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Apr. 19th, 2006 09:34 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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watchtower_fansGreetings, True Believers!...wait, no, that's not right...I'm getting off on the wrong foot already.
Um...hello, Watchtower people. I've been encouraged to post a character application. With no further ado, here it is:
Character name: Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold.
Player (nickname, handle):![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hemlock_martini
New character LJ name (if already created): the original LJ for this character wascaptainocold, I created hell_is_cold on my own and will use whichever the mods prefer.
Base of operations: Central City, Missouri
Sample Post:
It is February in Central City. In an unheated apartment in an ugly, dilapidated tenement on the west side, Leonard Snart lights another cigarette and thinks about giving up. The thick, wet plastic sheet crunches and squeaks beneath his feet as chunks of ice gather at his toes. An old Springsteen tape plays tinnily on the stereo. The left speaker's busted, and The Boss is starting to sound like Snart feels. He inhales deeply and considers the sculpture's face. "Not quite right," he says to himself, or the sculpture, or nobody. "As always...devil's in the details."
The cyclotron-gun is holstered at his chest, a small flexible metal tube leading from a port on the gun's housing to a small, airbrush-like device that he clutches like an artist--a hint of finger-pressure on a valve releases a jet of super-cooled energy, forming a fine, dense frost on the figure's face, adding just the right volume to its cheekbones. If this ice were the color of flesh, he might have felt it necessary to add a blushing tint here to solidify the impression of vibrant youth. The medium in which Snart worked--and work he did, though not normally with hammer, chisel and exacting detail--required little in the way of color.
It was color that distracted him now. In his peripheral vision, Snart saw a green-cowled face leering at him from the bathroom mirror. Without even thinking, he snatched up a chunk of ice the size of a brick and hurled it left-handed. It contacted, spider-webbing the mirror and refracting Mirror Master's image a dozen ways. He shouted with indignance. "Oi! That's no way to greet an old pal, is it?"
"Piss off, McCulloch," Snart grunted. "I'm busy."
"Oh aye, I can see that," said the glib Scot, his image flickering from reflective surface to reflective surface as he came closer to Snart. "Busy tossing together a bit of arts-and-crafts, while the rest of us wrack our brains trying to plot out this bloody heist." Mirror Master appeared as a faint reflection in the glass frame of a picture of Snart's sister, Lisa. "It was you who said we should hit the Downtown Metro station while Flasher's out and about with his Superbuddy mates. We're waiting on you to help plan--"
Snart drew his cold-gun and aimed it at the picture, arming the cyclotron. "Get out. Get out of there now."
Mirror Master seemed amused. "Aww, you would'na shoot a picture of the wee Glider, would ya? Apple of yer eye, wasn't she? And a fine little apple she was, too." The leer in Mirror Master's eyes was perfectly clear, even though the rest of him was almost transparent.
Snart thumbed the "overdrive" switch on his cold-gun. The cyclotron made an evil whirring noise.
"Allright, allright, ye abominable snow-bastard, you get your wish." Mirror Master left the picture-frame to become a ghostly reflection in a nearby window. "I miss Goldie too, and no foolin'. But moping around here won't bring her back, and you know that."
Snart quelled the cyclotron surge and holstered his cold-gun. "Say what you're here to say and leave."
Mirror Master smiled. "We're at Carmine's. Back room. Boomer's got a shiny new set of toys and Hot-head's awfully lucid. This could be a good one, if we just had a touch of the Captain's leadership to inspire us."
Snart narrowed his eyes and nodded. "One hour."
"An hour 'tis," said Mirror Master, fading into nothingness.
Forty-five minutes later, Snart pulled on the blue parka and strapped his boots on tight, bringing together the basic elements of his uniform (not "costume," he would often tell the Rogues--costumes are for clowns at kid's parties, or underwear perverts with more muscles than brains an' messiah complexes comin' out the yin-yang. A costume is a dodge, a way to hide who you are--you wear the costume, you become the costume, you become nobody. But when you boys get suited up in your signature gear, you show the world who you are--you're somebody, by god, you're one of us, you're a Rogue; and you make damned sure they know to run like hell when they see you comin'). He holstered the cold gun at his hip and took a look at his handiwork.
An ice-skater, her arms outstretched and skates aligned as if gliding gracefully across an endless frozen expanse. Angel wings sprouted from her shoulderblades, giving the piece the impression that it was lighter than air, and would simply spin off into the slate-blue sky if the wind was just right.
Snart scratched his head and sighed, pulling on his gloves. "You had a lotta potential, kid. Why you wanted to get mixed up with me and the boys...I guess I'll never really get it. You were better'n that. You always were." He lifted the sculpture up and carried it to the tiny balcony that jutted from the outside wall. Sliding the patio door open, he set the sculpture out onto the balcony, fishing for the power cord that trailed from the figure's base. Grasping it, he plugged it into an external outlet.
The lightbulbs he had ordered from a special scientific clearinghouse were said to be able to carry a current and stay illuminated even in temperatures reaching absolute zero. They glowed golden, lighting up the ice sculpture from within. Snart stared at the figure for a moment, his mind steeped in uncomfortable thoughts. Finally, he pulled the parka's hood up around his ears and put on his signature slit-eyed glasses.
"Happy Birthday, Lisa," said Captain Cold as he slid the door shut and turned to leave.
_____
I would describe myself as a casual roleplayer, but I'm more than willing to participate as much as is called for.
Thank you for this opportunity. I welcome comments, critiques and will answer any questions you may have.
Um...hello, Watchtower people. I've been encouraged to post a character application. With no further ado, here it is:
Character name: Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold.
Player (nickname, handle):
hemlock_martiniNew character LJ name (if already created): the original LJ for this character was
captainocold, I created hell_is_cold on my own and will use whichever the mods prefer.Base of operations: Central City, Missouri
Sample Post:
It is February in Central City. In an unheated apartment in an ugly, dilapidated tenement on the west side, Leonard Snart lights another cigarette and thinks about giving up. The thick, wet plastic sheet crunches and squeaks beneath his feet as chunks of ice gather at his toes. An old Springsteen tape plays tinnily on the stereo. The left speaker's busted, and The Boss is starting to sound like Snart feels. He inhales deeply and considers the sculpture's face. "Not quite right," he says to himself, or the sculpture, or nobody. "As always...devil's in the details."
The cyclotron-gun is holstered at his chest, a small flexible metal tube leading from a port on the gun's housing to a small, airbrush-like device that he clutches like an artist--a hint of finger-pressure on a valve releases a jet of super-cooled energy, forming a fine, dense frost on the figure's face, adding just the right volume to its cheekbones. If this ice were the color of flesh, he might have felt it necessary to add a blushing tint here to solidify the impression of vibrant youth. The medium in which Snart worked--and work he did, though not normally with hammer, chisel and exacting detail--required little in the way of color.
It was color that distracted him now. In his peripheral vision, Snart saw a green-cowled face leering at him from the bathroom mirror. Without even thinking, he snatched up a chunk of ice the size of a brick and hurled it left-handed. It contacted, spider-webbing the mirror and refracting Mirror Master's image a dozen ways. He shouted with indignance. "Oi! That's no way to greet an old pal, is it?"
"Piss off, McCulloch," Snart grunted. "I'm busy."
"Oh aye, I can see that," said the glib Scot, his image flickering from reflective surface to reflective surface as he came closer to Snart. "Busy tossing together a bit of arts-and-crafts, while the rest of us wrack our brains trying to plot out this bloody heist." Mirror Master appeared as a faint reflection in the glass frame of a picture of Snart's sister, Lisa. "It was you who said we should hit the Downtown Metro station while Flasher's out and about with his Superbuddy mates. We're waiting on you to help plan--"
Snart drew his cold-gun and aimed it at the picture, arming the cyclotron. "Get out. Get out of there now."
Mirror Master seemed amused. "Aww, you would'na shoot a picture of the wee Glider, would ya? Apple of yer eye, wasn't she? And a fine little apple she was, too." The leer in Mirror Master's eyes was perfectly clear, even though the rest of him was almost transparent.
Snart thumbed the "overdrive" switch on his cold-gun. The cyclotron made an evil whirring noise.
"Allright, allright, ye abominable snow-bastard, you get your wish." Mirror Master left the picture-frame to become a ghostly reflection in a nearby window. "I miss Goldie too, and no foolin'. But moping around here won't bring her back, and you know that."
Snart quelled the cyclotron surge and holstered his cold-gun. "Say what you're here to say and leave."
Mirror Master smiled. "We're at Carmine's. Back room. Boomer's got a shiny new set of toys and Hot-head's awfully lucid. This could be a good one, if we just had a touch of the Captain's leadership to inspire us."
Snart narrowed his eyes and nodded. "One hour."
"An hour 'tis," said Mirror Master, fading into nothingness.
Forty-five minutes later, Snart pulled on the blue parka and strapped his boots on tight, bringing together the basic elements of his uniform (not "costume," he would often tell the Rogues--costumes are for clowns at kid's parties, or underwear perverts with more muscles than brains an' messiah complexes comin' out the yin-yang. A costume is a dodge, a way to hide who you are--you wear the costume, you become the costume, you become nobody. But when you boys get suited up in your signature gear, you show the world who you are--you're somebody, by god, you're one of us, you're a Rogue; and you make damned sure they know to run like hell when they see you comin'). He holstered the cold gun at his hip and took a look at his handiwork.
An ice-skater, her arms outstretched and skates aligned as if gliding gracefully across an endless frozen expanse. Angel wings sprouted from her shoulderblades, giving the piece the impression that it was lighter than air, and would simply spin off into the slate-blue sky if the wind was just right.
Snart scratched his head and sighed, pulling on his gloves. "You had a lotta potential, kid. Why you wanted to get mixed up with me and the boys...I guess I'll never really get it. You were better'n that. You always were." He lifted the sculpture up and carried it to the tiny balcony that jutted from the outside wall. Sliding the patio door open, he set the sculpture out onto the balcony, fishing for the power cord that trailed from the figure's base. Grasping it, he plugged it into an external outlet.
The lightbulbs he had ordered from a special scientific clearinghouse were said to be able to carry a current and stay illuminated even in temperatures reaching absolute zero. They glowed golden, lighting up the ice sculpture from within. Snart stared at the figure for a moment, his mind steeped in uncomfortable thoughts. Finally, he pulled the parka's hood up around his ears and put on his signature slit-eyed glasses.
"Happy Birthday, Lisa," said Captain Cold as he slid the door shut and turned to leave.
_____
I would describe myself as a casual roleplayer, but I'm more than willing to participate as much as is called for.
Thank you for this opportunity. I welcome comments, critiques and will answer any questions you may have.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 06:41 pm (UTC)Good luck.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-19 06:52 pm (UTC)can't sleep...chibi Etrigan will eat my face...can't sleep...chibi Etrigan will eat my face...can't sleep...
no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 01:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 01:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 12:23 pm (UTC)Next time you're logged into
no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 01:18 pm (UTC)Thank you very much! It's great to be accepted.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 01:46 pm (UTC)I noticed you don't have any icons up yet. If you need some, here's a couple I made a while back:
I believe other players have made others and posted them in our OOC community, but these are the ones I can lay hands on right now.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-20 01:55 pm (UTC)