Post by Whit Daniel Klee on Aug 4, 2011 11:42:53 GMT -5
•Whitman Daniel Klee•
pb: to be honest, I don't know
Age • 27
Nicknames • Whit
Gender • Male
Birthday • March 4th month/day
Height • 6'1
Weight • 200
Distinguishing Features • Tattoes covering his entire back, shoulders, and upper arms. A couple on his inner forearms and wrists. Normally wears a fedora.
Main Character Traits • Thoughtful and resigned. Life can be shitty, but just deal with it because there's nothing else you can do. Never get too angry, it never helps. And revenge is stupid.
Promise Made to the Stone •- none yet
Family • father: Paul Klee, 47, owns a junkyard and fixes cars
mother: Victoria Jackson, 35, hair stylist
Known Hangouts • skate park, the beach, the Grave Diggers
Background • Whit's parents are from Washington, just outside of Seattle. They dated and got pregnant. Deciding to keep the kid, they moved in together and started looking for jobs. Paul used his college savings to buy a junkyard. Part of it he turned into a repairshop, and restored vehicles in his spare time. Vicky stayed at home until Whit was old enough to go to school, and then she found a job as a hairstylist. Whit grew up artistically inclined but never really interested in his public education. He was slight and lanky until he shot up in high school. He's still wiry, but he has powerful, calloused hands. He got accepted in to RI School of Design on a scholarship, and graduated with jobs waiting for him. He turned them all down, preferring to settle down in a small town. He works fixing cars and creates the rest of the time.
Other • He plays five different instruments.
Your Name/Alias • Red
Age • 20
RP Sample • Blue. Silver. Light. Motion. The white canvas had none of that. But that's what it he had to capture. Whit stood, hands in pockets, paintbrush between teeth thinking blue silver light motion.
It was the very early morning that he went out to surf. That started the usual sequence of sensations, all beautiful and complete entirely in themselves. Sand under feet, cool from the night. Ocean wind, full of flavor. The beat of the waves, somehow louder in the early morning when nothing else was making sound. And then he paddled into the waves on his surfboard. The water up here was always cold. Each time his hand reached into the water to push him forward, it felt as though his effort alone was trying to warm the ocean. The water was choppy, grey and blue. The gleam of it was silver. The sun was bright but small in the horizon, not issuing pink, red or yellow, but a powerful and sacred color. A gold and a silver. It blinded. And Whit sat on his surfboard, rocked by the motion of the waves, squinting at the sun.
Whit took the paintbrush out of his teeth and sighed. He could never perfectly capture the moment and all its elements. He may not even do a good job at attempting it. But he was about to create something that was inspired by that moment. It would help him remember it. Once he accepted all that, he dipped his brush in nearby paint and started working.
