Post by jek on Sept 7, 2011 19:03:03 GMT -5
HELLO, GOOD MORNING HOW YOU DO,
ALEXADER HEPHAESTUS CREIGHTON
[/color][/font]ALEXADER HEPHAESTUS CREIGHTON
WHAT MAKES YOUR RISING SUN SO NEW?
AND I'M LIVING AGAIN, AWAKE AND ALIVE,
THIS IS MY GENERAL INFO[/color][/font]
DYING TO BREATH IN THESE ABUNDANT SKIES[/center]
Alexander Hephaestus Creighton
Alexander
Alec
Creighton
Sir
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January 7, 1946 – 53 years old
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Male
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Heterosexual
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Pureblood
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Slytherin Alumnus
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Retired Ministry Official. He worked as an Auror for two decades before being promoted to the Department of Mysteries as an Unspeakable.
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NEVER THOUGHT I COULD FALL LIKE THAT
THIS IS MY APPEARANCE
[/color][/font]THIS IS MY APPEARANCE
NEVER THOUGHT I COULD HURT THIS BAD[/center]
Alfred Molina
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Dark brown
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Dark Brown
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Several scars across his chest and back from an incident at the Ministry that he is not at liberty to discuss.
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LEARNING TO BREATHE, LEARNING TO CRAWL,
THIS IS MY PERSONALITY
[/color][/font]THIS IS MY PERSONALITY
FINDING YOU ALONE CAN BREAK MY FALL[/center]
+ That the Dark Lord will not return
+ That Mistress Cosette will attempt to lead the Wizarding World towards Muggle Equality or make things worse than they already are
+ Albus Dumbledore
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+ Resurrect the Dark Lord
+ Break Lucius Malfoy out of prison
+ Gain power
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+ A nice cup of tea and a strong glass of bourbon
+ Power
+ Pureblood Supremacy
+ Unforgivable Curses
+ Instilling Fear in others
+ The Dark Arts
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+ Mudbloods, Muggles, and Blood Traitors
+ Mistress Cosette
+ Insolence
+ Teenagers
+ Failure
+ Incompetence
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+ Manipulation
+ Oration
+ Getting Information
+ Dueling
+ Instilling fear
+ Cunning
+ Curses and Counter-curses
+ Occlumency and Legilimency
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+ Arrogance
+ Greed
+ Pride
+ Anger
+ Will do anything for the Dark Lord
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You call it cruelty he calls it fun. You call it torture he calls it interrogation. You call him villain he couldn’t help but agree. Thus is Alexander Creighton. Hardened from his many years as an Auror and time spent in the Department of Mysteries, Alexander can be described as a malicious and power hungry man with eyes for only one thing: Bring back the Dark Lord. He’ll do anything to achieve his ends including killing, torturing, and manipulating people (all of which he enjoys immensely).
He is a suave and sophisticated man who can be sadistic and cruel but, hides it fairly well amongst others. He is stern and people notice his standoffishness but, not many understand how much he despises Muggles. He places a lot of emphasis on blood-purity and will dispatch Muggles, Mudbloods, and Blood-traitors whether they are in his way or not. He doesn’t speak often but, when he does you best be paying attention. He is an incredible orator and a master of spells. He’s got an arrogant sort of way of speaking as if he knows everything and has all the answers and power in the world. But, his cockiness does not drive people away; it is seen as confidence and draws weak minded people to him like a moth to a flame.
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I COULD USE A FRESH BEGINNING TOO,
THIS IS MY HISTORY
[/color][/font]THIS IS MY HISTORY
ALL OF MY REGRETS ARE NOTHING NEW[/center]
James Ares Creighton (father)
Moira Elizabeth Creighton (nee Colbern) (mother)
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Creighton Manor in Buckinghamshire, England
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James Creighton may have been a wizard but, he was also an Englishman and he felt a certain responsibility to protect his country when Germany antagonized a Second World War. He was young and in love with idea of glory. Not to mention he didn’t want to have to deal with a German Minister of Magic if Hitler managed to win the war. James Creighton hated Muggles but, he put that aside for a few years to ensure that things would stay in some semblance of order. Upon his return he married his sweetheart Moira Colbern and nine months later little Alexander Creighton was born.
The Creighton’s being a pureblood family had several expectations of their son. One, he would become a powerful wizard. Two, he would hold a favorable position in the Ministry. And three, he would carry on the pureblood line. Well, two out of three isn’t so bad. Alexander Creighton attended Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry after eleven years of dealing with an alcoholic father suffering from PSTD. He was sorted into Slytherin house before the hat had a chance to touch his head and he excelled quite brilliantly in his courses. He was skilled at Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Transfiguration and Charms and did his best to receive high marks in the classes he wasn’t fond of (Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, and Astronomy).
Upon his graduation from Hogwarts, Alexander applied to be an Auror. He was skilled at dueling and felt it was a strategic move so that one day he could hold a position in the Ministry. He was talented at his work, capturing many criminals and sending them off to Azkaban, but, there was something missing in his life. He didn’t agree with many of his co-workers about blood status but, kept to himself about it not wanting to arouse suspicion. When Lord Voldemort began his rise to power Alexander saw this as his chance to finally act on his beliefs. He was one of the first to sign up and bear the dark mark.
Having spent nearly two decades as an Auror he was offered a position as an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries. Eager for the prestigious title he accepted. For the next ten years he worked diligently at his post until an incident that will remain classified left him scarred (more physically than mentally) and the department forced him into an early retirement. Now he splits his time between his Manor and a small apartment in London. When Lord Voldemort was destroyed by that vile woman at the ministry Creighton vowed he would do everything in his power to bring back the Dark Lord. If that oaf Wormtail could do it, than he certainly could.
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THIS IS THE WAY I SAY I LOVE YOU
THIS IS MY PLAYER INFO
[/color][/font]THIS IS MY PLAYER INFO
THIS IS THE WAY I SAY I'M YOURS[/center]
Jek
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3 years
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hugz & kissez!
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[/ul]
Forty three. There had been no exaggeration, although Detective Athos had hoped there had been. Forty-three. The 14th smallest prime number. Forty-three. Cuarenta y tres, the name of a popular Spanish liqueur which is distilled with 43 different herbs and spices. Forty-three. The number of American Presidents (yes forty-three Grover Cleveland was 22 and 24 so technically forty-three). Forty-three the number of times nineteen-year-old Tara Leverne had been stabbed. Not ripped. Stabbed.
Olivia hovered over the folder, shoulders hunched, head cocked to the side, lips pursed, eyes focused. She’d memorized every detail; every sentence, every space, every photo was deeply locked into her mind. Although it felt like it had been burned there, ingrained for ever in the dark recesses of her memory. You don’t forget forty-three. This wasn’t a random house robbery, this was premeditated; this was passionate. Forty-three. It wasn’t a calling card. It wasn’t meant to be quick. It was anger and obsession and tenacity. To keep going at a person long after the light had left their eyes. It was savage, it was primal, it was…personal.
A girl with no family, engaged in a secret life of prostitution, shows up dead in her lover’s apartment apartment stabbed forty-three times. Her ex-boyfriend, and Victor’s college friend, is bewildered can’t believe it happened, can’t believe she’d turned to prostitution, was “uncharacteristic”. Olivia sipped at the coffee on her desk, spitting it out a moment later, it was freezing. She’d only refilled at few min— holy poop. Was that really the time? If it weren’t for cold cups of coffee or the tapping of the captain’s hand on her office door, Olivia might never know when it was time to sleep.
Sluggishly, she walked across her office, finding refuge on the leather couch on the other side. Just a few hours, she thought, then back to work. It was a good thing she’d decided to have this couch brought up from the basement. Else she’d have let her head rest on the desk and she’d wake up with pen on her face and drool covered paperwork. This was only slightly more dignified. Eyes on the ceiling she wrapped the small quilted blanket her mother had sewn for her when she was younger around her legs. She wanted nothing more than to keep working but, knew that without at least a few hours rest she’d never make it through the next day. As she drifted to sleep she couldn’t stop thinking that there was something she wasn’t getting. There was a missing piece. But, her eyes grew heavy …
You don’t forget forty-three
***
Heat. That’s all this god-damned city needed more of. Olivia was used to the weathermen being wrong why, oh why; couldn’t that be the case today? Sweltering conditions, they said, heat wave, fry an egg on the sidewalk, stay indoors, they advised. But, such was not the life of a NYPD Detective, not with a killer on the loose. Although, Olivia would argue that there was always a killer on the loose but, her therapist said that was pessimistic. Olivia argued that it was realistic.
Taking a nice long, sip of her steaming hot coffee, Olivia wondered if it was hypocritical to complain about the hot weather and drink a hot coffee. She shook the thought from her mind, if there was one thing she hated more than criminals it was iced coffee. It wasn’t the temperature of the coffee, but more the expectation that you would have cream and sugar mixed in to taint the already perfect beverage. You can’t order a black iced coffee. Well you can, but, not without enduring the most irritated stares and poor service of your life.
Not to mention you lost all the body and aroma when you chilled coffee, at least in her opinion. Olivia liked rich, fragrant black coffee to start off her mornings. She needed a nice kick to wake up her senses and the café down the street from the precinct always served up the perfect brew. Grabbing her usual order, a medium black coffee and a granola and yogurt cup, Olivia headed off towards the Upper East Side. There was a crime scene she wanted to revisit and a certain Victor Griffiths that she needed a few answers from.
Flagging a cab so she wouldn’t have to walk the fifty-something blocks in her stilettos, Olivia relaxed her shoulders. She was always so tense, always tight, always expecting something to jump out at her. The ride over was more or less uneventful, a few crazies out for their morning commute, an enraged old woman shaking her cane at the taxi driver as he narrowly missed her taking a turn, and sharp sound of a hundred horns all beeping at the same time. And thus was the musical symphony of New York at nine in the morning on a Saturday.
The taxi pulled up to the curb twenty minutes later, Olivia handed over a wad of cash, muttering a keep the rest, and hustled into the apartment complex. Nodding to the doorman, who seemed to remember her from the other day, she slid into the nearest elevator and hailed it up to Mr. Griffith’s floor. Usually, Olivia made it a habit to call her prospective interviewees prior to arriving on their front door, but in some cases it was better to have the element of surprise. Olivia didn’t know what she expected to learn from this encounter but, she was hoping it might shed some light on recent events.
The elevator doors opened and she found the door that matched the addressed she had grabbed off the computer records that morning. Her heels made a satisfying clicking noise as she came to halt in front of it. Smoothing out the front of her blouse, Detective Athos steadied her hand at her waist, ready to show off her badge with a light pull at her jacket, and took a long, deep breath. Three sharp knocks on the door soon followed. All she had to do now was wait.
Olivia hovered over the folder, shoulders hunched, head cocked to the side, lips pursed, eyes focused. She’d memorized every detail; every sentence, every space, every photo was deeply locked into her mind. Although it felt like it had been burned there, ingrained for ever in the dark recesses of her memory. You don’t forget forty-three. This wasn’t a random house robbery, this was premeditated; this was passionate. Forty-three. It wasn’t a calling card. It wasn’t meant to be quick. It was anger and obsession and tenacity. To keep going at a person long after the light had left their eyes. It was savage, it was primal, it was…personal.
A girl with no family, engaged in a secret life of prostitution, shows up dead in her lover’s apartment apartment stabbed forty-three times. Her ex-boyfriend, and Victor’s college friend, is bewildered can’t believe it happened, can’t believe she’d turned to prostitution, was “uncharacteristic”. Olivia sipped at the coffee on her desk, spitting it out a moment later, it was freezing. She’d only refilled at few min— holy poop. Was that really the time? If it weren’t for cold cups of coffee or the tapping of the captain’s hand on her office door, Olivia might never know when it was time to sleep.
Sluggishly, she walked across her office, finding refuge on the leather couch on the other side. Just a few hours, she thought, then back to work. It was a good thing she’d decided to have this couch brought up from the basement. Else she’d have let her head rest on the desk and she’d wake up with pen on her face and drool covered paperwork. This was only slightly more dignified. Eyes on the ceiling she wrapped the small quilted blanket her mother had sewn for her when she was younger around her legs. She wanted nothing more than to keep working but, knew that without at least a few hours rest she’d never make it through the next day. As she drifted to sleep she couldn’t stop thinking that there was something she wasn’t getting. There was a missing piece. But, her eyes grew heavy …
You don’t forget forty-three
***
Heat. That’s all this god-damned city needed more of. Olivia was used to the weathermen being wrong why, oh why; couldn’t that be the case today? Sweltering conditions, they said, heat wave, fry an egg on the sidewalk, stay indoors, they advised. But, such was not the life of a NYPD Detective, not with a killer on the loose. Although, Olivia would argue that there was always a killer on the loose but, her therapist said that was pessimistic. Olivia argued that it was realistic.
Taking a nice long, sip of her steaming hot coffee, Olivia wondered if it was hypocritical to complain about the hot weather and drink a hot coffee. She shook the thought from her mind, if there was one thing she hated more than criminals it was iced coffee. It wasn’t the temperature of the coffee, but more the expectation that you would have cream and sugar mixed in to taint the already perfect beverage. You can’t order a black iced coffee. Well you can, but, not without enduring the most irritated stares and poor service of your life.
Not to mention you lost all the body and aroma when you chilled coffee, at least in her opinion. Olivia liked rich, fragrant black coffee to start off her mornings. She needed a nice kick to wake up her senses and the café down the street from the precinct always served up the perfect brew. Grabbing her usual order, a medium black coffee and a granola and yogurt cup, Olivia headed off towards the Upper East Side. There was a crime scene she wanted to revisit and a certain Victor Griffiths that she needed a few answers from.
Flagging a cab so she wouldn’t have to walk the fifty-something blocks in her stilettos, Olivia relaxed her shoulders. She was always so tense, always tight, always expecting something to jump out at her. The ride over was more or less uneventful, a few crazies out for their morning commute, an enraged old woman shaking her cane at the taxi driver as he narrowly missed her taking a turn, and sharp sound of a hundred horns all beeping at the same time. And thus was the musical symphony of New York at nine in the morning on a Saturday.
The taxi pulled up to the curb twenty minutes later, Olivia handed over a wad of cash, muttering a keep the rest, and hustled into the apartment complex. Nodding to the doorman, who seemed to remember her from the other day, she slid into the nearest elevator and hailed it up to Mr. Griffith’s floor. Usually, Olivia made it a habit to call her prospective interviewees prior to arriving on their front door, but in some cases it was better to have the element of surprise. Olivia didn’t know what she expected to learn from this encounter but, she was hoping it might shed some light on recent events.
The elevator doors opened and she found the door that matched the addressed she had grabbed off the computer records that morning. Her heels made a satisfying clicking noise as she came to halt in front of it. Smoothing out the front of her blouse, Detective Athos steadied her hand at her waist, ready to show off her badge with a light pull at her jacket, and took a long, deep breath. Three sharp knocks on the door soon followed. All she had to do now was wait.
this app was made by morning glorious of caution and the image by BRI ?! of caution.
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