Post by Tilting Clock on Aug 4, 2012 23:57:21 GMT -5
Name: Ashton Clarke
Classification: Manifest of Voice
Age: 30
Occupation: Structural Engineer
Manifestation: Vox Memoria - Few people other than his doctor are aware of the fact that Ashton can speak, although they are all only indirectly aware of this fact, never from firsthand experience. Ashton's manifested ability stimulates the centers of the brain responsible for forming memory, causing a disruption that prevents them from remembering anything that occurred over the course of a conversation with him. Extended conversations can be especially troublesome, as the subject's most immediate memory will fog up and they will have no idea why they're talking to Ashton or what they were talking about. If he were to train himself in the finesse of these powers, his influence could assist in accessing very old or fragmented memories in a person, or even go so far as to fabricate new ones given enough time to "weave" them. This would require him to embrace what he is, however, something beyond the scope of this denial-ridden man.
Personality: Opinionated well past the point of fault, Ashton does not let his status as a mute prevent him from chiming in on any and every subject that happens to be on the table. His hands live at a perpetual ninety-degree tilt, ever at the ready to explode into a storm of sign language to express himself. If his companions don't know sign language, he'll swap to his notepad. If his pencil is broken, then he'll find some sand to write in because you're going to hear his opinion DARN IT! Beyond this, his most brazen aspect, Ashton is very individualistic and libertarian. He believes he is unto himself a nation and sees any trespass either upon himself or unto another as a grave matter, sometimes necessary but not to be undertaken lightly. He is just as passionate about the defense of his friends' and, indeed, his enemies' rights as well, however. Freedom carries with it a cost, after all. When he's not fighting the good fight, Ashton can be found doodling his thoughts into his dozens of notepads or musing at his cello, one of the last remnants of his home life.
Skills: Physics, Engineering, American and International Sign Language, High Stamina
Equipment: Portfolio, Notepad, Laser Distance Meter, Winding Wrist Watch, Sunglasses, Wrist Brace (For His Mild Carpal Tunnel)
Background: "I was five when it happened; when the heavens, the place where all the stars lived, cracked open. Their scream pierced the vacuum and every man and woman on earth was drenched in their quantum blood. I was... still so young, still in that part of life when you're learning how the world is supposed to work. Growing up is about believing that anything is possible, until it doesn't happen for long enough. I never got the chance to have that kind of strategic cynicism. I guess I was robbed of that feeling, because now I know that everything is possible and nothing is promised us."
-The Journal of Ashton Clarke, Age 27, March 15th
Ashton barely remembers life before the Fissure Event, so it doesn't really trouble him what state the world is in. Certainly starvation and chaos are never pleasant, but he's never had to deal with the dysphoric feeling of some lost paradise that his elders cluck about. He was born to two upper middle class parents and elder to his brother of four years difference. Ashton's headstrong nature certainly didn't fall far from the tree, as his family had enough resources and investment in society to ignore its unraveling as long as they could. Ashton went to school, even as cities disappeared off the map and the Internet came crashing down. He attained a degree even in an age when fewer than 1% of people were bothering with universities. And if that wasn't headstrong enough, he did most of it mute.
Ashton was stricken with the infection early on, in the days before a general consensus had been reached on a treatment. Those were the days when doctors could feel the mooring of society teetering and their academic network slipping into shambles. Doctors only a city apart could have wildly different assertions on how to cope with the sickness wracking the bodies of their patients, so when the family doctor saw a black spot growing in Ashton's neck, he acted by proxying it with a kind of cancer. He had only ever seen victims whose full bodies had succumbed, and thought he was fortunate to catch young Ashton (then 12) in the earliest stages when metastasis had yet to occur. Much of Ashton's neck was removed, his ability to speak severed and extensive reconstruction of his throat needed to keep him breathing. Ashton's parents believed they had done something horrible to their son, but had given him a chance at a future. He adapted, despite the unsightly scarring and frustration with learning sign language, but so did the manifestation.
The disease is not an affliction of the flesh, such a revelation would be made nearly a decade after Ashton's treatment (and that of many like him.) You can carve out the flesh that has been blackened by the Fissure's touch, but that is merely the tip of the iceberg emerging into the classical universe. The rest exists beyond our reach, as ephemera and spirit stuff, and it is every bit as decisive as the most stubborn of human beings. Over the course of seven years, Ashton's neck regenerated, but this was no longer the tissue of a healthy person touched by the black veins associated with the Manifested. This flesh was wholly wrought in the black, ichorous perversion of nature that is the touch of the Fissure working its will to press its host into the form chosen. Adding to this is the disturbingly precise line running up Ashton's neck and round his chin, the slightly-raised border where incisions were made and a scar remained. It lends the impression that Ashton's humanity is peeling away, and that black, cancerous thing beneath is looking through the eyes of the boy it killed.
Today, he works as an engineer for the city, operating in the Manifested Wards as exposure is of no danger to him. His degree focuses itself primarily upon the construction of architecture, but he is by no means a slouch when there are vehicular specs on his table.
Appearance: Ashton stands in all his broad-shouldered glory at 1.85 meters, although he is somewhat fuller of body than he would like. His broad hands are grafted to arms that are toned well enough to suggest the heavy lifting they have endured, but the muscles come together too smoothly to show off any definition. His barrel chest gives a greater sense of presence than potency, again possessing a subtle strength that is not altogether on display in his physiology. He is not a lithe or dexterous man, however, made evident in his gawky shuffling. His face is possessed of high cheekbones and eyes, brown, that have spent a lot of time smiling and wincing at blueprints. His mouth is broad, but expressive, and wreathed along his chin line by a well-maintained beard. He keeps his dusty brown hair short and out of his way, though the cowlicks do much of that for him.
Classification: Manifest of Voice
Age: 30
Occupation: Structural Engineer
Manifestation: Vox Memoria - Few people other than his doctor are aware of the fact that Ashton can speak, although they are all only indirectly aware of this fact, never from firsthand experience. Ashton's manifested ability stimulates the centers of the brain responsible for forming memory, causing a disruption that prevents them from remembering anything that occurred over the course of a conversation with him. Extended conversations can be especially troublesome, as the subject's most immediate memory will fog up and they will have no idea why they're talking to Ashton or what they were talking about. If he were to train himself in the finesse of these powers, his influence could assist in accessing very old or fragmented memories in a person, or even go so far as to fabricate new ones given enough time to "weave" them. This would require him to embrace what he is, however, something beyond the scope of this denial-ridden man.
Personality: Opinionated well past the point of fault, Ashton does not let his status as a mute prevent him from chiming in on any and every subject that happens to be on the table. His hands live at a perpetual ninety-degree tilt, ever at the ready to explode into a storm of sign language to express himself. If his companions don't know sign language, he'll swap to his notepad. If his pencil is broken, then he'll find some sand to write in because you're going to hear his opinion DARN IT! Beyond this, his most brazen aspect, Ashton is very individualistic and libertarian. He believes he is unto himself a nation and sees any trespass either upon himself or unto another as a grave matter, sometimes necessary but not to be undertaken lightly. He is just as passionate about the defense of his friends' and, indeed, his enemies' rights as well, however. Freedom carries with it a cost, after all. When he's not fighting the good fight, Ashton can be found doodling his thoughts into his dozens of notepads or musing at his cello, one of the last remnants of his home life.
Skills: Physics, Engineering, American and International Sign Language, High Stamina
Equipment: Portfolio, Notepad, Laser Distance Meter, Winding Wrist Watch, Sunglasses, Wrist Brace (For His Mild Carpal Tunnel)
Background: "I was five when it happened; when the heavens, the place where all the stars lived, cracked open. Their scream pierced the vacuum and every man and woman on earth was drenched in their quantum blood. I was... still so young, still in that part of life when you're learning how the world is supposed to work. Growing up is about believing that anything is possible, until it doesn't happen for long enough. I never got the chance to have that kind of strategic cynicism. I guess I was robbed of that feeling, because now I know that everything is possible and nothing is promised us."
-The Journal of Ashton Clarke, Age 27, March 15th
Ashton barely remembers life before the Fissure Event, so it doesn't really trouble him what state the world is in. Certainly starvation and chaos are never pleasant, but he's never had to deal with the dysphoric feeling of some lost paradise that his elders cluck about. He was born to two upper middle class parents and elder to his brother of four years difference. Ashton's headstrong nature certainly didn't fall far from the tree, as his family had enough resources and investment in society to ignore its unraveling as long as they could. Ashton went to school, even as cities disappeared off the map and the Internet came crashing down. He attained a degree even in an age when fewer than 1% of people were bothering with universities. And if that wasn't headstrong enough, he did most of it mute.
Ashton was stricken with the infection early on, in the days before a general consensus had been reached on a treatment. Those were the days when doctors could feel the mooring of society teetering and their academic network slipping into shambles. Doctors only a city apart could have wildly different assertions on how to cope with the sickness wracking the bodies of their patients, so when the family doctor saw a black spot growing in Ashton's neck, he acted by proxying it with a kind of cancer. He had only ever seen victims whose full bodies had succumbed, and thought he was fortunate to catch young Ashton (then 12) in the earliest stages when metastasis had yet to occur. Much of Ashton's neck was removed, his ability to speak severed and extensive reconstruction of his throat needed to keep him breathing. Ashton's parents believed they had done something horrible to their son, but had given him a chance at a future. He adapted, despite the unsightly scarring and frustration with learning sign language, but so did the manifestation.
The disease is not an affliction of the flesh, such a revelation would be made nearly a decade after Ashton's treatment (and that of many like him.) You can carve out the flesh that has been blackened by the Fissure's touch, but that is merely the tip of the iceberg emerging into the classical universe. The rest exists beyond our reach, as ephemera and spirit stuff, and it is every bit as decisive as the most stubborn of human beings. Over the course of seven years, Ashton's neck regenerated, but this was no longer the tissue of a healthy person touched by the black veins associated with the Manifested. This flesh was wholly wrought in the black, ichorous perversion of nature that is the touch of the Fissure working its will to press its host into the form chosen. Adding to this is the disturbingly precise line running up Ashton's neck and round his chin, the slightly-raised border where incisions were made and a scar remained. It lends the impression that Ashton's humanity is peeling away, and that black, cancerous thing beneath is looking through the eyes of the boy it killed.
Today, he works as an engineer for the city, operating in the Manifested Wards as exposure is of no danger to him. His degree focuses itself primarily upon the construction of architecture, but he is by no means a slouch when there are vehicular specs on his table.
Appearance: Ashton stands in all his broad-shouldered glory at 1.85 meters, although he is somewhat fuller of body than he would like. His broad hands are grafted to arms that are toned well enough to suggest the heavy lifting they have endured, but the muscles come together too smoothly to show off any definition. His barrel chest gives a greater sense of presence than potency, again possessing a subtle strength that is not altogether on display in his physiology. He is not a lithe or dexterous man, however, made evident in his gawky shuffling. His face is possessed of high cheekbones and eyes, brown, that have spent a lot of time smiling and wincing at blueprints. His mouth is broad, but expressive, and wreathed along his chin line by a well-maintained beard. He keeps his dusty brown hair short and out of his way, though the cowlicks do much of that for him.
