characterdefect | Recent Entries

NAME. Tim "Roderick" Nelson
CANON. The Following

OOC PREFERENCES.

→ CONTACT: My plurk (porphyrogene) is always open for friendage, or PMs work too!
→ FOURTH WALLING / CANON PUNCTURE: No fourth walling, canon's not popular enough.
→ BACKTAGGING: Hell yes!
→ THREADJACKING: Fuck yeah!
→ OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS: Sexual assault/abuse and rape are difficult subjects for me OOCly, as is disordered eating. Please PM me if you think these things are going to come up.
→ PREFERRED GENDER PRONOUN: She/her/hers are fine!

IC CHARACTERISTICS.

→ CANON POINT: Post-1x13, Havenport.
→ PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: Roderick is in his late twenties, of medium height, well but not hugely built, with a truly hilarious small-town-sheriff tan. He can generally be found in casual wear, likely flannel and jeans, along with possibly a hat. A cowboy hat if he's feeling especially ironic.
→ DEMEANOR: So generally Roderick will play up the small-town-sheriff act aforementioned, because it's one that he feels comfortable with. He's all kind smile and slightly arrogant man-about-town swagger until he gets angry, at which point his behavior becomes entirely erratic and he like. Maybe stabs you some. You just don't know, with Roderick. His speech has a light Virginia accent and he uses a lot of words like "hon". See, he's a nice guy.
→ ABILITIES: Murdering people. Lying. Shooting a gun. More murder. MURDER!
→ MEDICAL INFORMATION: Nothing of note!
→ CABIN INFORMATION: 2-14. A comfortable, well-furnished, but not terribly large room, as from a large Southern estate. The bed, dresser and desk take up most of the space in the room; the wall is unadorned except for a large mirror and window. Wood-paneled, with a well-loved rug.
→ OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS: BETRAYALLLLLL. Not belonging. Uh, otherwise. Pretty much do whatever, he does not care.

IC PERMISSIONS.

→ PHYSICAL AFFECTION: Go for it, with the caveat that Roderick is extremely leery of touch he doesn't instigate, especially when he's already aggravated. He is likely to lash out with physical violence if surprised with touch, so please be aware of that and check with me if you're concerned.
→ MENTAL: PM me first, but broadly yes!
→ MIMICRY: Go for it! But PM me.
→ PHYSICAL VIOLENCE: Absolutely.
→ PSYCHOLOGICAL VIOLENCE: Do it. PM me about the triggers I mentioned above or if it will have long-term effects, but otherwise let's go nuts.
→ MAGIC: PM me!
→ DEBATE: Go for it!
→ CHARACTER DEATH: PM me, but probably!

wanna chitchat about how i'm playing roderick? drop me a line right in here! all comments screened.

( doodle doo )

[The infirmary's a relatively peaceful place, as these things go. Sure, he's basically in traction and in enormous amounts of pain, but on the plus side, he's decently protected. Nobody's going to come after him with a bat in here, and there's only so much worse it can get.]

[The trouble is that he gets pretty bored pretty quickly. Coming off the high of a kill leaves him antsy and irritated, and there's nothing he can do to alleviate that. Horatio hasn't brought him any books. Horatio is, in fact, quite disappointed with him.]

[That may be the only thing he regrets.]

[As it is, all he can do is sit in his bed and watch people go back and forth. His eyes will, he assumes, be the most active part of his body for a while yet. He might as well get used to it.]

[It's like waking up, except he doesn't remember falling asleep. Everything is the same: a cabin, one that was empty for a little while, fills up again, the contents the same as they had been before. One large bed in the eaves of a great house, dark sheets, white walls, and one man lying on the perfectly made bed, sleeping.]

[When he wakes, he stares up at the ceiling and remembers - something, he thinks it was a dream, the echoes of time and space in his mind forming some manner of hallucination. He thinks he was somewhere dark and pressure-heavy for a while, somewhere he couldn't get out of. But maybe it was just a night terror. God knows he's earned some.]

[He dresses slowly, makes his way to the door as if he's going to breakfast. In fact, he gets through a full half-hour of his daily routine before he notices something's different, and almost spills his coffee.]

[The broadcast comes from the dining hall, lazy and only a smidge irritated.]

What the hell did y'all do to this place in eight hours?

[He's mostly on the deck, in the aftermath of Karazhan, his eyes closed as he leans over the edge of the railing. It isn't that he's afraid of going over the edge; in fact, if anything, he's too glib. He feels as though, if falling overboard will only lead to coming back after death, that he might as well. What does he have to lose?]

[Certainly any more humiliation from the Admiral will be too much to bear. People saw Joe choking him. His greatest shame, the thing that made him angriest in the world, was there, open to the public.]

[He doesn't know what he's feeling about it now. The rest of it, he could've dealt with. He could've handled it. Not that.]

[Shuddering, he wishes for a breeze from the stars to make this feel more like a real ship. Nothing comes. Just the stillness of the Barge, the nothingness of space.]

[He crosses his arms against an imaginary chill.]

[He seethes, like he's boiling under his skin. The last time he was this angry - well, the last time he was this angry there was a kidnapping, and a death. He remembers it clear as day even though it was more than a year ago now, blackness welling up behind his eyes with the pop-pop-pop like fireworks if he didn't know any better. After all his schemes, all his work, all his little impulses, nothing made a difference.]

[Which he should have known. The truth of the matter is that his family betrayed him in the end. Not just Joe, but everyone, the people who had depended on him and who'd professed to love him. The people he had loved, they left him alone, sealed him away in isolation and put him out of their misery. He knows.]

[He just doesn't get why he's surprised anymore.]

[Another thing that he knows better than to do but starts doing anyway is spending an exponentially larger amount of time in the pub. He's not actually drinking that much; mostly he sits at the bar with a book on his lap, one thumb stuck in a page about midway through. Occasionally he props it open against the sticky counter and reads about casks and jesters and black cats, and gets an odd, glazed look on his face, remembering the sense of old faiths and old loves. When he's done in the bar, he goes to the chapel and sits in the same way. Maybe it's odd to read in there, but it's what he tends towards.]

[He's homesick. So sue him.]

private } iris, later

I need a favor from you.

( all my friends are broken toys. )

[There are some places Tim avoids. The chapel isn't his, so he stays away from it after one brief look in just to be sure. His conversation with C'rizz made him leery enough of talking about religion with anyone here, so he doesn't ask any questions. He'll just wait until he gets home.]

[And as time progresses, he gets increasingly nervous that he won't get home anytime soon. People keep saying this is fine and it's temporary, but he isn't sure he believes it.]

[He spends most of his time in the library, nestled in a chair with any kids' magazines he can find. Sometimes he picks out a chapter book and tries that out, but generally he prefers the things he can read while keeping an ear out for anyone approaching.]

[After a while, he also sneaks up onto the deck, because he heard there was a snowball fight going on, and if he's going to be away from home, he wants to play some, at least.]

( ooc; responses coming from

sonofthehouse! )

( cut for gift list! )

[He feels like a very large hand squeezed into a too-small glove, like when he stretches he can feel the seaming of his skin stretch with him, like all too soon he will burst. It's all somatic and he knows it; he's fine, he's been reassured of that. So fine that he doesn't even remember it happening, or where his soul went after it was eaten, which really - isn't that better than the alternative? He doesn't want to remember the metaphysical gullet of a shattered star. He doesn't want to know why his mind feels fractured, or what could have happened in his absence from himself to make that happen.]

[Except if he knew, then at least he would have that measure of control. Would not be walking blindly through his days without any comprehension of where he's been or what he's been through. There's great power in knowledge, power that he's being denied.]

[So sick of being denied.]

[He spends a restless hour in the chapel, because he thinks maybe he has brushed shoulders with God or the Devil and he might as well acknowledge the fact. The closest he can get to prayer is a copy of The Cask of Amontillado, which he reads in the back pew, although it's less reading than reciting from memory in his head, he knows it that well. The longer he stays, the more he reads, the angrier he looks, until in the end he flees and leaves his assorted works on the pew. Brick by brick he's trapped more surely; he won't reinforce it with words, not today.]

[A while in the art room, then, not doing anything precisely but looking at what other people have done. There are charcoal works hanging on the walls that remind him of Emma, whose work he never saw, but heard of. She had talent, so much talent. It's too bad they never saw eye to eye.]

[He'll pick up a pencil and start to sketch if anyone looks at him funny, but he has no incredible or even average skill. Everything he draws comes out lopsided and a little strange, and anyway, it all tends towards mouths today, great and wide and dark human mouths with fat hungry tongues. Soon enough he stops, his brows drawn tight, and vacates the room.]

[It's not so long after this that he begins hovering outside the pub, waiting for a likely warden to let him in. He can't decide, as he leans against the doorframe, whether he wants it to be someone he knows well who can distract him, or someone he doesn't know at all who will leave him alone. There are merits to any kind of self-medication, and truth be told he doesn't know what he needs right now.]

( horatio. )

( c'rizz )

Horatio's in a coma. [He sounds sort of surprised by this. Almost upset.] What do you do with the body, exactly?

[And, somewhat later:]

When we're all done arguing with each other, there's copies of Porphyria's Lover [ooc; cw graphic violence] in all of the common rooms. I think maybe everybody could use a distraction.

[Even if it is, in its own small way, his commentary on what's been going on.]

private } iris

Bet I can drink you under the table. [A calculated challenge. He's been paying attention.]

spam } syo

[He finds her in the library. Of course he does. Lost in the stacks somewhere, ostensibly restocking shelves. He can tell it's her and not the other one, because he has this preternatural way of sensing a glare about to come his way.]

Hey. What are you up to? [Like they're best friends. Which they definitely are.]

private } hannibal

Next time you invite me to a dinner party, can we bring some napkins or something?

[He's fine. It's fine. Just. Messy.]

( hannibal spam, backdated to last laugh )

spam } infirmary

[This time, Roderick elects to stay in the infirmary. He could have fled with some - well, a lot - of effort, but the thought of standing exhausts him. It's not even that he's tired, exactly; it's that he remembers so clearly the sensation of muscle parting from muscle that he is afraid, yes, really and truly afraid that if he stands, if he begins to walk, he'll come apart at the seams.]

[So he stays in bed and watches the world reflected in the red light behind his closed eyelids. For the first few days he doesn't talk, not even to Horatio. On the fourth day of the toll, he sits up and demands something to write with and a blank notebook. He doesn't know what he's going to write until it comes out, but it ends up being nonsense, fragments of phrases he's heard before that ring in his mind.]

[Eventually his hand cramps, then the pen runs out. Until then, he stays where he is.]

text } morgana, c'rizz, mira

you dead?

video

[Roderick remembers everything, of course. When he wakes up and realizes he is having a very literal out-of-body experience, he chalks it up to Barge weird and is more amused than anything. It only takes him about five minutes to realize he's got a tactical advantage in his new body. He learned quickly enough when working with the family that women are far more likely to be physically underestimated than men - often to their benefit, if they're women like Louise.]

[He spends some time observing the comings and goings of other changed passengers, then flips on the feed with a quirked brow and a small smile.]

Hi. [A quick wave.] I'm not, uh. Sure exactly what's going on here, but I get the sense it's not 100% normal? Yes? No? Am I warm, at least?

I'm Tamara, anyway. Thrilled to be here, hope to get to know all of you sooner rather than later, and did I hear something about a bar?

spam

[Which is where he'll be, along with, quite frankly, everywhere. He enjoys the freedom of walking around disguised as someone else through no effort whatsoever, enjoys looking at people from a different perspective, enjoys strategizing how to reach the jugular from below rather than above. Everything's different, and everything intrigues him.]

[When not at the bar, he can be found anywhere that inmates can reach and purported wardens would go. The gym is a repeat destination, where he practices knife fighting and attacks the punching bag with a curiously scientific dedication, as if trying to break it. On deck, he can be found with a copy of the collected works of Keats, and in the library frowning over Ginsberg. In the dining hall, he cozies up to people he doesn't recognize, always with a smile and a weapon in his back pocket.]

( ooc; roderick is obviously affected, replies coming from

howflawed. )

[He doesn't fully understand the cause and effect of his Trouble yet. After all, it's not like it's ever talked about. There would be no one to talk about it with. He's no longer surprised by his father's tendency towards drink, though, back when the bastard was alive. The wrong type of personality can't stand adulation.]

[Tim is not the wrong type of person. At least he doesn't think he is. He doesn't notice the fraying at his edges when people tell him they love him. He doesn't acknowledge the part of him that wants to react violently when touched, that wants to wring the loving breath out of them.]

[They say they love him as soon as he decides he wants to kill him. He wonders if his father was exactly the same.]

[Today's experiment is a range experiment. He approaches people and stands at five, ten, twenty yards, to see how long it will take for them to turn to him with those eyes. And one more - will it work over the network?]

[Yesterday's broadcast was voice. Today's is video, and Tim is smirking.]

Everybody having a good day? Wanna have a better one? Poetry reading at six on deck. Whoever's sweetest to me picks the poet.

( ooc; roderick is from the show haven and is troubled. but still a serial killer. :} more info here. )

[Weirdest. Drugs. Ever.]

[. . . is what Tim would say if he was the kind of guy who did drugs ever. But Tim has never even smoked weed. He is straight-edge, well-groomed, clean-cut, and an exemplary student, and if you asked him how he got here, he'd have a lot of theories but nothing too concrete.]

[He'd be polite about it, though. He hasn't quite learned to be caustic and cruel, or at least, he doesn't think he has. He doesn't remember meeting Joe Carroll, either, or killing his first young woman, or smiling while he did it.]

[Later, he'll be angry, because this was not the spirit of the wish he made. For now, he explores tentatively and then more boldly, up and down the ship, trying to keep out of people's way - until he reaches the pub, whereupon Tim Nelson, whose body feels too large for him, who is twenty and eternally sober, begins inspecting the beer selection.]

[Weirdest campus ever, that's for sure. He has the nagging feeling that there's work he ought to be doing.]

So my question is, does it really matter if anybody here isn't who they say they are?

Sure, it's annoying. Nobody likes to be lied to. Lying's not what you do, in a community like this. But I gotta say, in the grand scheme of things . . . they're outnumbered. They know that, we know that.

So all of you pull up your big kid underpants and stop playing around being cops and robbers. Some of us have a job to do, you know, on the principle of the thing. Some of us believe in the work we do here.

On that note, first person kills a man, woman, or child on the ground gets my personal congratulations and a haiku written about 'em.

[The rest of you though. Shut the fuck up.]

private } hannibal

You've been quiet.

spam } port

[Find Roderick somewhere outside the city. His hands are red with blood; he is scouring them in the sand, although there are bloody prints on the back of his pants, where he absently wiped his hands.]

[Maybe if you're lucky you'll find him before you find the body. Somebody's making himself at home really quickly.]

( ooc; roderick is affected and a warden [to hannibal] on the mirror barge! feel free to assume backstory with him - he basically treats the place like a way to spread his murder gospel to anyone willing to listen. )

Forget everything you know about the end of the world.

I know, I know - some of you have experienced it personally, but just try to put it out of your mind for a little while. Start fresh. There's something more personal that I'm thinking of. Don't underestimate the intimacy of an apocalypse.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.

Maybe some of you still live in the downswing of the first world war, but I'm willing to bet most of us don't. That's when Yeats lived; that's what a lot of people think he was talking about. The world going to hell because of the people in it. We're not in that time and place anymore - like I said, most of us aren't. And yet people still fear and hate each other. Why is that? Why do we keep drowning innocence like it's done something to us?

The end of anyone's personal world brightens someone else's, somehow. Can you imagine turning out the lights on someone's everything?

Sure some of you don't have to imagine. Some of you already know.

[There will be a copy of The Second Coming handwritten in each level's common room. You're welcome.]

spam } gardens

[Roderick isn't about to trip over himself on the network right now, but he's not interested in staying out of sight entirely, either. That sends the wrong message - one of fear - and he doesn't fear the truth. So he takes one of the books River brought him - Pale Fire this time; she deliberately didn't bring Poe - and walks the gardens reading, greeting everyone who comes in (although he doesn't ask anyone how are you.]

[The person he's waiting for, though, is Morgana. When he sees her he actually closes the book all the way and gives her his best smile, broad and white and cheerful. He really means it. She comes highly recommended as a good person to know.]

|| heir ||

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.

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Tim "Roderick" Nelson

a vivacious warmth

( an overdone cordiality )

Recent Entries

ｎａｖｉｇａｔｉｏｎ.

permissions.

hmd.

updated path to redemption.

16 ◈ spam

15 ◈ spam & voice

14 ◈ spam

13 ◈ spam & private

inventory.

12 ◈ spam

11 ◈ spam + private

10 ◈ voice + private

09 ◈ text + spam

08 ◈ video & spam

07 ◈ spam & video

06 ◈ spam

05 ◈ voice & spam

04 ◈ voice & semi-spam

03 ◈ spam

02 ◈ private spam, backdated 3/9

|| heir ||

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