Post by acehughes on Jun 17, 2008 17:27:54 GMT -5
The One Behind the Mask
Alias:E
Roleplay Experience: Several Years.
Activity Level: I am on the majority of the week, if not everyday.
RP Sample:This is a Hogwarts "future' wartime piece, written before the release of book seven, in case anyone is nerd enough like me to care.
Face Claim: Bear with the html idiot- for I cannot insert a picture. I have chosen Elijah Kelley to represent Ace.
Just who do you think you are?
Full Name: Ansel ‘Ace’ Leroy Hughes-Cullen
Age:Appears to be seventeen, but merits approximately seventy years.
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Straight
Occupation: “Student”
Grade: Senior
Species: Vampire
Look This Way
Eye Color: The molten amber of Ace’s eyes is not uncommon among the vampires- nor is their darker coal color of famine. As a human Ansel’s eyes were a lively, if not muddy, brown.
Hair Color and Style: Ace’s thick, coarse hair is kept trimmed close to his head, nothing of distinction to be found in the short-cut locks.
Build: The average human would not fear Ansel straight away- his muscles are the leaner variety, reducing his level of ‘visual threat’. It would be a mistake to label Ace as lanky, however, for the width of his father’s shoulders is well balanced by the weight and tone of his average-height body. Sculpted vampire though he may be, Ace rejects the common habit of utilizing that particular advantage; bred with his period-appropriate modesty, Ace’s clothes dwell in the lose-fit end of the spectrum.
Skin Tone:As a human, Ace’s tone was the desirable appearance among his immediate peers: a creamy, even-toned milk chocolate, with almost golden hues. As a vampire, what makes Ace unique is that he kept a very similar color- only the slightest darkening of the warm undertones marked his deathly transition. His dark skin did not pale out or lose its intensity, as other ethnicities are commonly afflicted.
Height: If you ask Ace, he’ll suavely tell you he’s six feet. Carlisle’s medical records, however, reveal that Ace holds an inch or so in exaggeration.
Weight: Ace’s weight is a healthy proportion to his height.
Piercings or Tattoos: Ace finds these traditions laughable among the present-day humans; though his mother is long-dead, Ace doesn’t doubt that if he was caught with either affliction marring his appearance she would whoop his hide to the next century.
Clothing Style: Modern enough not to be laughable, Ace’s style state-of-mind is clearly still stuck in his trendsetting days of the sixties. Though the majority of his bold patterns and interesting fabrics were lost to his taste over time, Ace’s uniqueness is subtly announced by his style of dress. Even at casual times, it is common to find Ace is slacks – rarely jeans – with a button-down shirt. Frequently he’ll layer this shirt with something sharp like a blazer or vest, and if there is any hint of formality Ace is quick to break out one of his numerous ties. This dress-wear, especially his eagerness to apply a tie to any occasion, is a good-nature joke among the Cullen clan. At the urging of Carlisle and Esme, Ace has significantly toned-down the bold colors he usually wears. He never gave them up completely – case in point: the striking colors of his ties – but the majority of his wardrobe has shifted to the less gawk-worthy end of the color spectrum. Ace is a brilliant negotiator- the way he views it, when it comes to his clothing he gets to have his cake and eat it too.
If only he still liked cake…
This is Who I Am
Likes:Attention, ‘bad’ weather- specifically southern thunderstorms, learning, music, reading, dressing from his era, wearing ties, shiny shoes, classical dance –He’s not as much a dancer as he is other things, but if it isn’t a dance for pairs he won’t do it-, correcting his teachers, and racing cars
Dislikes: Modern ‘fads,’ racism, non-vegetarian vampires, cheaters, The Beatles –ten points if you can tell me why after you read this whole application-, second-story bedrooms, California, and caribou
Strengths:Persuasion, swiftness, cunning, intuitiveness, toleration
Weaknesses:The smell of good cooking, raw strength, compassion, being blind or lost -in the informational sense
Personality: Ace is to be taken at face value- a performer with a load of personality and a deep-rooted sense of justice. On average he is a laid-back personality in a very busy body. Ace does not sit still- if he is not doing something while he is sitting, a heel will tap, his fingers will snap, his hands weave and separate- always some form of motion. He enjoys company – recently returned from a very solitary decade – and can especially find entertainment in interacting with humans. He is also quite easy to be around, for he is not easily ruffled or provoked. Ansel is stubborn to a fault, and will often stick by his point long-after he’s been disproven. Despite this, however, he accepts his role of ambassador for the Cullen’s, because it is the easiest for him – and his darker skin – to endure public scrutiny in less-than-ideal weather conditions for vampires. Not a fool-proof plan, but decent enough to help him dispel suspicion when it arises.
Given the nature of his near-death and subsequent new-life, Ace holds a very dark burden inside of his happy exterior. Frequently he jeopardized his own cover to combat some act of racism- never killing, but scaring the perpetrators enough that they would never attempt such a heinous act again. If they ever stopped babble about a super-warrior, that was. Recently such martyrdom has fallen out of use- such terrorizing has, thankfully, fallen out of social norm.
Family: Ace grew up in a two-parent household with no immediate siblings. The apartment block’s sense of community, however, led him to have many more extended relatives. Since becoming a vampire he has only every dwelt with the Cullen clan, or been on his own.
History: California in the sixties was not a terrible place to live. Aspiring entertainers were being rocket from ordinary to stardom everywhere you looked.
California in the sixties was not the worst place to live if you were African-American. Segregation still had an infuriating stranglehold on the society, but those who stayed in line were not treated too badly. But where, exactly, were the lines to remain inside? That question would be answered the month before Ansel Leroy Hughes’ eighteenth birthday.
“Sunny” Jones would meet Leroy Avery Hughes in the last days of vaudeville. A young performer, Sunny was a new favorite among the dwindling audiences of the glory stage. Born years too late to enjoy the benefits of Vaudeville’s prime, Sunny made due performing seven nights a week from coast to coast- she would get discovered, and then whisked away to some other stage, one that was not on its last legs. Or so she had thought. The cruel hand of stardom ‘fate’ was never as kind to black performers as they too-oft wished it would be. Vaudeville would close, and Sunny would remain only in memory. Before her career kicked the bucket, Sunny’s name-sake personality and flavor for risqué clothing would snag her a man. A fine east-coast youth with big plans for the west coast would sweep the starlet from her stage and plunge her directly into reality- but together, the new and hastily-wed Hughes would somehow pull it through. He was stubborn, she was vain; together they were living the dream on poverty-level income. From their vantage point in Oregon, California seemed the place to take a step in the right direction. Through odd-jobs with long hours, it seemed that their little bit of savings in the bank would soon breach them to middle-class.
Sunny, however, had an announcement to make.
Nine months and several quarts of ice cream later, Sunny and Leroy were happily had their backs against poverty, dreaming big dreams from the little blue bundle of cloth that slept next to their floor-dwelling mattress. Their speck of an apartment quickly became a home, complete with the non-optional weight-gain of parenthood and the loss of any fragile possessions. Sunny, Leroy, and Ansel- between the three there was too much personality for their teeny tiny home. Abusing her job as a secretary for the school district, Sunny managed to slip Ansel into a decent, non-segregated school. With their best wishes – for what else had they to give? – Ansel’s parents committed him to twelve difficult years of education, in hopes that he could land a decent job, which would eventually lead to the marriage of a decent girl. From where the Hughes sat, decent seemed like a mighty fine way to live.
As Ansel grew his outgoing personality and cocky attitude earned him as much ‘fame’ among his peers as it did trouble. The sharp-dressed, smooth talking ‘Ace’ was either adored or despised- there was no middle ground. Luckily, Ace’s smooth-talking managed to get a chauffeur position for one of the African-American entrepreneurs in town. “I like your spunk, kid.” Mr. Frykowski would always say, slipping the teenager a tip with a heavy-handed pat on the shoulder. To Ansel, life seemed very decent indeed. It was a shame, then, that not everyone agreed. Late in the sixties with a month more of school and a potential scholarship to study in college, life came to an abrupt end. The Frykowski’s and two friends had attended a formal dinner party late into the evening, and Ansel had been there to chauffeur and escort the family inside, for they were comically inebriated. His ‘charges’ safely indoors, Ace bid them farewell, eager to turn in for the night. When a strange man stepped from the landscape to stop his car, however, Ansel Leroy Hughes did not know how much trouble lurked in the dark horizon.
The Frykowski’s and their friends were discovered the next morning. Their grisly murder marked a trend of attacks against well-off blacks, and the brutality of the murder was astonishing. Twisted and cruel, the Manson Murders would change history. The puzzling part, however, was the car found in the Frykowski’s driveway, engine still purring away. Copious amounts of blood stained the driver’s seat of Ace Hughes’ car- he could not have survived the blood loss. Investigators concluded that the murders must have taken the corpse of Ansel with them, and they called the case closed.
-------
The scent of human blood poured hot an thick through the heated summer night. Any vampire in the western hemisphere, it seemed, could have smelt the murder. While some would rouse themselves for a plausible feast, Carlisle Cullen – a lonely traveler who longed to return to his clan – would seek out the scent with a hope of salvation. In that house there was no hope to be found- all long dead, and brutally so. Capitulating that his good intentions had been in vain, Carlisle stumbled upon a fifth victim- a boy, with perhaps two minutes of sheer agony left in his life, as blood poured from the bullet wound in his chest. Carlisle only took a split second to make his decision.
Three long days- or perhaps three eternities – Ansel felt he was suffering. He had died, he was sure, and now the fire that ate away at his flesh sought to equal his sins. Ansel was not from a religious family, but this much he could deduce. When the suffering stopped, however, Ansel was baffled. When Carlisle presented him with the truth, Ansel was disbelieving.
But above all Ansel was hungry. It was a struggle, to accept the stale bread of animals, when the feast of human blood called to his soul. It took many years- but Ansel was a loyal, if not withdrawn, pupil, who eventually came to be adequate with his self control. From the Cullen clan he would learn his fate, his options, his lifestyle- for himself he had to find a reason accept this gift of eternity. In the late years of the 1990’s Ansel would strike out on his own, convinced his inner peace lay beyond the muggy forests of Forks.
In his traveling, Ansel would never return to California.
Now, however, the wanderer has grown weary, and forges his way once again to Oregon.
“Mr. Carlisle,” Ace whispered to the night, with a chillingly toothy grin, “I’m ready to come home.”
Power: Part of Ace’s outgoing personality originates from his trend-setting performance-packed human youth. Not a quite crooner, Ace’s vocal styles were appreciable. Even from childhood Ansel delighted in playing with the pitch and style of his voice- a great if not annoying mimic. After he turned, Ace no longer found the same delight in his affectionate mockery; he did not use his voice excessively for many years. It came to pass, however, the he was put in a serious situation where his well being relied on getting others to agree with him; a born salesman, Ansel hadn’t suspected much issue. What he didn’t expect, however, was the ridiculous eagerness with which his alternations of the truth were met. It seemed that – because he needed the public to be in agreement – he only had to speak the words for their belief to be almost instantaneous. He spent years learning to control this persuasiveness- perfecting dropping in “suggestions” rather than he accidental hypnosis of his original discovery. People no longer abandoned their own opinions in sake of his, rather they would begin to see why they were “wrong,” and subsequently the change was gradual and less suspicious. It would be ten more years before Ansel would discover that his talents did not stop at persuasion; anger, happiness, confusion, grief- his emotion when he spoke seemed to be reflected upon those he spoke to, either rallying their support or – in one infamous incident – a yell that was so threatening the human ‘attackers’ fled, their courage flapping behind like a collective banner, lost in the scuffle. Ace does not impact peoples emotions, no matter how much he’d like to. Ace can only impact their thinking- exaggerating, emphasizing, or warping their opinions to fit his own agenda. If he needs agreement, suddenly they can see the light in his argument, if he needs their fear, he can make exaggerate their notion of the danger; other emotions follow a similar path. This is not fool proof, however Ace bears enough respect for this ability that he uses it most frugally.
How you became a vampire: Please see ‘History’
Secret Phrase: -Admin Edit-
Alias:E
Roleplay Experience: Several Years.
Activity Level: I am on the majority of the week, if not everyday.
RP Sample:This is a Hogwarts "future' wartime piece, written before the release of book seven, in case anyone is nerd enough like me to care.
The room had a golden tint to it ,like the shine of many pleasant fires, and even the measly decorations seemed to glow. The carpet was littered with snow gear- hats, gloves, scarves, boots- and the obligatory puddles, along with several plates and mugs. The heap of people all seemed quite comfortable where ever they had fallen asleep, which varied from sofas to footstools and comfy rugs, and everything was a rare quiet. She glanced around with a small smile, eyelids already drooping lazily shut, curling closer around the small child that had demanded a share of her sleeping spot for the night. Her fingers gave the young, delicate curls an affectionate stroke before she raised her head to return to the jacket she was using as a pillow. That was when she saw him, lounging there comfortably in a chair like he had been when she’d woken up, only now he, too, was awake, glittering silver eyes watching her. She smiled and laid her head down, nodding slightly in his direction, before surrendering to the tantalizing fingers of sleep. From across the room, just as her vision went dark, she heard the whisper, clear as a bell. “Good Night, Ginny Weasley.”
Grey. That was the first impression that bombarded her sore eyes- just grey. She quickly shut them again, wanting to return to that room, to that moment, but the magic of the dream was gone and a chilling draft blew away any hope of reclaiming it. Getting up, physically, had become quite the task lately; first up to her elbows, and then on from there, the room spinning the entire way. Oh Merlin, the room. It was the dusty, drafty old attic of some abandoned house; it was a miracle the floor hadn’t given in yet. Everything felt damp all the time, and with the rapidly dwindling autumn it did no good for anyone’s health. This room, like the one in her dream, had people scattered about, sleeping in odd places, but that was the only similarity. These people were not warm, or comfortable, or happy; all persons displayed a sickly outward appearance.
Ginevra stepped out onto a small balcony, the doors to which had been lost long ago, and was greeted by a landscape that was the same grey tones as the room within. Down the cliff crashed the cold ocean, a light silver fog curling across the ground, and a lifeless sun hid from its own reflection on the waters. Ginny shivered violently, pulling her coat closer like it would help. While numb fingers fumbled with the top buttons of the tattered object, one missed and struck her own collarbone, causing her to hiss in pain. She exhaled a shaky cloud- that too, she mocked, was grey- covering the long purple bruise delicately; it had not marred her pale skins only seconds before. That stupid apparition drug- the Ministry had once claimed it would be a secret weapon- did its job wonderfully: those who took it regularly could now apparate without a sound, and apparation was being taught to younger and younger people of the wizarding world. Everyone eagerly accepted, and it worked for a while, but no one saw the oncoming effects: their apparations were noiseless, true, but the pills wreaked havoc on their bodies, causing a range of side effects that were, for the moment, irreversible.
In a way the entire war had been like those pills: brilliant ideas that had immense promise, only to turn around and kick them in the face. Hogwarts had been the largest of these mistakes; those weeks still haunted everyone, because they had been disillusioned it was safe. The blood in those hallways would never come out, and most of those people would never be found. They were losing the war, Ginny realized grimly, pale lips set in a grim line.
“We’re not winning, you know that.” The voice wasn’t hers, and Ginny didn’t outwardly jump, but her pulse shot up like a rocket. She didn’t have to glance to her left to see who it was- the voice was obvious enough- but there was only one person who would actually say that out loud.
“You’ve known that too, Draco.” Ginny observed, arms still hugging her own shaking frame. “But I realized something this morning.” She said, glancing over at him without moving her neck. He was in the same shape as everyone else: gaunt, tired, and burnt out. His posture was still, and always had been, damn perfect, but his grey eyes were hollow and underlined by dark circles. He turned to her with that air that drove her crazy; how he could still manage to act haughtily curious after everything that had happened was beyond her.
Turning, he inquired “And what would that be, Ms. Weasley?”
Now she did face him, no illusion of a joke in any of the scrapes, dark circles, or grief on her face. And, as soon as she spoke, she retreated inside the makeshift refuge. The words had been so sorrowful and profound it rocked Draco’s forced composure, leaving him staring at the spot she‘d left behind, that simple sentence running circles around his brain.
“We were never winning to begin with.”
Grey. That was the first impression that bombarded her sore eyes- just grey. She quickly shut them again, wanting to return to that room, to that moment, but the magic of the dream was gone and a chilling draft blew away any hope of reclaiming it. Getting up, physically, had become quite the task lately; first up to her elbows, and then on from there, the room spinning the entire way. Oh Merlin, the room. It was the dusty, drafty old attic of some abandoned house; it was a miracle the floor hadn’t given in yet. Everything felt damp all the time, and with the rapidly dwindling autumn it did no good for anyone’s health. This room, like the one in her dream, had people scattered about, sleeping in odd places, but that was the only similarity. These people were not warm, or comfortable, or happy; all persons displayed a sickly outward appearance.
Ginevra stepped out onto a small balcony, the doors to which had been lost long ago, and was greeted by a landscape that was the same grey tones as the room within. Down the cliff crashed the cold ocean, a light silver fog curling across the ground, and a lifeless sun hid from its own reflection on the waters. Ginny shivered violently, pulling her coat closer like it would help. While numb fingers fumbled with the top buttons of the tattered object, one missed and struck her own collarbone, causing her to hiss in pain. She exhaled a shaky cloud- that too, she mocked, was grey- covering the long purple bruise delicately; it had not marred her pale skins only seconds before. That stupid apparition drug- the Ministry had once claimed it would be a secret weapon- did its job wonderfully: those who took it regularly could now apparate without a sound, and apparation was being taught to younger and younger people of the wizarding world. Everyone eagerly accepted, and it worked for a while, but no one saw the oncoming effects: their apparations were noiseless, true, but the pills wreaked havoc on their bodies, causing a range of side effects that were, for the moment, irreversible.
In a way the entire war had been like those pills: brilliant ideas that had immense promise, only to turn around and kick them in the face. Hogwarts had been the largest of these mistakes; those weeks still haunted everyone, because they had been disillusioned it was safe. The blood in those hallways would never come out, and most of those people would never be found. They were losing the war, Ginny realized grimly, pale lips set in a grim line.
“We’re not winning, you know that.” The voice wasn’t hers, and Ginny didn’t outwardly jump, but her pulse shot up like a rocket. She didn’t have to glance to her left to see who it was- the voice was obvious enough- but there was only one person who would actually say that out loud.
“You’ve known that too, Draco.” Ginny observed, arms still hugging her own shaking frame. “But I realized something this morning.” She said, glancing over at him without moving her neck. He was in the same shape as everyone else: gaunt, tired, and burnt out. His posture was still, and always had been, damn perfect, but his grey eyes were hollow and underlined by dark circles. He turned to her with that air that drove her crazy; how he could still manage to act haughtily curious after everything that had happened was beyond her.
Turning, he inquired “And what would that be, Ms. Weasley?”
Now she did face him, no illusion of a joke in any of the scrapes, dark circles, or grief on her face. And, as soon as she spoke, she retreated inside the makeshift refuge. The words had been so sorrowful and profound it rocked Draco’s forced composure, leaving him staring at the spot she‘d left behind, that simple sentence running circles around his brain.
“We were never winning to begin with.”
Face Claim: Bear with the html idiot- for I cannot insert a picture. I have chosen Elijah Kelley to represent Ace.
Just who do you think you are?
Full Name: Ansel ‘Ace’ Leroy Hughes-Cullen
Age:Appears to be seventeen, but merits approximately seventy years.
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Straight
Occupation: “Student”
Grade: Senior
Species: Vampire
Look This Way
Eye Color: The molten amber of Ace’s eyes is not uncommon among the vampires- nor is their darker coal color of famine. As a human Ansel’s eyes were a lively, if not muddy, brown.
Hair Color and Style: Ace’s thick, coarse hair is kept trimmed close to his head, nothing of distinction to be found in the short-cut locks.
Build: The average human would not fear Ansel straight away- his muscles are the leaner variety, reducing his level of ‘visual threat’. It would be a mistake to label Ace as lanky, however, for the width of his father’s shoulders is well balanced by the weight and tone of his average-height body. Sculpted vampire though he may be, Ace rejects the common habit of utilizing that particular advantage; bred with his period-appropriate modesty, Ace’s clothes dwell in the lose-fit end of the spectrum.
Skin Tone:As a human, Ace’s tone was the desirable appearance among his immediate peers: a creamy, even-toned milk chocolate, with almost golden hues. As a vampire, what makes Ace unique is that he kept a very similar color- only the slightest darkening of the warm undertones marked his deathly transition. His dark skin did not pale out or lose its intensity, as other ethnicities are commonly afflicted.
Height: If you ask Ace, he’ll suavely tell you he’s six feet. Carlisle’s medical records, however, reveal that Ace holds an inch or so in exaggeration.
Weight: Ace’s weight is a healthy proportion to his height.
Piercings or Tattoos: Ace finds these traditions laughable among the present-day humans; though his mother is long-dead, Ace doesn’t doubt that if he was caught with either affliction marring his appearance she would whoop his hide to the next century.
Clothing Style: Modern enough not to be laughable, Ace’s style state-of-mind is clearly still stuck in his trendsetting days of the sixties. Though the majority of his bold patterns and interesting fabrics were lost to his taste over time, Ace’s uniqueness is subtly announced by his style of dress. Even at casual times, it is common to find Ace is slacks – rarely jeans – with a button-down shirt. Frequently he’ll layer this shirt with something sharp like a blazer or vest, and if there is any hint of formality Ace is quick to break out one of his numerous ties. This dress-wear, especially his eagerness to apply a tie to any occasion, is a good-nature joke among the Cullen clan. At the urging of Carlisle and Esme, Ace has significantly toned-down the bold colors he usually wears. He never gave them up completely – case in point: the striking colors of his ties – but the majority of his wardrobe has shifted to the less gawk-worthy end of the color spectrum. Ace is a brilliant negotiator- the way he views it, when it comes to his clothing he gets to have his cake and eat it too.
If only he still liked cake…
This is Who I Am
Likes:Attention, ‘bad’ weather- specifically southern thunderstorms, learning, music, reading, dressing from his era, wearing ties, shiny shoes, classical dance –He’s not as much a dancer as he is other things, but if it isn’t a dance for pairs he won’t do it-, correcting his teachers, and racing cars
Dislikes: Modern ‘fads,’ racism, non-vegetarian vampires, cheaters, The Beatles –ten points if you can tell me why after you read this whole application-, second-story bedrooms, California, and caribou
Strengths:Persuasion, swiftness, cunning, intuitiveness, toleration
Weaknesses:The smell of good cooking, raw strength, compassion, being blind or lost -in the informational sense
Personality: Ace is to be taken at face value- a performer with a load of personality and a deep-rooted sense of justice. On average he is a laid-back personality in a very busy body. Ace does not sit still- if he is not doing something while he is sitting, a heel will tap, his fingers will snap, his hands weave and separate- always some form of motion. He enjoys company – recently returned from a very solitary decade – and can especially find entertainment in interacting with humans. He is also quite easy to be around, for he is not easily ruffled or provoked. Ansel is stubborn to a fault, and will often stick by his point long-after he’s been disproven. Despite this, however, he accepts his role of ambassador for the Cullen’s, because it is the easiest for him – and his darker skin – to endure public scrutiny in less-than-ideal weather conditions for vampires. Not a fool-proof plan, but decent enough to help him dispel suspicion when it arises.
Given the nature of his near-death and subsequent new-life, Ace holds a very dark burden inside of his happy exterior. Frequently he jeopardized his own cover to combat some act of racism- never killing, but scaring the perpetrators enough that they would never attempt such a heinous act again. If they ever stopped babble about a super-warrior, that was. Recently such martyrdom has fallen out of use- such terrorizing has, thankfully, fallen out of social norm.
Family: Ace grew up in a two-parent household with no immediate siblings. The apartment block’s sense of community, however, led him to have many more extended relatives. Since becoming a vampire he has only every dwelt with the Cullen clan, or been on his own.
History: California in the sixties was not a terrible place to live. Aspiring entertainers were being rocket from ordinary to stardom everywhere you looked.
California in the sixties was not the worst place to live if you were African-American. Segregation still had an infuriating stranglehold on the society, but those who stayed in line were not treated too badly. But where, exactly, were the lines to remain inside? That question would be answered the month before Ansel Leroy Hughes’ eighteenth birthday.
“Sunny” Jones would meet Leroy Avery Hughes in the last days of vaudeville. A young performer, Sunny was a new favorite among the dwindling audiences of the glory stage. Born years too late to enjoy the benefits of Vaudeville’s prime, Sunny made due performing seven nights a week from coast to coast- she would get discovered, and then whisked away to some other stage, one that was not on its last legs. Or so she had thought. The cruel hand of stardom ‘fate’ was never as kind to black performers as they too-oft wished it would be. Vaudeville would close, and Sunny would remain only in memory. Before her career kicked the bucket, Sunny’s name-sake personality and flavor for risqué clothing would snag her a man. A fine east-coast youth with big plans for the west coast would sweep the starlet from her stage and plunge her directly into reality- but together, the new and hastily-wed Hughes would somehow pull it through. He was stubborn, she was vain; together they were living the dream on poverty-level income. From their vantage point in Oregon, California seemed the place to take a step in the right direction. Through odd-jobs with long hours, it seemed that their little bit of savings in the bank would soon breach them to middle-class.
Sunny, however, had an announcement to make.
Nine months and several quarts of ice cream later, Sunny and Leroy were happily had their backs against poverty, dreaming big dreams from the little blue bundle of cloth that slept next to their floor-dwelling mattress. Their speck of an apartment quickly became a home, complete with the non-optional weight-gain of parenthood and the loss of any fragile possessions. Sunny, Leroy, and Ansel- between the three there was too much personality for their teeny tiny home. Abusing her job as a secretary for the school district, Sunny managed to slip Ansel into a decent, non-segregated school. With their best wishes – for what else had they to give? – Ansel’s parents committed him to twelve difficult years of education, in hopes that he could land a decent job, which would eventually lead to the marriage of a decent girl. From where the Hughes sat, decent seemed like a mighty fine way to live.
As Ansel grew his outgoing personality and cocky attitude earned him as much ‘fame’ among his peers as it did trouble. The sharp-dressed, smooth talking ‘Ace’ was either adored or despised- there was no middle ground. Luckily, Ace’s smooth-talking managed to get a chauffeur position for one of the African-American entrepreneurs in town. “I like your spunk, kid.” Mr. Frykowski would always say, slipping the teenager a tip with a heavy-handed pat on the shoulder. To Ansel, life seemed very decent indeed. It was a shame, then, that not everyone agreed. Late in the sixties with a month more of school and a potential scholarship to study in college, life came to an abrupt end. The Frykowski’s and two friends had attended a formal dinner party late into the evening, and Ansel had been there to chauffeur and escort the family inside, for they were comically inebriated. His ‘charges’ safely indoors, Ace bid them farewell, eager to turn in for the night. When a strange man stepped from the landscape to stop his car, however, Ansel Leroy Hughes did not know how much trouble lurked in the dark horizon.
The Frykowski’s and their friends were discovered the next morning. Their grisly murder marked a trend of attacks against well-off blacks, and the brutality of the murder was astonishing. Twisted and cruel, the Manson Murders would change history. The puzzling part, however, was the car found in the Frykowski’s driveway, engine still purring away. Copious amounts of blood stained the driver’s seat of Ace Hughes’ car- he could not have survived the blood loss. Investigators concluded that the murders must have taken the corpse of Ansel with them, and they called the case closed.
-------
The scent of human blood poured hot an thick through the heated summer night. Any vampire in the western hemisphere, it seemed, could have smelt the murder. While some would rouse themselves for a plausible feast, Carlisle Cullen – a lonely traveler who longed to return to his clan – would seek out the scent with a hope of salvation. In that house there was no hope to be found- all long dead, and brutally so. Capitulating that his good intentions had been in vain, Carlisle stumbled upon a fifth victim- a boy, with perhaps two minutes of sheer agony left in his life, as blood poured from the bullet wound in his chest. Carlisle only took a split second to make his decision.
Three long days- or perhaps three eternities – Ansel felt he was suffering. He had died, he was sure, and now the fire that ate away at his flesh sought to equal his sins. Ansel was not from a religious family, but this much he could deduce. When the suffering stopped, however, Ansel was baffled. When Carlisle presented him with the truth, Ansel was disbelieving.
But above all Ansel was hungry. It was a struggle, to accept the stale bread of animals, when the feast of human blood called to his soul. It took many years- but Ansel was a loyal, if not withdrawn, pupil, who eventually came to be adequate with his self control. From the Cullen clan he would learn his fate, his options, his lifestyle- for himself he had to find a reason accept this gift of eternity. In the late years of the 1990’s Ansel would strike out on his own, convinced his inner peace lay beyond the muggy forests of Forks.
In his traveling, Ansel would never return to California.
Now, however, the wanderer has grown weary, and forges his way once again to Oregon.
“Mr. Carlisle,” Ace whispered to the night, with a chillingly toothy grin, “I’m ready to come home.”
Power: Part of Ace’s outgoing personality originates from his trend-setting performance-packed human youth. Not a quite crooner, Ace’s vocal styles were appreciable. Even from childhood Ansel delighted in playing with the pitch and style of his voice- a great if not annoying mimic. After he turned, Ace no longer found the same delight in his affectionate mockery; he did not use his voice excessively for many years. It came to pass, however, the he was put in a serious situation where his well being relied on getting others to agree with him; a born salesman, Ansel hadn’t suspected much issue. What he didn’t expect, however, was the ridiculous eagerness with which his alternations of the truth were met. It seemed that – because he needed the public to be in agreement – he only had to speak the words for their belief to be almost instantaneous. He spent years learning to control this persuasiveness- perfecting dropping in “suggestions” rather than he accidental hypnosis of his original discovery. People no longer abandoned their own opinions in sake of his, rather they would begin to see why they were “wrong,” and subsequently the change was gradual and less suspicious. It would be ten more years before Ansel would discover that his talents did not stop at persuasion; anger, happiness, confusion, grief- his emotion when he spoke seemed to be reflected upon those he spoke to, either rallying their support or – in one infamous incident – a yell that was so threatening the human ‘attackers’ fled, their courage flapping behind like a collective banner, lost in the scuffle. Ace does not impact peoples emotions, no matter how much he’d like to. Ace can only impact their thinking- exaggerating, emphasizing, or warping their opinions to fit his own agenda. If he needs agreement, suddenly they can see the light in his argument, if he needs their fear, he can make exaggerate their notion of the danger; other emotions follow a similar path. This is not fool proof, however Ace bears enough respect for this ability that he uses it most frugally.
How you became a vampire: Please see ‘History’
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