Post by Florian Emilio la Fabro on Dec 19, 2011 13:02:58 GMT -5
Florian Emilio la Fabro
freshman ,, Kappa Iota Gamma ,, 'bisexual' ,, determined ,, Hugh Dancy
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Florian flɔriən
n.
1. A young male, twenty-three years of age. Originating in Padua, Italy, the man came into the world on June 29th, 1988. He attends LCU for the lulz. Sometimes the young man will tutor Italian for a quick buck.
2. A tall, broad male topped with ruffled dark brown hair. Just standing around Flori looks like he should be strong, but he isn’t. This becomes apparent when he starts moving. The man walks with a limp, and his right hand is rather…uncooperative. His mouth is also a bit…wonky. But it’s endearing, right? Aside from that Florian is a dapper kinda guy. He wears jeans and button downsand the occasional hideous pair of shorts in the hotter months. He is not motivated by brand names at all, and mentioning them will earn you a blank look.because seriously, nobody cares how the munted chocolate bunny is wrapped
Sometimes, on a day when he isn’t feeling so great, he might also be seen using a cane.
On these days there is a foul, foul expression on his face and it’s probably best to stay far away.
Synonyms
Fearless
After almost dying, and being through hell and back in his recovery, there isn’t a lot anything that Flori is frightened of. Like, at all. Not people, or stuff you can make him do, or even fecking ZOMBIES, man. The man is game for anything, and rarely even considers the consequences before acting. Alright, he might give them a perfunctory chain of thought but…he just doesn’t care. Death isn’t that scary, and he’s already practically a cripple. Any other trouble he could get in is minor!
Besides, aren’t you supposed to live your life to the fullest after a near-death experience? There’s no way that this young man wants to limit himself when he could potentially (well, not really) drop dead at any moment!
Independent
Florian feels that he has to do everything himself. From tiny tasks (like, say, cleaning a bench) to large ones (like, I don’t know, something really big. And stupid. And big xC), he gets antsy if anybody assists (or even offers to assist) in even the smallest way. The man knows that an offer of assistance isn’t meant to be an insult to his autonomy, or an insinuation that he is a cripple, but he cannot help himself from thinking of it as such.
Sardonic
Florian has a sharp sense of humour and he doesn’t keep it to himself. A lot of the time his dry comments are sly enough to fly under the radar, but as he becomes more comfortable around a person his wicked wit will come to the fore. The man’s take on many situations can be a bit on the dark side, too. While he’s not pessimistic, the world he sees isn’t exactly the brightest place. But then after the hand fate has dealt him, why wouldn’t he be a bit black?
Unassuming
This guy isn’t the sort to command the attention of a whole room with his mere presence. Perhaps he could draw a few pairs of eyes if he started orating loud and proud but…that isn’t really his style. Flori would rather slink in the back and watch things going on. He might have a few quiet words with some friends, exchange a few jokes and think…slink right along his way. Sure, the man has a limp, and a few other quirky features, but that mostly draws him awkward or pitying looks before business goes right along as normal.
This part of his personality usually means he surprises a lot of people with his gutsy-ness. Non-confrontational does not mean cowardly. Don’t make that mistake. With his ambivalence towards the spotlight, most take him to be a pussy. Someone they can walk all over. Or at least someone boring who isn’t really worth knowing. Another two mistakes that you really shouldn’t make.
Patient
As far as Florian is concerned, he has all the time in the world. Ever since his stroke, he has been forced to do things slower. It frustrates the hell out of him – the man is very hard on himself, and how he does things – but it’s panned out well for those around him. Florian realises that things take time and there’s no need to get his panties in a twist over how long things take.
Besides, if he doesn’t have to do something tiresome, he doesn’t care how long he has to wait for it to happen. ;3
antonyms
Judgemental
Flori isn’t going to form any opinions about a person based on what they are. He finds that actions are a far better measure. Even then, however, he isn’t going to be all that critical of how others live their lives. Those are their decisions, man! They can do what they want, even if it’s not his bag.
You could tell him the most sordid, controversial story and he would just smile, or shrug, or brush it off. If you try to gossip with this man…expect to be disappointed. Floriano is not one to be scandalised, and thus have his
But if he meets you, and he doesn’t like you...because you are a tool, with no redeeming features…that is an entirely different story.
Loose-lipped
Sensitive information passed this man’s way will never find the ears of another. Gossiping is not amusing, or attractive. Perhaps it’s one part of his catholic upbringing that stuck with him, but if you confess something to someone, that is fully confidential. Besides, what’s the fun in knowing a secret if everyone else knows it, too?
Honest
Now don’t think that this means Florian is incapable of telling the truth. The man is, and often does! When it suits him. But when it does not, he is a remorseless liar. He will spin an untruth with a flawless deadpan. What’s even better is that nobody really expects the nice guy with a limp is one to lie, either. He usually gets away with it without anyone suspecting a thing.
There is one thing that Flori will always, always lie about, and that is how he got his limp.
It’s actually one of his favourite things to tell stories about.
(Usually) The more outlandish the story, the less he thinks of you.
Etymology
If you are friends with Florian, you will be lucky enough to know that he was born in Italy, and spent the first few years of his life there but…that he isn’t anywhere near as Italian as he sounds on paper. His father Tony, was only half-blooded Italian but mad for the country and the culture. And the women, supposedly, but somehow he ended up marrying an English woman, Carla, who harboured the same infatuation for Italy as him.Ironically, either of them actually spoke fluent Italian, so Florian's first language was still English
Funny, huh?
Anyway, all this is boring. What about the FUN STUFF?
To be honest, Florian’s childhood in Italy was an enjoyable but unremarkable one. He spent it running through the streets with his older brother, getting into all sorts of trouble. Even when he was younger he didn’t have a lot of fear. He’d take his bike and ride down the biggest hill he could find – not using the breaks once, of course. He’d climb up to places that were way too high for anyone in their right mind to go without safety equipment.
The family moved to the United States when Florian was about seven. Even to this day Florian isn’t sure why his family relocated. Oh, yes, he has his theories, but none of them are confirmed. There is barely any evidence for any of them except, perhaps, the official line that they did so for his father’s “work”, which had always been a mystery anyway. Not even Carla really knew what it was Tony did! There was no way in hell the man was going to tell his second son!
The two, you see, had never been close. Tony wanted a daughter after his first son and heir was born. Y'know, a pretty little daughter to dote on. When Florian came along the man wanted nothing to do with the kid. This instant impression did not wear off as he grew, either. Brothers, he would grumble with annoying frequency, are trouble.
For a few years after the move things continued much the same as they had in Padua. The usual childhood antics, along with school. As he got older, girls were added into the mix. Actually, as he got older Florian had more sweet-hearts than any boy had right to have.
Perhaps what happened was some kind of female karma.
Or perhaps it was the universe demanding payment for the great life he’d had thus far.
One morning while getting ready for school he collapsed on the floor in the kitchen. There was no drama, no gasping and stumbling around. Well, perhaps there was one gasp and one stumble, but after that the boy was down for the count; passed out on the floor with an egg swelling where his head had hit the linoleum. He was there all day until his mother arrived home from work. Unable to rouse her son, the frantic woman called an ambulance and that’s where shit kicks off.
Turns out that Florian had suffered an ischemic stroke.
His whole life he’d had a thrombophilia – a genetic condition which predisposed his blood to clotting. Usually it’s no big deal, but others…
Well, just look at what happened to him.
Recovery was long. And hard. And depressing. There are few things worse than being the only teenager in a geriatric rehabilitation ward. But being a fourteen year old patient in a geriatric rehabilitation ward when you have lost motor control of the dominant half of your body is one of them. Add being unable to express yourself thanks to an expressive dysphasia on top of that and…
Life is looking pretty bleak.
I won’t bore you with Florian’s struggle back to autonomy. It took a long time. Years. Sure, not all of it was spent in that horrible hospital which was totally an old people’s home in disguise, but being stranded at home wasn’t much better. Yeah, he had to forget about normal school, and forget about friends. The former – according to his mother - was too stressful and the latter all left him in the dust. So after doing things like learning how to walk and tying his shoes and how to speak comprehensibly, Florian was home schooled.
And then, when he finished that (a little late, age 22) he did…
…nothing much.
At least for a while. He didn’t know what to do with himself!
There was the family business, but his father wantedthe womb usurperhis second son nowhere near that. He wanted the boy out of the house! Florian would have been happy to go, especially with his dad willing to throw excessive amounts of money at the problem, but his mother would not let him go.
At least not without a plan. Not without some way of knowing that he would be safe in the big wide world.
Flori, who’d always enjoyed reading and learning and blahblahblah, sent out a pack of college applications. Even though la Fabro men weren’t usually college types, he thought that it was the perfect escape.
Litton-Colwell was a fluke. There was nothing particularly special about it at all. With freedom finally in his reach, Florian didn’t care where he ended up. He sent out a pack of applications to a heap of different colleges and waited. LCU was the first to respond in the affirmative. It was far away from home. That was all the sign that he needed. It wasn’t, after all, that he was going to university to forge out a career for himself. Florian knew that if his father would pay for his education just to keep him out of the family business, then his father would pay to keep him in reasonable living conditions.
…right?
hey, so i'm Eleven. i've been roleplaying for too long now. as well as this character, i also play nobody. you can reach me by pm is fine if you need me for anything. i found HAZED AND CONFUSED from SOMEONE SEXEH and i'm pretty glad i did. here's an example of mah skillz. (:Who smiled when greeting a stranger, especially an unwanted one? Inspectors were often loathed. Their presence led to budget cuts and closer scrutiny than usual. The best of everything went their way, in hopes of garnering a better report. Most of the bureaucrats so far afield from their natural environment revelled in the power. Abused it. They dangled the threat of discreditation over other Aryan’s heads like the Sword of Damocles. A poor report could lead to worse things than a removal of funds. The camp could be closed while they were ousted onto the fast track to demotion. Jobs in the Regime came much duller than cleaning up after grubby POWs.
The smile was returned, thin lipped and cool as the snow sitting around them. Herman’s eyes didn’t change at all with the expression. They didn’t even move and yet they, too, were assessing the soldier in front of him.
“The pleasure is mine, Commander,” he countered, taking the proffered hand. How you shook someone’s hand determined many things. The contact of flesh on flesh left a lasting impression. The shake was a delicate thing. You had to balance the strength of the hold and the length of the grip. And, all the while, you were judging the returned squeeze and shake. You watched the other’s eyes, monitored their breathing. Was their hand sweating? Was it rough? Did they recoil too quickly? Every little nuance of the gesture was important.
He could tell, immediately, without taking in much detail at all, that she was going to be interesting. This was good. The man liked interesting. After living as long as he had it was tricky to be entertained.
And yet he cursed the woman. One such as her would make this tricky, and he hadn’t been looking for that when he’d stolen this identity. He’d wanted something easy – a place to rest after his long run. This woman’s sharp face and scent and eyes made sure that he’d have to tread lighter here than he’d had to in the Capital! And with Micki’s eyes and ears everywhere there, that was saying something!
He noted her approval and made sure to shrivel a little under her gaze. It almost pained him physically, but he let his posture tighten. It transcended comfortable bearing, instead becoming rigid haughtiness. His eyes frequently flicked away from the face that was as austere as their surroundings, and yet he still attempted to look down his long nose. The changes were subtle, executed slowly so the transition wasn’t startling. Before the end of their encounter, Nagel would have dismissed her initial impression as a mistake. It was too early to have high regard from the commander. She would have dismissed the real Herman on sight. Hated him. While that was not this man’s aim, it would have his advantages. An approving eye could be a watchful one. There were already too many of those on his back.
Releasing Nagel’s hand, Herman gave the woman a nod before glancing around the camp. An approving nod tilted his head as he eyed the facilities – not that the man really knew what he was looking for – and a sound of appreciation pealed through his throat when a line of dejected looking prisoner’s caught his sight.
Inwardly, he scowled. Disgusting. Filthy, emaciated, and no doubt longing for death.
Their blood would taste like dirt, and that was simply unacceptable.
Aryan’s could hunt, or Aryan’s could farm, but this was worse even than the human’s great barns lined with cages for chickens.
The next private expression was a curse upon himself. He should have fed more back in the Capital. It was clear that the pickings would be slim here. Worse still was that in his current guise he’d be required to partake of blood more often than usual. Even the best around here was bound to abrade his tastebuds like bile.
Preening just a little – tugging at his jacket and straightening his moustache – Herman took his time before continuing. His voice was a drawl. Each word languidly slid from his lips, like he fancied they were a gift for the woman before him.
“I should hope that if first impressions count for anything, my time here shall be short.”
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[/justify]template credit to JACK of H&C.
