quirk causes his brain to activate one sense when another is stimulated. That is to say that when he sees the word blue, he actually visualizes the color blue. He also visualizes the color blue when he sees words such as "Slowly" (with a capital "s" only), "boat," "lock," and "Scottish." He can also taste words occasionally, such as "example," which tastes to him like maple syrup (which is a yellow word), but only certain words, sounds, and smells can actually trigger his sense of taste. Sounds also have colors to Zib, and everything has a number. The word "number" is ten, the color purple is four, and hot chocolate and jazz music are both seven. He still believes that everyone else associates things the same way, assuming there is anyone else left.
History: Dorian Zibowsky was born to a married couple living somewhere in Virginia. He was found at an orphanage soon thereafter. No one is entirely certain as to who his parents were, but it is assumed that they did not reside anywhere near Virginia. Whatever the case, Mr. and Mrs. Hill became his adoptive parents for the next two and a half decades.
Now, Zib's name came from a hastily scribbled note that was found in the basket he had been delivered to the orphanage in. At least, his surname did. His real first name was too poorly written to discern, and Mr. Hill happened to be reading the beginning of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Zib was just good-looking enough to find himself with the name Dorian. Thus began the story of Dorian Zibowsky.
Zib had a slightly-less-than-average childhood. It was odd when a little Caucasian boy showed up at school for bring-your-parents-to-school day with the African-American Mr. Hill. Of course, Hill was well-known as the man who ran the orphanage in the middle of town, but not all the students knew that.
Zib was also very musically inclined. He could sing on key since the age of five, and that was likely because he rarely made a sound for the first four years of his life -- he never spoke or tried to say anything until six. He was singing before he could speak. Mrs. Hill had a proclivity to sing loudly as she went about the home, cleaning, and she wasn't too terrible a singer, for she directed the local church choir. So once she heard Dorian humming to himself as he cleaned his room (which he shared with four other children), she proceeded immediately to put him into the church choir. He was not accustomed to singing in front of others, but he also was not old enough to worry about what they might think. In fact, when he sang a solo for the Christmas program at the age of six, he was met with loud applause. This simply delighted him. After that performance, he began to listen to other members of the choir, and as he grew older, he adopted their mannerisms and styles. Later on, at the age of sixteen, he discovered jazz music. He was drawn in immediately. He hadn't previously thought much of his talent and the thought had never occurred to him to profit off of it, but after listening to his first Michael Buble CD, he decided that he would be a jazz singer.
As Dorian grew older, he performed at several local churches and restaurants to make money for his family. He was even asked a few times to sing somewhere, once out of state. All things considered, Dorian was quite a talented artist. He mixed both jazz and gospel elements to create a curious style all his own, which proved a profitable combination. The easy-listening, jazzy part of his voice earned him jobs at restaurants and positions in talent competitions. His "black gospel" vocal styles put him in many a church and thereby gained publicity.
Unfortunately, it never took off as a successful career, as he was never stumbled upon by any record-labels. And because his family was nowhere near wealthy enough to put him into a college, Dorian found himself living off of whatever money he could scrape together with his talents.
Finally, at the age of twenty or so (his true age was never known), he got together with a much more fortunate friend of his, and traveled to Boston, Massachusetts, where he attempted to make something out of his career. He actually began to succeed, landing a deal with a local record label. If a small, prototype of a CD of his sold well, Dorian could sign to make a full-length album. Things were looking up, for once. That is, until the first silence.
Dorian awoke one morning to complete silence. He didn't really think much of it until he drove to work. There was literally no traffic. In Boston. Something must be wrong. He continued only to find the studio closed, which wasn't too unusual. He waited for hours, hoping someone would show up and explain what was going on. Meanwhile, he looked through the manager's things -- after all, no one was there to know. It was not long before Dorian picked up his phone to call his employers and coworkers, but he received no answer. That's when he began to worry. He walked outside and tried to call his friend and found himself getting the same old silent treatment as with the previous calls. Finally, Dorian dialed his foster parents' home phone, knowing well that Mrs. Hill should be making pancakes for the kids, just as she always would on Saturday mornings. No answer. Dorian shut his eyes tightly, and threw his phone through the nearest car window.
An hour later, he was breaking down doors to random houses. Yet another hour later, he was home, reclined on an old couch. The white and black dots dimly lit his face as he stared absently at the television screen. He tried to process what had happened. Evidently, everyone on earth had disappeared. Just like that. They had gone literally overnight. Could they just be somewhere else, perhaps? He shook his head. It just didn't make sense.
Then, he turned to an object resting on the endtable to his right. Picking it up, he placed it on the coffee table. It rose, and with a small gesture of the hand, he pushed it 'til it touched the television screen. His mind flashed back to moments of his childhood. The time he stacked building blocks higher than he could reach, the time he was found eating cookies though the jar was sitting atop the refrigerator, and especially the time a truck flipped before it could strike the little boy walking carelessly across the street. He let his hand fall to his lap, and the die fell. Things had never been normal around him.
Dorian jumped when a sharp knocking sounded at the door to his room. He answered the door hesitantly, but there was no visitor to be seen. From behind, he heard the rustling of papers moving and whirled around. No one was there, but the pages of his journal were turning over, one by one. He tilted his head, not sure what was happening. Within two minutes, a knife had embedded itself in the door as Dorian ran frantically from the building. His hands were covered in blood, his eyes were wide with fear, his forehead bore a deep gash, and all he could hear was a loud ringing in his ears.
He tried to hide, inhabiting several abandoned houses, but wherever he went, he was followed. Three days passed. Dorian was tired and had not slept since the first silence. He had lost a lot of blood, and his mind was beginning to slip. That's when a car hit him. Or rather, he hit the car.
Fortunately, she had managed to stop before she ran over the hobo. Still, he had hit his head on the way down, and she had to drag him by the arms into her car. Part of her was guilty, but another part was elated. The only person left on earth, and she hit him with a car.
When he came to she asked for his story, then his name. He told her what had happened, that he was not a hobo, and that his name was Dorian Zibowsky. She nodded understandingly, and told him that his name was not Dorian. He argued that it was. She shook her head. He thought her crazy. She explained. Dorian could no longer go by his old name, because that was how the ghost (or whatever it was) had been able to find him. If he changed his name, he changed his identity, and changing his identity would mean that the ghost would no longer know who he was. He called her insane, rose to his feet, slipped, fell, rose again, brushed himself off, and walked away. Four seconds later, he returned, panting. Zib it was. She smiled.
The two spent the next four years together, experimenting with this new reality that had come upon them. It was odd. Together, they compiled a list of unwritten rules, rules that would keep them alive. Each with different experiences prior to meeting the other, she and Zib were able to stay alive quite long enough to survive. It wasn't until she wanted to experiment with a cemetery that Zib doubted her judgment. She pleaded with him, but he refused to do anything of the sort. Finally, she sneaked away one wintry morning.
Zib awoke early to the lack of the sound of her breathing. She wasn't in the house. He checked her room and confirmed his suspicions. He followed her footprints in the snow, though he knew exactly where he would find her.
What happened afterward has kept Zib from searching for other survivors. He cannot bear to think about her, and he certainly is not going to make any sort of relationship with anyone else, for he knows that he will simply have to deal with the loss. He would do anything to kill a ghost.
Other: He does not knock on doors, nor will he answer if you knock on his door, because only ghosts knock. (Hint, hint...)
Name: Dorian "Zib" Zibowsky
Date of Birth and Age: Not sure, though he's probably in his mid-twenties.
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Relationship Status: Single
Physical Looks: Zib is of average height, if not a bit on the tall side. He is athletic, but his build is nothing out of the ordinary, though he is a bit thin for the average American. He isn't terribly intimidating as far as size goes, but his casual, confident, and controlled demeanor can be somewhat disconcerting. There's just something about the way he carries himself that implies that every movement he makes has a specific purpose.
His skin is fairly tan and his hair a dark shade of brown. He keeps his hair short, because it would otherwise get in his eyes. However, he is not much of a barber, but his messy hairdo is easily concealed beneath a jazzy, brown or gray fedora. The hat also hides a small scar on his forehead, which is truly the only purpose of the hat.
His confident golden eyes easily hold a steady gaze and would seem to imply that he knows something you don't. Whether or not that is true, however, remains a mystery.
Personal Belongings: Aside from his trademark fedora, Zib wears pinstripe pants, and a white, long-sleeved shirt under a black, dark brown, or gray overcoat. He is never seen in such an outfit without a black tie or black shoes. Now, this is his usual apparel, as Zib quite likes to appear jazzy. He is, after all, a 1920's buff. (Despite all affections toward jazz, Zib believes that Frank Sinatra possessed no talent whatsoever.)
When he wants to feel a bit more casual and modern, he wears dark blue jeans, a gray or black or white or navy-blue or dark-red crew shirt under a brown or black vest, and, of course, a dashing black fedora. The black shoes are a constant.
Zib is never seen without a good pocketknife, a fancy pocket-watch, a notepad and pen, and, naturally, a loaded handgun. He would carry ammunition had he not hidden loaded guns and spare ammunition all throughout the city he lives in. Careful, he even keeps a pistol in the peanut-bowl...
Other than that, he owns the city of Boston, Massachusetts.
Personality: Zib is a very casual, laid-back kind of guy. He approaches everything with such a calm indifference that anyone who had not known him for more than a week might almost think him careless. Yet every movement he makes seems meticulously considered, including those spontaneous, unsolicited actions that people make now and again.
He has also been known to hum unusual jazz tunes as he goes about his day, particularly when he is deep in thought. Interestingly, most of the "songs" are completely improvised.
On the inside, Zib is a bunch of organs, muscles, and blood vessels. But that's beside the point. He really is quite on the inside like he is on the outside. He is usually calm and has the strange ability to keep his emotions under control. He is slow to anger and quick to amuse. He enjoys laughing, as it helps a person's emotional health, makes one's day that much better, fends off bad moods, and, most important, keeps a person in solitude from losing his mind. This is actually a rule of his and among the most important. After all, one's mind is a terrible thing to lose -- who knows who might find it!
Now, there are dark shadows in Zib's mind, shadows that he prefers to keep down in his deeper nightmares. One shadow is the scar left by the loss of his partner -- his closest friend. The problem with shadows is that they occasionally creep up and must ultimately be brought to light, lest they blacken one heart completely. Unfortunately, Zib has a habit of pushing shadows down and keeping them contained in the secluded storage rooms of his mind. These shadows will likely prove a serious complication in the future.
On a different note, Dorian Zibowsky has a curious mental condition called synaesthesia. This interesting little quirk causes his brain to activate one sense when another is stimulated. That is to say that when he sees the word blue, he actually visualizes the color blue. He also visualizes the color blue when he sees words such as "Slowly" (with a capital "s" only), "boat," "lock," and "Scottish." He can also taste words occasionally, such as "example," which tastes to him like maple syrup (which is a yellow word), but only certain words, sounds, and smells can actually trigger his sense of taste. Sounds also have colors to Zib, and everything has a number. The word "number" is ten, the color purple is four, and hot chocolate and jazz music are both seven. He still believes that everyone else associates things the same way, assuming there is anyone else left.
History: Dorian Zibowsky was born to a married couple living somewhere in Virginia. He was found at an orphanage soon thereafter. No one is entirely certain as to who his parents were, but it is assumed that they did not reside anywhere near Virginia. Whatever the case, Mr. and Mrs. Hill became his adoptive parents for the next two and a half decades.
Now, Zib's name came from a hastily scribbled note that was found in the basket he had been delivered to the orphanage in. At least, his surname did. His real first name was too poorly written to discern, and Mr. Hill happened to be reading the beginning of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Zib was just good-looking enough to find himself with the name Dorian. Thus began the story of Dorian Zibowsky.
Zib had a slightly-less-than-average childhood. It was odd when a little Caucasian boy showed up at school for bring-your-parents-to-school day with the African-American Mr. Hill. Of course, Hill was well-known as the man who ran the orphanage in the middle of town, but not all the students knew that.
Zib was also very musically inclined. He could sing on key since the age of five, and that was likely because he rarely made a sound for the first four years of his life -- he never spoke or tried to say anything until six. He was singing before he could speak. Mrs. Hill had a proclivity to sing loudly as she went about the home, cleaning, and she wasn't too terrible a singer, for she directed the local church choir. So once she heard Dorian humming to himself as he cleaned his room (which he shared with four other children), she proceeded immediately to put him into the church choir. He was not accustomed to singing in front of others, but he also was not old enough to worry about what they might think. In fact, when he sang a solo for the Christmas program at the age of six, he was met with loud applause. This simply delighted him. After that performance, he began to listen to other members of the choir, and as he grew older, he adopted their mannerisms and styles. Later on, at the age of sixteen, he discovered jazz music. He was drawn in immediately. He hadn't previously thought much of his talent and the thought had never occurred to him to profit off of it, but after listening to his first Michael Buble CD, he decided that he would be a jazz singer.
As Dorian grew older, he performed at several local churches and restaurants to make money for his family. He was even asked a few times to sing somewhere, once out of state. All things considered, Dorian was quite a talented artist. He mixed both jazz and gospel elements to create a curious style all his own, which proved a profitable combination. The easy-listening, jazzy part of his voice earned him jobs at restaurants and positions in talent competitions. His "black gospel" vocal styles put him in many a church and thereby gained publicity.
Unfortunately, it never took off as a successful career, as he was never stumbled upon by any record-labels. And because his family was nowhere near wealthy enough to put him into a college, Dorian found himself living off of whatever money he could scrape together with his talents.
Finally, at the age of twenty or so (his true age was never known), he got together with a much more fortunate friend of his, and traveled to Boston, Massachusetts, where he attempted to make something out of his career. He actually began to succeed, landing a deal with a local record label. If a small, prototype of a CD of his sold well, Dorian could sign to make a full-length album. Things were looking up, for once. That is, until the first silence.
Dorian awoke one morning to complete silence. He didn't really think much of it until he drove to work. There was literally no traffic. In Boston. Something must be wrong. He continued only to find the studio closed, which wasn't too unusual. He waited for hours, hoping someone would show up and explain what was going on. Meanwhile, he looked through the manager's things -- after all, no one was there to know. It was not long before Dorian picked up his phone to call his employers and coworkers, but he received no answer. That's when he began to worry. He walked outside and tried to call his friend and found himself getting the same old silent treatment as with the previous calls. Finally, Dorian dialed his foster parents' home phone, knowing well that Mrs. Hill should be making pancakes for the kids, just as she always would on Saturday mornings. No answer. Dorian shut his eyes tightly, and threw his phone through the nearest car window.
An hour later, he was breaking down doors to random houses. Yet another hour later, he was home, reclined on an old couch. The white and black dots dimly lit his face as he stared absently at the television screen. He tried to process what had happened. Evidently, everyone on earth had disappeared. Just like that. They had gone literally overnight. Could they just be somewhere else, perhaps? He shook his head. It just didn't make sense.
Then, he turned to an object resting on the endtable to his right. Picking it up, he placed it on the coffee table. It rose, and with a small gesture of the hand, he pushed it 'til it touched the television screen. His mind flashed back to moments of his childhood. The time he stacked building blocks higher than he could reach, the time he was found eating cookies though the jar was sitting atop the refrigerator, and especially the time a truck flipped before it could strike the little boy walking carelessly across the street. He let his hand fall to his lap, and the die fell. Things had never been normal around him.
Dorian jumped when a sharp knocking sounded at the door to his room. He answered the door hesitantly, but there was no visitor to be seen. From behind, he heard the rustling of papers moving and whirled around. No one was there, but the pages of his journal were turning over, one by one. He tilted his head, not sure what was happening. Within two minutes, a knife had embedded itself in the door as Dorian ran frantically from the building. His hands were covered in blood, his eyes were wide with fear, his forehead bore a deep gash, and all he could hear was a loud ringing in his ears.
He tried to hide, inhabiting several abandoned houses, but wherever he went, he was followed. Three days passed. Dorian was tired and had not slept since the first silence. He had lost a lot of blood, and his mind was beginning to slip. That's when a car hit him. Or rather, he hit the car.
Fortunately, she had managed to stop before she ran over the hobo. Still, he had hit his head on the way down, and she had to drag him by the arms into her car. Part of her was guilty, but another part was elated. The only person left on earth, and she hit him with a car.
When he came to she asked for his story, then his name. He told her what had happened, that he was not a hobo, and that his name was Dorian Zibowsky. She nodded understandingly, and told him that his name was not Dorian. He argued that it was. She shook her head. He thought her crazy. She explained. Dorian could no longer go by his old name, because that was how the ghost (or whatever it was) had been able to find him. If he changed his name, he changed his identity, and changing his identity would mean that the ghost would no longer know who he was. He called her insane, rose to his feet, slipped, fell, rose again, brushed himself off, and walked away. Four seconds later, he returned, panting. Zib it was. She smiled.
The two spent the next four years together, experimenting with this new reality that had come upon them. It was odd. Together, they compiled a list of unwritten rules, rules that would keep them alive. Each with different experiences prior to meeting the other, she and Zib were able to stay alive quite long enough to survive. It wasn't until she wanted to experiment with a cemetery that Zib doubted her judgment. She pleaded with him, but he refused to do anything of the sort. Finally, she sneaked away one wintry morning.
Zib awoke early to the lack of the sound of her breathing. She wasn't in the house. He checked her room and confirmed his suspicions. He followed her footprints in the snow, though he knew exactly where he would find her.
What happened afterward has kept Zib from searching for other survivors. He cannot bear to think about her, and he certainly is not going to make any sort of relationship with anyone else, for he knows that he will simply have to deal with the loss. He would do anything to kill a ghost.
Other: He does not knock on doors, nor will he answer if you knock on his door, because only ghosts knock. (Hint, hint...)
