Announcements: Universe of the Month! » Finding Universes to Join (and making yours more visible!) » Guide To Universes On RPG » Starter Locations & Prompts for Newbies » RPG Chat — the official app » USERNAME CHANGES » Suggestions & Requests: THE MASTER THREAD »

Latest Discussions: Aphantasia » Skill Trees - Good, Bad & Ugly » In-Game Gods & Gameplay Impact » Cunningham's Law » The Tribalism of Religion » Lost Library » Game Theory » The Hidden Void » Removing CS From an Indy Universe : Solution » On the Matter of New Players and Orphaned Plays » STOP BLAMING US FOR RPG BEING SLOW! » Polytheism » The Game of Life » Just War » Science and Philosophy » The Bible as Literature » Humans in the MV. Questions and thoughts. » Surviving the post-holiday apocalypse. » SL: 1097 Bestiary of Monsters » What latest tech excites me? »

Players Wanted: A Fairytale World in Need of Heroes & Villains! » Are You a Crime Addict? » Wuxia RP » Looking for roleplayers » New Realistic Roleplay - Small World Life ٩( ´・ш・)و » Mentors Wanted » MV Recruiting Drive: sci-fi players wanted! » Veilbrand: The Revolution » Gonna do this anyway. » Looking for Kamen Rider Players » Elysium » Looking for roleplayers for a dystopian past! » Revamping Fantasy Adventure RPG, need new players » Here, At the End of the World (supernatural mystery drama) » Seeking Role Players for a TOG Based RP » so I made a Stranger Things RP idk why not come join » LFP - New Roleplay » Gifted/Mutant individuals escaping the gov » Spaceship Zero! A retro horror sci fi RP with rayguns :D » mahou shoujo rp »

0
followers
follow

Leon Beyer

perhaps those deprived of beauty perceive it most instinctively.

0 · 497 views · located in United Corp.

a character in “Lacrimosa Dies Illa”, as played by Εpιmetheus

Description

[You can also simply not include anything at all, and encourage other players to explore this character's personality through roleplaying with them.
-
Image
ImageImageImage
Image
-

-

-

-

-

-

-
    L E O N xB E Y E R

    Image

    - - - - R - - - - Image - - - - P - - - - Image
    Born - - - 8 April 2129
    Hometown - - - Bonn, Germany
    Image

    - - -
    A G E

    24
    - - - Image- -

    H E X

    #7a9d96
    - -Image

    Role - - - Ludwig van Beethoven
    Occupation - - -Part-time Librarian
    Image

    C O M P O S I T I O N
    i. für elise- ii. pathétique - iii. große sonate für das hammerklavier - iv. concerto no. 5 mvt 2

    Image
    - - -

    Z O D I A C

    aries
    - - -Image- - -

    E R A

    classical
    - - -Image

    M B T I

    isfp



Image

- -


-


-


-


-


-


-


-


-


-


-


-


-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-


    Image

    Appearance
    hair | dark brown eyes | umber
    height | 185 cm weight | 76 kg


    Likes

    flowers | grocery shopping at 3 am and similar hours | twenty four
    hour convenience stores | when people ask for composition advice
    or for his opinion | recognition | lightly sweetened tea | dogs and
    similar furry creatures | early morning runs | trying new restaurants
    or new items on old menus | working the dead shifts | comfortable
    pajama pants | scotch | watching the sunrise | mac and cheese |
    cat videos (quietly and secretly) | foggy days | cinnamon | writing
    letters back home | symphonic revelations | breakfast foods, at
    any hour of the day | down pillows | good quality bedsheets |
    structured poetry | goethe | mozart | harmonies | wildflower
    bouquets | cooking | olives | violin solos


    Dislikes

    when headphones lose sound in one ear before breaking |
    weird pizza toppings | going to see a movie in theaters—no
    captions | being bothered when he’s composing; respect the
    locked door | when people cry at his improvisations, which
    happens more than he cares to admit | his hearing loss | going
    out to social functions | texting—the tone never comes across
    right, and they tell him he always sounds vaguely angry |
    creative blocks | babies | espresso, five hour energies, and similar
    ways of getting too much caffeine | bad jokes | overly sweet
    cocktails | wasting his time | romantic/dramatic movies | being
    compared to others | italian opera | colds | math | giving lessons,
    unless he finds the pupil talented | blind dates


    Strengths & Weaknesses

    dedication | he can and will spend sleepless night after
    sleepless night working on a composition, neglecting all
    else to finish. x perfectionist | he is not scared of revision,
    spending weeks and sometimes months making absolute
    sure every note is the right one x devoted | he is not an
    easy man to love and not an easy man to gain love from.
    nevertheless, once his love is given, it is given in spades,
    and his affection is bottomless x backbone | self doubting
    as he is, he does not allow others to doubt his work, does
    not let criticism deter him, often biting back

    absent minded | he is prone to drifting away to a world of
    his own making, removing himself from any worldly ties,
    and in the process, forgetting about many things or not
    paying attention to others x stubborn | he does not care
    for changing his line of thought and will on occasion refuse
    to back down even when he's been presented with evidence
    proving him wrong x short tempered | he is notorious for
    his impatience and cantankerous nature. prone to lashing
    out even at his friends, leon often finds himself alone due
    to his irritability x temperamental | additionally, leon can be
    picky about the oddest details, can vary wildly in mood from
    hour to hour. he's been known to cancel appointments or
    performances with very short notice or sometimes just walk
    out in the middle if something isn't to his liking]


    Miscellaneous
    far too mulish and proud to get a hearing aid. denies he even
    has hearing problems, in fact | his room is an absolute disaster
    most of the time, and he’s gone stretches of time without
    showering when working on a new piece. cleanliness is not at
    the very top of his list of priorities | he spends much of his
    waking hours in pajamas, save for when he’s forced to be a
    normal human being by societal standards. sometimes, even
    then he’ll still step out into the world in his pjs. at least he throws
    a shirt on. could be worse | for three whole years, he believed he
    was two years younger than he actually is | sometimes dips his
    head in ice cold water before composing if he feels he needs a jolt |
    doesn’t know his multiplication table | he also plays the violin,
    though not to the extent of the piano | he far prefers improvisation
    on any instrument to playing from the scores of other composers •
    "I was just occupied with such a lovely, deep thought, I couldn’t
    bear to be disturbed."
    | decaying building filled with the beauty
    of transience. | "Whoever sees Beethoven for the first time and
    knows nothing about him would surely take him for a malicious, ill-
    natured and quarrelsome drunk who has no feeling for music."
    |
    a lukewarm cup of coffee, drunk out of sheer nihilism. | staring out
    the window when only the streetlamps light the way, slowly growing
    unsure of the reality of existence. | "… i wonder if i will ever find a
    language to speak of the things that haunt me the most."

    shut the fuck up, carl | a trick of the eyes | gotta play what you
    feel | self imposed isolation rocks | remembering? what's that? |
    some things don't change | nihilism ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ | life's just like
    that | there are more important things, okay?


    "Don't only practice your art, but force
    your way into its secrets; art deserves
    that, for it can raise man to the Divine."


    — LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
    - -


    -


    -


    -


    -


    -


    -


    -


    -


    -


    -


    -


    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -

    -
    Bär Klavier Spielen

    calcium does not strength make and though
    his bones have not cracked, his being is brittle
    behind the splintering masque of biting teeth, sharp
    tongue. time has not been kind and he asks no
    kindness from it. he knows better. now
    he has learned to be grateful just for
    its presence. to take what he can get.



    —WOOD, BONES, SPIRIT, AND OTHER BREAKABLE THINGS





    Their house on the corner of the street has not been quiet for a very long time. Even when there is silence, notes sound from the plaster of the walls as if they have been trapped there, some resin coated remnant of every waking second Leon’s lived through for as far back as he can remember. The walls cannot shut up; not even when they try, not even when Leon is trying to sleep.

    His father staggers into the house well past midnight, cheeks rosy but eyes malicious. Leon feigns sleep, clutches his younger brother closer to his chest. The boy’s body shakes with a sob, and Leon can only shush him quietly.

    “I’m sorry,” he says, voice quivering. Over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” To his brother, then, as he is shaken and torn from the covers, to his father. His fingers dance over ivory keys and still the apologies fall from his lips. Over and over until the words mean nothing. Until he can say them without crying. Dawn breaks to the sound of the first three bars of Nocturne in G minor played on repeat, broken up by a sharp cry of pain.

    He is raised on a diet of violence and poison; he bruises easily until he learns not to, until he can ignore the ache in his bones without shaking. His eyes turn hard under the disapproving gaze of his father.

    In the sick heat of the summer sun, Leon watches his father caught in a grotesque time loop, cycling in and out with a slam of the wooden door, and their house is caught in a state of decay. Bills in crisp white envelopes pile up on the table, the only spot of an untouched purity within their crumbling walls. Leon turns to the monster of his childhood, needing something to scream into, and what better than the leeches sitting at even intervals on the dingy keys? He practices bloodletting the venom from his veins.

    His brother sits for three hours by his side before he notices, and even then it is only because his arm is pulled away from the melody he is crafting.

    “I’m hungry,” he says, and Leon watches his mother sit at the kitchen table, biting into a rotting apple. The words coating his tongue are toxic: This is an ache I have already learned to ignore and I know, I know, I know and The overripe fruit in the cabinets tastes more like poison than sugar and Can we please just agree to let me disappear and Hasn’t this house already stolen all I have given it and I have dreamt of dissolving into black smudges of ink on score paper for the past three weeks, and every time I wake my body feels like a prison I am festering in. He closes the lid of the piano and says, “Alright. Okay.”

    He finds a paycheck and leftovers working late nights at a hotel lounge, sometimes playing Beethoven, sometimes playing his own work, ignoring how ugly his notes sound in comparison. He plays and thinks, if he plucked his own heart from his breast, raw and bloody, and threaded the strings of the piano through its valves, he still wouldn’t be able to squeeze a worthwhile song from its writhing flesh.

    Coins in his tip jar become tears and curled up bills, and a quiet annoyance twitches in his joints. Don’t cry, he thinks, hammering away at the keys, when there is nothing to cry for. When the sheet music runs out, he lets instinct and emotion carry his fingertips over the keys, scoffing when a woman with tears hanging on her lashes slips a hundred into his jar and asks if he can spare Saturdays, two hour lessons for her niece.

    He is tempted to say no, but Spring carried disease in her pollen, and his mother hasn’t left her bed in over a week, and dust is beginning to gather in the divots of her duvet.

    “An hour and half,” he says. She shakes his hand.

    (He shows up almost an hour late the first day, half hoping to be dismissed, still wearing the pajamas he hasn’t actually slept in, proof of exhaustion hanging like bruises beneath his eyes. His skin doesn’t look normal without some kind of discoloration anymore. But the recoil from the pretty young girl is a sharp reminder.)

    “But the marking is fortissimo,” she says, frowning. It has been four weeks, and she now answers the door and faces her haggard looking instructor without batting an eye.

    “My copy says forte,” he insists, crossing out the issimo with a black sharpie. He pauses a moment, then adds an e over it. She prints out another copy from a different source, and he crosses out the marking on that one too.

    “How come you’re always late?” she asks on the fifth week.

    “Because,” he says, and plays a gentle melody in answer. When he looks up she is crying, and he ends abruptly and discordantly on an F sharp. “Okay,” he says. “Little Fugue, from the development.”

    “Do I annoy you?” she asks, and he answers “Yes” without glancing up from the sheet music he is flipping through. “Sorry,” she says, cracking her knuckles.

    “Just applaud next time,” he says, doing the same. “Like normal people.”

    “Why are you sitting on the left this time?” she asks on the eighth week.

    “Because,” he says. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when the notes come through much clearer than the week before.

    (The world is beginning to come through hazy and muffled on his left, and it is another ache he will grow acquainted with, will learn to ignore.)

    On the eighteenth week, she knocks on the wooden door that no longer slams but still will not stop decaying. She wants to know where he’s been for the past four weeks, and his brother takes her to the door of Leon’s room. It hasn’t been unlocked for days, he tells her, and the walls will not stop seeping music.

    “At least the duvet is clean now,” he tells her when the door opens with a screeching creak. The floor is littered with clothes and books and paper, some shredded, some crumpled, all with scratches of hastily made ink marks. He snaps at her to leave when she tries to speak. She leaves a basket filled with various fruit on the corner of his desk, and a week later his room smells like honey and rot.

    When he leaves, it is quietly.

    (He remembers the dream he used to have about dissolving into key notations and dynamic markings. He feels half gone but still imprisoned.)

    He sends her a letter five months later. Enclosed is an eight page sonata, nothing more. He knows she will weep when she plays it.


Image

&O1 OTHER

Face Claim | miura haruma
Played by | epimetheus
Created by | verix
Inspired by | onyx & cinders on jcink

So begins...

Leon Beyer's Story

cron