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Ryszard Gier

"Come away with me..."

0 · 228 views · located in The Collector's Domain

a character in “Just Like Stamps”, as played by Stilts


Ryszard Gier
"The Collector"

"From my desire, there is no salvation. Nothing in heaven nor hell can save your soul."

Age: 26

Gender: Male

Height: 6'4" approximately.

Hair Color/Style: Dark brown hair, cut relatively short. Clean, sharp, practical- No purchase for angry little fingers..

Eye Color: Slate blue.
The color doesn't matter. Once the piercing, haughty eyes have settled upon the object of their intention they do not waver. He is ever watchful; studying and evaluating those around him. Brooding. Waiting... Guarding his Collection with a jealous zeal. If you look deep enough into the dusky blue eyes, sometimes you can catch glimpse of what seems to be a churning, cold instability. Hypnotic and dangerous. Be careful to hide your surprise, or the calm facade might just turn to something more… Malicious.

General Description:
Rys is the successor of a great amount of wealth, and he carries himself as such. He stands tall, proud. Strong, broad shoulders and cutting stare, most who meet him bend before his imposing air. He has a eye for detail, and an affinity for the nicer things in life. He dresses impeccably, but no matter how fine the silk, no level of cleanliness can hide the dirt within the hidden places of his mind. Within his soul.

Quite like a dragon who sits upon his treasure, Ryszard trusts nothing within his lovely collection. Not even himself. The precious, breakable darlings... It would be so much easier if they didn't fight. Then again, there is always that part of him that hungers to twist free. Shake the bonds of conscience and social grace that choke him so... To loosen that damn Italian tie and allow him to breathe...
Breathe in their screams.


General Personality
The Collector is insane.

To the general populace he is a inheritor of a grand amount of money, and the proprietor of the large Gier estate. A charming individual, who attends only the pinnacle of upper-class socials to keep within the public eye. Never seen wearing anything less that custom fitted attire, the man could be seen as arrogant, yet it is his smooth form of conversation and charm that endears him to most. His inheritance leaves very little that cannot be procured, coupled that with a demented, predatory intelligence and there is not much that is unattainable. Rys knows this. He uses this. In more ways than keeping the stupid, weak, populace and press off his back and out of the media.

He uses it for his games.

A collection, so carefully crafted. Each piece meticulously sought for, observed, and obtained. Each one unique. Perfect.
Outside of the stifling public eye, Ryszard is not what any of the well-to-do and affluent persona's he cavorts with would expect. Their little minds would never suspect the handsome young heir to be a sociopath. Dear no. After all, he has them wrapped tightly around his finger... Like the disgusting, champaign-engorged whores they are.

Carefully carefully, now loves...
Do not let his silky words, immaculate clothing, and burning gaze distract you from the twisted mind beneath the enchanting smile. The man will caress your skin with velvet gloves, and coo soft words of love into your hair one moment, and the next he could be a psychotic, sadistic lunatic. It's never his fault, of course.

Ryszard's way is the only way. There are no alternatives; he will acquire what he desires- through any means possible. Determined and virile, Ryszard's stubborn refusal to fail is his strength.
The man's temperament cannot be pinned down absolutely. Can you untangle the mind of a mad man? Not likely. He is as unpredictable as the weather that plagues his town. One moment solid and unmovable, the next his ire is set ablaze. With his collection he does not need to restrain himself. Hold himself back... He can enjoy everything they have to offer. Everything and more.


Ryszard chose his captives for a reason; they were the one's who captured his eye, fueled his darkest thoughts. He desired them, he charmed them... he made them his. Rys is infatuated with them; their screams of pain, their sighs of lust... They are "absolutely delicious."

Not getting what he wants. Though that is nothing of significance, he will have it eventually.

Being revealed. His precious items escaping.
He'd rather bury dead bodies than face a trial only to be locked back away under surveillance...

Tick. Tock.


Basic History:
Ryszard Gier left home at the age of ten, to spend the rest of his years at an all-boys boarding school in his father's homeland; Germany. A horrid place. Absolutely horrid. His enrollment lasted up until his eighteenth birthday, where he returned to America as the son of a international business tycoon. Forced to keep up appearances for an old couple he did not even know. Forced to attend the university, major in psychology. Forced to call them Mutter and Vater, the traitors. The ones who sent him off alone, so they may enjoy their waining years away from the duties to their son. Their pesky, young heir. So alone..

They died rather young, his father first, then his mother right before his twenty-fourth birthday. The will was absolute. The rights were signed over to him, and Rys finally had the freedom he had craved all those years. Now if only he had a childhood...

Needing no job, the man began to collect. Antiques- marionettes. Fixing them up, restoring them, and selling the dancing dolls in the small medicinal shop his parents had owned before their death. A pastime of his, refurbishing that shop into two.. One for his parent's pharmaceutical charity- "For those less fortunate then us.", and the other half a Antique collection; the pieces themselves fetching rather high prices. It was all grand, insipid fun, until one day.

The day he saw her.

He, dressed in plainclothes, blending in amongst the commoners- she, walking home from school. He desired her. Had to have her.
She was his.

He plays a darker game now, his playmates are no longer consensual.. He enjoys dressing up, anything that passes his fancy, or his temper. He has a gifted artist's eye for beauty which he uses in restoring some of the most delicate and intricate pieces, but also in choosing his victims; "Only the finest will do." He delights in everything about his collection; their exquisite faces, charming cries, alluring blood...
Some call him "The Masked Man"
Others yet, speak of the man who "Collects" certain… essential aspects from his victims.

Everything must be hidden...

Run, my little marionettes.


So begins...

Ryszard Gier's Story

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#, as written by Stilts
The Collector

The figure of a man could barely be seen standing amongst the foliage in the fading light.
Still as a predator, bright eyes focused on his quarry. The shadows of the woods offered concealment; a vantage point. Perfect. Ryszard observed his target, leaning his shoulder against a tree. Blue eyes flicked down to his wrist. 6:40. That concert should be starting soon, Damian. Black shirt, black hoodie. He'd copied Damian's usual teenage attire. Shaved clean the night before. The man looked back up from his watch, returning his hand to the pocket of the dark wash jeans... the other casually flicking open and shut a switchblade in a rhythmic motion. He could almost be mistaken for a high school student. Almost.

Hm? What's this now.. The tall man shifted slightly, leaning forward to catch what was said. You seem distracted tonight, Damian.. His passing was sloppy, and the contours of his sculpted face seemed to droop somewhat. His teammate seemed to sense it as well. Ryszard smirked at the mention of the boy's father. That man. He'd have to thank him someday for creating such a liability within his son. Your father. Where is he now? Sitting in his stifling office, pouring over bank receipts? He should take his own advice and keep a closer eye on his treasured little boy…

Ryszard chuckled deeply to himself, flicking the switchblade open. It eats away at you doesn't it? You wish you could just be free of it, even for one day… All the expectations. The threats. The way they hold things over your head and expect you to jump... No better than a fucking Hund. He snapped it shut, eyes roaming over the boy's face. The unlucky child of a large company owner. His father, a successful man who made a living from stomping his competition into the pavement, clinked glasses with the illusive Mr. Gier himself on more than one occasion. And you.. his prize pup. Pampered, yet kicked.

The boy knew not his face. He had insured that. Mr. Gier did his utmost to keep his name out of the media, his face out of the papers. There were far more gaudy, rich personas who ate up the town's attention with their wealth and slobbering, placating promises insuring the "commoners" they'd have a cut of the cheese as well, "If only they worked harder." For the most part, the quite mansion on the fringes of town was ignored. Those who consulted with it's owner knew better than to come knocking. The master of the house was far from hospitable when dealt with in his own dwelling.
His newest target would not recognize his face, even if he caught a glimpse.

The boy's obstinacy, his self control intrigued him. Always surrounded by others. Loved. Adored. Looked up to...
All insignificant. Topical. Gloss.

He'd been watching.
The way the boy's hands twitched ever so slightly in the presence of his father. The forced smiles flashed to his teammates. The excuse of "study", when he would sit and stare at his books without ever flipping a page. Ryszard hummed, flicking open the blade again. You strive to be better, push yourself to extremes. Yet, you know you there is no hope for perfection. You know he will never love you. The blade buried itself in the tree. Mm. So tragic...

“DAMIAN!” Ryszard sighed as he watched the ball come to a stop a few yards from where he stood, concealed. Damian was just getting worse. How long would the boy be able to keep up this dance? How long would he be able to hold it in... Whatever this was... Until he broke. Tell me, would you break as I did?

The man flipped up the dark hood and crouched, pulling his blade from the innards of the tree as Damian's teammate ran by to retrieve the ball. Leif. That was they boy's name. And you call Damian your friend. You know nothing of him. The "King." Special, important, different. Titles gave the boy something to feed from. Something to call his own- bought through his own effort, sweat and tears. The reward? Affection. No matter how fleeting.

Ryszard slipped the blade back inside his jacket's pocket, raising his eyes to Damian's face. Your friends do not, but I do. He watched the African-American boy jog back to his partner. I know. You cannot fight back. There is no justice…You rely on them because you must. It tears at you doesn't it? It tears at you until you start to lose yourself.. He ran a hand over his hair, brushing the hood back down. ...Question if you ever really knew who you were. I can take it all away. All the responsibility. Replace it with abandon… Abandon yourself to me.. One hole for another. An abyss was no different than the next...

This boy. So enticing. I know what suppresses you. He straightened, glancing at his watch, then back up to the boys in the clearing. But what impels you to fight back...? What do you yearn for… What would you do I wonder-


-if your perfect world was shattered.

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#, as written by Stilts
The Collector

“We have to go,”

Ryszard froze. Breathing paused. Damian had thrown the football back to his teammate, sprinting into the trees. Why..? Had he sensed him? Somehow caught onto his presence? Nein. Impossible..

Rsyzard waited until the boy Leif raced after his friend, choosing to set his own course through the underbrush- parallel to the boys, until he veered right. Descending a sloping hill, the man emerged out of the woods alongside a weather-beaten road, swiftly scanning it for his car. This road, it led nowhere- A dead end. The Ranger's Station. The few civilians who did come out past the fringes of civilization were the odd conservationists, and occasionally... two captivatingly carefree teenage friends.

Long, easy strides took him to where the black sedan waited. Unremarkable, common-place, save for the slightly darker tint to the automobile's glass. He slid behind the wheel, turning the key already poised within the ignition. The direction the boy ran.. He was headed for to his home. Ryszard turned the car off the road's shoulder and back onto the asphalt, speeding up the backroad. He'd need to be fast to catch their arrival. What are you up to, boy? ... What has you so uneasy?

The car slowed, rolling onto the residential street. Ryszard slowly pulled up against the curb, the large plot of land in which the Kings resided two cars ahead of his own. Fixated eyes narrowed, studying the house. No lights on. The boy's hadn't entered. Scheiße. Ryszard scanned the shadows of the estate, running back through the list of precautions he had taken up until now. How could his target have seen him? He had covered all his bases. He knew that path the boys took from the back of Damian's estate; the faint trail they had trekked many a time. It had only two destinations. Here- and the clearing. Perhaps I was wrong.. Ryszard's attention was drawn back to the house; eyes catching on the sliver of light as the mechanical garage door raised. He smiled slightly, doubts wiped clean. Of course he hadn't overlooked something. Ah. So you will attend the concert. His gaze fell on bright analogue numbers to his right. A last minute decision. You'll be late... Tsk. He sighed, brows knotting in vexation. A pet peeve of his. He despised tardiness.

Ryzard let the silver truck pass him, watching his rear-view mirror as it turned right at the intersection. He flicked his lights on. "You're going the wrong way, boy."

Another right. The man tapped his fingers atop the wheel, watching as the truck stopped at a red light. You seem to be in a rush.. He chuckled quietly in the silence of his car, rolling to a stop as well, three vehicles behind his target. ..And you have all the luck in the world.. If he wasn't mistaken, this was the route to school. What business could the football captain have at the institute after hours? Ryszard's lips tugged upwards into a faint smile. How interesting.

The silver truck did indeed pull into the school's parking lot. He drove past slowly, watching the boys exit the truck with haste. The music room's lights were on. Yes. Very interesting.. Parking on the street, in front of the community park, he glanced over at the clock. 7:35. Ryzard reached over to the passenger glove compartment, pulling out a small bundle and a pack of cigarettes, the first of which he slid into his back pocket. Very curious. This boy. Did he harbor a secret? The weight on his mind. Some impending matter... What was he running to? ... Or from.

The hooded man stepped from the car into the chill night air, lighting the cigarette poised between his lips. Fire glinted off cold blue orbs as he monitored his target's motions. Go on then, child. Lead me to the object of your distress. The light extinguished, and the man grinned as the shadows crept back across his face. Smooth strides took him slowly up the sidewalk, along the park's fence, to the edge of the school's entrance. He was far too exposed here. And far too curious...