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Raleigh Lanster

I am nothing but words, just a shape of dreams or night.

0 · 459 views · located in Westcreek

a character in “Westcreek”, as played by Ξ•pΞΉmetheus

Description

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β™š RALEIGH . LANSTER β•―
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I FELL IN LOVE AGAIN. ALL THINGS GO, ALL THINGS GO


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xxγ€ŒNAME」
Raleigh K. Lanster
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x...γ€ŒALIAS」
x.x.......Ral
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xx..γ€ŒAGE」
x.xx.....25
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γ€ŒOCCUPATION」
..Bookshop Owner
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x....γ€ŒEYES」
x........Hazel
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x..γ€ŒHEIGHT」
x.xx....6'1"
xxγ€ŒORIGIN」
....Westcreek-ian
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x.γ€ŒGENDER」
............Male
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.γ€ŒSEXUALITY」
......Heterosexual
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....γ€ŒSPECIES」
.........Incubus
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x.....γ€ŒHAIR」
.......Dark Brown
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x..γ€ŒWEIGHT」
..........164 lbs





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                  ( QUIRKS *! )

                  Forgets to take his glasses of a lot when he sle-
                  eps. β—˜ Only wears his glasses in the evening, w-
                  ears contacts the rest of the time. β—˜ Makes a lot
                  of puns, but actually unconsciously so. Like he'll
                  do it without noticing, he really will. β—˜ Kills time
                  by translating old texts in dead language into
                  other dead languages. The Iliad into Latin, the
                  Aeneid into Greek. Fun times. He did Paradise
                  Lost into Latin once. Just out of curiousity. What
                  a loser. β—˜ The rugged "I forgot to shave this mo-
                  rning" look is probably because he forgot to sha-
                  ve. β—˜ Keeps gummy bears on him at all times,
                  mostly Haribo ones, because he munches on th-
                  em all the time when he's focusing on something.
                  __( LIKES *! )

                  Hanging out with his limited number of friends
                  when they manage to drag him out of his house.
                  β—˜ Reading. β—˜ Books in dead languages. β—˜ Lang-
                  uages in general and their etymology. β—˜ Trans-
                  lating things. β—˜ Obscure and ancient studies, like
                  Dark Ages plague herbology and medicine. β—˜ And
                  also Persian poisons. Not that he's planning any-
                  thing, really. β—˜ Cliche bookshop owner things, like
                  thesmell of old books or running his hands over
                  cracking leatherbound tomes. β—˜ Cloudy days. β—˜
                  When people see fit to let him rot alone in his
                  house for five days straight without going out for
                  food or anything else like the garbage person he
                  is so he can focus on his latest project. β—˜
                  __( DISLIKES *! )

                  β—˜ Customer service. He's nice, he is, but only
                  when the customers aren't rude to him first. β—˜ P-
                  eople insulting his jumpers. They're comfortable
                  and perfectly fashionable. β—˜ Being called a trash
                  hipster (He's looking at you, Val) β—˜ Valentine's
                  Day. Seriously? Like he has to be reminded of
                  his neverending, constant, and perpetual lone-
                  liness? β—˜ Chocolate. Ties back into the whole
                  Valentine's Day thing. β—˜ Val's other nickname.
                  Again, seriously? β—˜ Westcreek. Fuck the entire
                  place and every single inch of ground contained
                  within it. β—˜ Sex. It's a love hate relationship, re-
                  ally. Needs it to survive, constant reminder of his
                  sorry fate. β—˜ Being caught out in the rain in town.β—˜

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β—’PERSONALITY Β°


β—’There is something sensual and enigmatic about the incubi of Westcreek, most of whom are relatively asocial, squirreling away their company and presence as though to make it a valuable commodity. The only part of this Raleigh seems to accomplish is the asocial part. Enigmatic? Hardly. No one wonders what he does behind closed doors when he retreats behind the doors of his house and closes the bookshop for four or five days. Mostly because it's hardly a secret. He emerges, eyes bloodshot and bleary, and sits down behind his counter to write his latest contribution to the Herald: a simply riveting piece on something entirely boring to the vast majority of the population that most people tear up to use as kindling for their fires without even taking a second glance at the words. Ral hardly minds. He doesn't write it for them; he does it for himself. He does it because he needs to get his life's accomplishments down somewhere (to prove he's existed maybe, to prove real at some point or another.) He does it because he's filled to the brim with a bursting passion for something Westcreek does not particularly afford to him in spades. If he could get out of that town, he could be great, he's sure of it. So many possibilities, ways for him to delve deeper and further into the topics of ardour for him. Ways for him to look for a life beyond the one he's been trapped in since birth. After all, the curse is only theoretical. Based off past evidence. But who's to say there isn't someone out there who could make him feel for them what he feels for his tomes and his studies? Not that it matters. Westcreek is his home. His prison, more aptly, perhaps.

( β™š )

β—’ Westcreek is where he's likely to remain the rest of his sorry life, and he's tried to make the most of it. He is uniquely himself, and he makes no apologies for it (save, maybe, for those times Val's dragged him out of the house by his ear after a particularly long recess). To the small number of friends who can weather his eccentricities, his company is rather nice. You could get him started on a long rant about the poetic structure of a traditional Aristotelian tragedy and how it compares to Shakespearean tragedies, sure. But he's not likely to bore anyone by getting started on that; he's well aware of how mind-numbingly dull his interests are to most people, trust that. (He saves his long rants after new discoveries or the latest completed book exclusively for his best friend and next door neighbor, who is often the one to pull him back into the outside after his long retreats. The man's pointed eyerolls do nothing to stop him.)
Mostly, though, Ral just uses his widespread knowledge on many things to drop fun tidbits into the conversation. He's a walking encyclopedia of "fun facts", and the phrase "Well, funny thing actually, did you know..." is never long off his tongue. He's more than capable, however, of having a "normal" conversation about "normal" things (someone's words, not his), and while he's hardpressed to get out in the morning on his day off to do something fun, he's never opposed to ducking out to the pub after a day's work with a couple of friends (why not? he's already dressed anyway).

( β™š )

β—’ Tldr; Ral is a massive nerd who treats his friends, who (somehow) enjoy his company, well, but is still often the butt of the joke, whether it be for his latest yawn-inducing interest or for his truly deplorable fashion sense. (Really, you can't wear the same jumper three times in one week. Especially if it's a really ugly green.) He detests his fate and he detests Westcreek for keeping him locked into it, and he's really very bitter about the whole affair.


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                    ( STRENGTHS *! )

                    Intelligence is something Raleigh is not lacking in; his wide breadth of
                    knowledge comes mostly from the sheer amount he's read. β—˜ Working with
                    customers has made Ral recognize the virtue of patience, though he has
                    never been much of a hothead. He makes a fairly good teacher because
                    of this as well as a good problem solver. β—˜ He is far from excellent at em-
                    oting, but he does the best he can to be kind and caring with the limited
                    EQ skills he possesses. β—˜ As one might be able to guess, Ral doesn't exa-
                    ctly have the easiest time finding friends and companions. As such, he tr-
                    easures the ones he does have, and is exceedingly loyal and devoted to
                    those people. β—˜ When it comes to his abilities as an incubus, they're har-
                    dly showstoppers, really. His mesmer can never make anybody do anyth-
                    ing they'd be strongly against doing naturally. And his empathy is a consc-
                    ious skill. One that, unfortunately, he often forgets to employ. It seems like
                    a breach of privacy anyway.
                    __( FLAWS *! )

                    Unfortunately, despite his booksmarts, common sense often seems to
                    elude Ral, and people often question some of his many bone-headed moves.
                    β—˜ Ral can very caring when cued into someone's problem, but it's the reali-
                    zation that is the hard part. β—˜ He's oblivious in the purest of senses, often
                    too absorbed into something to notice when there's a problem with anything.
                    β—˜ Despite the fact that Ral enjoys the company of his friends, he can be ter-
                    ribly asocial most of them, particularly when he's got his nose buried in some
                    ancient tome. It's well-known that if people want to get him out of his house,
                    they may very well have to drag him out. β—˜ When it comes to self-care, Ral
                    is lacking. He fails very frequently to look after himself, paticularly when it
                    comes to feeding, which can leave him weak and with migraines, even with
                    a fever in severe cases. Without the sexual energy sustaining him, he's inc-
                    apable of utilizing any of his other abilities, and going without feeding for long
                    enough can even lead to death.

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β—’BIOGRAPHY Β°


β—’ Incubi don't love, and neither do succubi. This is a well-known fact. However, many often start families togetherβ€” a matter of convenience. Continuing the species and all that. Raleigh was born to a couple (if they could be called that) who'd been living in Westcreek their entire lives, a fate Raleigh was raised to know he'd share as well. Even as he grew and matured, learned his interests, discovered what he truly wanted from life, he was still content with his life in Westcreek. It was good; it was all he had ever known. He ignored the small black abyss clawing in the depths of his stomach.

β—’Things changed, though. His easy acceptance, his ignorance of the outside world. They went out the window when he fully came of age. Incubi were a strange race, not fully taking on the full traits of their species until they hit the age eighteen. Until then, he was perfectly satiated feeding only off love and adoration. Coindidentally, eighteen is also the age he got to know the then young man who would later become his closest friend, a boy who had seen the outside world, had lived in it. The tales Ral heard from him were spectacular. It sparked a desire Ral hadn't known he'd contained, a passion for the outside. It wasn't truly until this time that he began exploring old texts, ancient relics he felt were a bridge to the world beyond the safe outer forests of Westcreek. It started with a hunger for adventure in some shape or form, and he fell in loveβ€” the only love he'd ever knownβ€” with the pleasures of simply knowing and understanding. It was an art that seemed to escape other Westcreek citizens, particularly the ones who'd never known the world beyond.

( β™š )

β—’ He considered escaping once, making a mad dash for the exit, but someone tried it before him, and it had hardly ended well for her. So he bought an old gardening shop on Main Street that went out of business when the owners died, lined every inch of space with books and called it a used bookshop, named after his favorite songbird. It's hardly on scale with the local library, but it's not meant to compete with it. The Nightingale isn't for people who only want to read a bookβ€” it's for people who want more. The kind of people who look for notes on the front page or in the margins of books, people who want to read and reread, people who want to be surrounded by something far more ancient and wiser than them. He's happy with it for the most part; his job allows him a close proximity to the things he loves, but he's far from satisfied. There is a quiet and pained unease and dissatisfaction in the pit of his stomach, it's just that he doesn't quite know what to do with it.


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                  ( OOC *! )

                  FACE CLAIM: Casey Taylor
                  HEX CODE: #be7b9b
                  PORTRAYED BY: Epimetheus
                  CS CREATED BY: Epimetheus
                  TIME ZONE: EST
                  i love verix more than i love memes
                  __( ASSOCIATED *! )
                  ..words and phrases

                  Certified walking human disaster. β—˜ Puns bad enough to
                  punch someone over. β—˜ Oversized thick cardigans and
                  sweaters. β—˜ Hipster glasses. Slightly skewed. β—˜ Decaf is
                  death. β—˜ This shitty meme. β—˜ " 'Hold the fuck up,' I say.
                  I am the fuck up. Please hold me." β—˜ This conversation
                  between Ral and Val, Ral is blue. β—˜ This post. β—˜ An att-
                  achment to Icarus, the boy who dared to dream larger
                  than he was allowed, dared to reach for the exhiliration
                  of freedom, crashed because he chased his dreams, a
                  story of hope, not of hubris. Let him crash too. β—˜ "So,
                  Saturday night. The big night. Date night, Saturday ni-
                  ght, SAT-UR-DAY night!"
                  "No plans, huh?" "Not a one." β—˜
                  "I suppose books mean more to me than people anyway."
                  __( MISC *! )

                  He mostly feeds with the succubi in town. It's a mutually
                  beneficial relationship and he doesn't have to worry about
                  hurting them, so that's a plus. β—˜ He loves doing crosswo-
                  rd puzzles as well as word searches. Because he's an
                  old geezer at heart, really. β—˜ Jigsaw puzzles are a favor-
                  ite too, and it's not uncommon to see hundreds of loose
                  pieces spread out on his dining room table with a vague
                  frame of the actual puzzle. He's not really great at them,
                  but he does them anyway. β—˜ Total lightweight. Four beers
                  in and he's totally smashed talking about how sad and
                  lonely he is. Because he's that kinda drunk. β—˜ Really bad
                  with directions. Like, so-bad-he-uses-GPS-to-get-to-his-
                  own-store bad. β—˜ Never actually bought an umbrella.

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So begins...

Raleigh Lanster's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Raleigh Lanster Character Portrait: YΕ« Maeda Character Portrait: Belle Tarkani Character Portrait: Olivia Summers Character Portrait: Valerius Cinna Character Portrait: Tallulah Lum Character Portrait: Maxwell Kelly Character Portrait: Lucas Silva Character Portrait: Helena Grimm Character Portrait: Quirinus Avery Character Portrait: Valerius Chevalier Character Portrait: Willa Haywood Character Portrait: Saira Zahariev Character Portrait: Nico Matsumoto Character Portrait: Hinata Shimizu Character Portrait: Daniel Driscoll Character Portrait: CΓ©cile Valovoi
Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

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#, as written by Verix
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anImage
. Thanks Epi for writing the starting post!
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ACT ONE : PART ONE : INTRODUCTION
LOCATION: MAINSTREET
TIME: 6:30PM


Summers in Westcreek were nothing short of exceptional. In general, the city's climate was all around lovely, cool winters and warm summers, a generally moderate climate. But it was the summers, really, that were something else. And it was because of evenings.

When the sun began to dip beneath the horizon, it transformed the sky into a canvas, bold streaks of color staining it, creating a view that could only be called art. It was generally acknowledged that this was the best time of day to be out and about, the best of hours to be caught walking the city streets.Today was something of a unique occasion, though, and on this particular evening, you'd be hard pressed to find a citizen of Westcreek not out in the streets. There was a reason for this, and it was called the Festival of Life, an annual occurrence that called for the celebration of the original founding of the city of Westcreek. And the event was something to behold. It had all the ambiance and staples of any small town suburban fairs-- portable rides that no one felt quite safe riding but always did anyway, game stalls everyone knew was rigged but still coughed up money to play, stands for local shop owners to try and sell some wares, even the exact sort of festival food that inevitably led to an upset stomach the next day but was still widely eaten-- but was somehow grander. Almost larger than life. By all accounts, it should have been a spectacularly fun event. However, there was always, unfailingly, a vague sense of discomfort and tension hanging heavy in the air the night of.

The event wasn't mandatory, for heaven's sake, no the mayor would never want to force anybody to do anything they didn't want to do. But everyone knew it might as well have been. They'd all heard stories of the people who decided to chance it, who decided to spit on the foundation of the institution, and the stories never ended well. It was almost insulting, in a sense. Forced to celebrate what began their imprisonment? Sat down and force fed pleasantries and lies, a false history shoved down their throats that they'd have to regurgitate later on? And yet, they all attended. And it was fun. It was hard to take that away from it. The city council never went anything but all out on the annual affair. Children shrieked as they ran through the fairgrounds, holding their cotton candies high and begging their parents for another go on the vomit inducing spinning machine. The neon glow of the rides and games lent a cool and breathable atmosphere to the place Westcreek only saw a few times a year. It was fun. That's exactly what people would respond with the next day when they were asked about how their night went. With a heavy heart, a tense smile, "It was fun."