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Darian Valaro

Most dragons seem to have interesting personalities, besides probably having quite good reasons for what they do, if only one could understand them...

0 · 654 views · located in Earth

a character in “The End of Days”, as played by Not that awesome

Description





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{"We live on the cusp of death, thinking that it won’t be us” }


Bon Iver - Holocene || COYB – Hollow Talk

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|{Full Name}|
Darian Chester Valaro

|{Age }|
20

|{Birthday}|
17th of October.

|{Ethnicity}|
Sicilian, grew up in the south of England.

|{Sexuality}|
Heterosexual.

|{Role}|
Son of Man/Undercover.

|{Reason for Being on the Aerie}|
Undercover working for the resistance, revenge.

|{Mentality}|
An angel murdered his father, so he is not fully to blame for his bitterness towards angels. He has only ever met one angel as well, and that was the one that killed his father.




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{"Everyone I see just wants to walk with gritted teeth” }

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|{Quirks || Habits || Oddities}|
Sketches – Wears multiple watches each set to different time zones – Can mimic any person’s voice – Writes short stories he never shows anyone – Has an irrational dislike for pigeons – Has a slight lisp – Almost always wears scarves – Always touches his hair – Lip synchs – Loves dark forests – Extremely observant – Awkward – Never gets lost - Only swims in lakes/rivers – Knows Latin – Has neat handwriting – Brings a camera everywhere – Hates parties – Has sensitive ears – Good with animals – Likes intricate architecture – Travels alone

|{Talents || Strengths || Skills}|
Weapons – Blending - Intelligence – Surviving the Wilderness - Animals

|{Flaws || Weakness}|
Brute Strength – Schizophrenic - Loud Noises – Social Situations

|{Hobbies}|
Drawing - Writing – Reading – Hiking - Photography

|{Fears}|
– Remembering his father’s death – Displeasing his father

|{Secrets}|

He has bouts of depression


He has never had a romantic relation


He is undercover working for the resistance

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{"The trouble is not really in being alone, it’s being lonely” }




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|{Personality}|
{ Meticulous. Independent. Clever. Creative. A dreamer. Awkward. Observant. Seems aloof. Quiet. Pensive. Artist.}

When he looks up into the sky he sees a world that has been left unexplored. He sees millions upon millions of untouched leagues where no one has ever set foot. A world that is unique and pristine. One day he wants to go up into those big open fields, where the stars dance and the moon dips from side to side. Where darkness is kept tightly at bay by the light of a hundred million, billion tiny little lights -lights that explode and twinkle that dance and flicker, little lives that live and die as we do. Where anything seems possible.

Knowing that in a lifetime those little shapes in the sky never change gives him something solid to look on. As the sky darkens and the silky fingers of the night stretches its long fingers across the old worn sky the stars come out to play. They never change and their ever appearing shapes bring him small comfort in a world that seems to be frayed at the edges with chaos.

Darian is, bluntly put, awkward. His mind is wired for crafting words from one simple idea, fitting them in to place as they were a puzzle, plucking the strings of a guitar idly, trying to figure out what sounds the most harmonious, lifting his camera and catching the sunset’s shades of amaranth and burnt orange before they fade to darkness. He just isn’t cut out for being social.

Darian is independent, bordering on untrusting. He relies solely on himself to get things done, and will refuse any help offered to him by someone else, as the idea of being indebted or tied down to someone deters him from accepting anything from anyone. Despite not being social, Darian is very observant. Of people. Animals. Anything. But when he is faced with the prospect of talking to them, that’s when his thoughts jumble and he can ramble or mumble or even just stay silent for the whole conversation.

His favourite place on earth is the Himalayan village of Tamalun because he likes the beauty and the peace. There the air is just that little bit thinner but it is almost calming, and the buildings perch upon a steep cliff but it gives them an edge of uncertainty. He likes visiting the village often, as it is a place where he can be completely calm.

Speaking of being calm, it is one of Darian most prized feelings. He hates parties- from the loud, pulsating music, the fireworks that sting his ears, the lack of space, to the moonshine that burns it’s way down his throat. Aerie isn’t the ideal place for him, but you can easily be blinded by revenge. At least he still has a guitar and a notepad.

Although awkward and quiet, Darian is kind. He knows that every insult is like a knife in the back , and he tries to be somewhat polite with everyone. He’s mild tempered and thinks before his actions, avoids confrontation like the plague and if you look past the lack of social skills and slight lisp, he is actually a sweet boy.

He finds the humanity in inanimate objects. He sometimes talks to his guitar and if he is really listening, he might hear the ghost of a whisper back. If he is writing, he imagines the characters in the flesh and sometimes they spring from the page and start having a conversation with each other some might call it the edge of a spiral into madness, but he thinks of it as a bond between his endless works. Darian doesn't differentiate between the alive and the dead, the living and the inanimate.

Always listening, he rarely doles out advice, but when he does it tends to seem entirely off-topic and utterly cryptic — like life lessons learned from The Karate Kid, but translated into the language of trees.He was always smart. – bright, clever, however you want to phrase it – It was just something that came naturally to him. He has an erratic memory normally, but problem solving has always been a breeze.




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{" When you do something noble and beautiful and nobody noticed, do not be sad. For the sun every morning is a beautiful spectacle and yet most of the audience still sleeps.” }



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|{Likes}|
Books Dark Forests The Outdoors Writing Sketching Animals Long Walks Waterfalls Photography Pensive thinking Being calm Fountain Pens Ice Cameras Sunrises Relaxing Mountaintops The Himalayas





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{" Most dragons seem to have interesting personalities—besides probably having quite good reasons for what they do, if only one could understand them” }



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|{Dislikes}|
Anger Loud Noises Loud People Parties Insults Cities Gossip Pigeons Enclosed spaces Drama Crowds Panic Attacks Frightening hallucinations




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{“All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king.” }

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|{Place of Origin}|
Taormina, Sicily
| {History}|
Life is vicious circle. You are born vulnerable. We come into this world kicking and screaming, crying and terrified of the world around us. You grow up being told not to be afraid, and yet every time you swallow your fear and pretend to be brave, you know deep inside that you'll never stop being afraid. You grow up with fear lying dormant inside of you. It waits for you to forget that you were scared in the first place, it waits for you to get comfortable in your sad little life and then it strikes.

In every story there is a hero. The hero is usually that perfect guy, the one with the charming looks, to die for personality and the bravery and courage to sacrifice everything they have and love for the greater good. They are the ones that will stand in the face of danger and hold their head high. They aren’t afraid of death and they usually come from a rundown family with so many issues you begin to hate the person’s history, tears of sympathy flowing from your gullible eyes as you realise the torment that your charming hero has gone through. And there is always that really important thing. Whether they are a guy with no one and nothing, or the charming fella with them all, no matter what: they always get the girl. That has become so boring, dull and overdone that I don’t understand why we still keep reading books and coming up with new ideas and concepts for an overdone, boring storyline. Has the idea of being new and original become so foreign that we don’t even understand it anymore? I believe it has. I believe it has very much and so I am sitting here before you with pen to paper, fingers moving with ease over the keyboard and mind spinning to give you the tale of something brand new.

This is the story of Darian Valaro.

Most stories jump straight into that area where you are thrown straight into the action. You are chucked into the image of some wild battle, or crazy scene where blood falls like rain, where danger has wrapped itself around every person within those words. Yeah, that can be great fun, but in all honesty I hate it. I mean, what is enjoyable at reading a story where you are hit with the action straight away? You sit there trying to picture some fabulous battle in all its glory and you don’t even know who the hero actually is. This story begins in the ancient Sicilian village of Taormina- picturesque in every right, perched high above a clear blue ocean and viewing distance from the active, snow-topped volcano Etna. It was a mild October afternoon, and somewhere in an apartment, a baby laughed. This baby was Darian Valaro- in his younger years, obviously. The baby didn’t know this, but soon he was moving to Brighton.

Darian’s school attendance was infrequent at best, his parents preferring to teach him themselves. As a child, Darian was so bright and happy-go-lucky that he was practically effervescent. Times were easier for his family then and youth felt effortless. It was not until he began interacting was when he became so awkward.

His father’s murder was in cold blood. Plain and simple. He was only about thirteen or so at the time, and was sheltered from the gore of the scene. Ever since, he has swore revenge on angels.
|{Family Tree}|
Grandfather Grandmother
”Alberto Valaro””Elisabetta Valaro ( nee DiAngelis)”
Father[right]Mother
”Salvatore Valaro””Alexandra Valaro (nee Brownlie)”

|{Happiest Memory}|
Travelling to Japan with his parents when he was eleven.

|{Saddest Memory}|
His father’s death.







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{"There is no shortage of fault in our stars” }



”Some sketches in pen”
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|| Face Claim ||
Hayden Christensen

|| Random Things
Font is Mina. Drawings are property of their respective owners.

So begins...

Darian Valaro's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Darian Valaro
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The cupboard was a temporary hiding place. Soon enough, an angel would find him and pull him from his silent sanctuary- but the few minutes alone were good enough for him. His pen rolled over a napkin with practice and ease, the meaningless blue lines slowly forming the shape of a lion.

The lion on the napkin began to take shape, morphing from lines to a body, dots to eyes, strikes to thick fur. The proud stance never faltered. One paw lifted, and the lions head tilted his way. Every frame took longer than the last, flickering and halting. He pushed the napkin away from his face, squeezing his eyes shut.
It’s lack of sleep. You need to sleep.

When he looked left and right he was struck by an unexplainable pain. Everywhere he looked in the Aerie there was always something to remind him of his father . When he closed his eyes to try and escape it all it stayed with his and he flashed before his, body broken and bleeding. And when he couldn’t handle it he’d be there once more, as healthy as he was before the incident, with his warm smile and friendly advice. Strange are the habits of the human heart. Spilling tears as if such a thing could be called medicine, forgetting that salt water in a wound will only ignite blood until it burns. The boy spent weeks scouring the aerie to find a place as hollow as he. Tendrils of darkness gave the shadows reason to dance, and as they did he would take to the streets and walk through the darkness without fear. There is no reason for him to glance about and strain his eyes for danger - nothing is left to inflict more hurt upon his weakened stance than the horrors that already hold him hostage. No cavernous alleyway or deserted side-street.

Now, he finds himself with wide eyes and a broken step, right back where he began. Arms clinging to his knees, holding himself together. A boy with a hole in his chest the size of the world. Lonely, and yet afraid of all the awful things that people can bring to an otherwise perfect life. But what was the forest without the kings that ruled over it, what was the endless sea without the brave sailors, the universe without the three brothers who loved it? Empty. A single word explains why Darian is hiding in a closet, counting the seconds as they pass. Empty. It tells of the lines that dig deep into his father's flesh. Empty is why you can hurt and hurt until you think that there is nothing left to hurt and then hurt some more.

In bittersweet darkness he heard them, their murmurs of mourning and sorrow echoing through his mind. He could hear men and women and children raising their voices in a chorus of despair, whimpering and calling and wailing to each other across the voids of darkness in his mind. It was the aerie. It had to be – what else could make him hear voices in the dead silence of the closet, when the only noises that rode the air were pen scratches the sound of his steady breathing? He was absolutely silent as he stared up at the darkness above him, listening to them with his jaw set and his gaze cold, one hand always on his pen. At one point he tried covering his ears, but the voices did not stop. The symphony of the dead would not be silenced. His only comfort was that they could not last forever.

He hadn’t slept in three days, and he was beginning to feel the effects. He’s always been a bit of an insomniac, but seventy-two straight hours of zero shut-eye could really take its toll. The scene around him faded in and out like defective telescope as he swirled his pen in the air, drawing loops and figures of eight before-

Nothing. The scene faded jet black, sleep finally coming. The pen was still clenched under his fingers.