Post by Feliciano Vargas on Feb 28, 2011 23:10:29 GMT -8
OOC
Player Name: Stitchez
Player Age: 17
Instant Messengers: wastelandmods (AIM), mr.stitchez (Skype)
IC
Nation:
North Italy
Name:
Feliciano Vargas
Vault of Origin:
Vault 69 - Las Vegas
Age:
23
DoB:
June 2nd
Sex:
Male
Height:
5 feet and 7.7 inches
Weight:
140lbs
Appearance:
to 
A bit on the heavier side for his height and age Feliciano is a little dough man of hugs and happiness. He's always got a smile on his face, well most of the time at least, and brown eyes with a near constant shine in them. His hair, parted down the middle, is a similar brown to his grandfather's with a rather large and unruly patch of hair curling away from behind his left ear, something that all three Vargas' share in common.
Being the grandson of the Don, his wardrobe usually consists of fitted suits and ties, nice leather shoes and various shiny accessories. During meetings and around associates that is. With the extremely hot weather though he much prefers wearing things a bit lesss stiff but still very fashionable, and his boots, because you'd have to be mad to go running around the world now in anything less protective than hard leather.
Town: Las Vegas, Caesar's Palace
Job: The Don's grandson
Personality: Feliciano has always been a bubbly person, with a large smile and generous nature. He was raised in such a good way he figures, what's there not to be happy about most of the time? With this as his way of thinking he never seems to be down, always chattering and waving his hands around to elaborately explain even the most simplest things, and often going off onto tangents; something that most people find highly amusing. At times it seems like nothing can damper his sunny spirits or erase the brilliant smile plastered to his face.
Despite being so nice to everyone he meets, Feliciano can also be blunt but, yet word things in the oddest way so that sometimes it sounds like a compliment instead of an insult. It can take anywhere from a few seconds to days, or longer, for someone to figure out that, yes, he had just completely and utterly trash talked how they had dressed that day. If someone tried to call him out on it though he'd instantly deny it with a bright smile and offer to make you some delicious food.
His love for arts and music is even greater than his grandfather's, ranging from cooking to painting and from dance to the pure human form. Paints and canvas are scarce though so what work he does do is done on scraps of paper first with charcoal, then carefully rendered with pencil onto the canvas before being filled in with precise strokes. Music wise, he'd very skilled with a violin he found in one of the crumbling hotels. It took years with no formal training and simply trying to play by ear and see what sounded good but no one covers their ears when he plays anymore at least.
Personal space has no meaning to him, so be warned if you're in contact with the Italian. From random hugs and jumping on you from behind to kisses on the cheek and awkward personal questions, there is no limit to his total disregard for personal space and privacy. Nothing of the nature seems to faze him (a by product of living with his grandfather perhaps?), which might explain why he's so nonchalant about people seeing him in the buff when he forgets to put clothes on after his daily naps - at 3 o'clock precisely.
Beneath all the sunshine and sugar cubes, he's a coward and crybaby. He doesn't think too much on it since it isn't like him to dwell on the negatives. If someone yells at him or he feels threatened though the young man will break out into crocodile tears and start making up elaborate reasons for just why you shouldn't hurt him. The result is usually the offender feeling really, really horrible, like they just kicked an abandoned puppy or something. The method has proved so effective he even got a raider to run off after stuttering out an apology. Not that Feliciano noticed since he was still crying and begging to not be killed because his grandfather would miss him, and oh so would his brother when he found out and he was so sure the guy could be a nice person if he just tried.
Despite how odd he acts, from how cheery he can be one minute, to a complete begging mess given the right conditions, underneath the cowardice lies a competent warrior. He knows how to defend himself and wield certain weapons to an extent and he has a deep running need to keep those he loves safe. Sure he'd much rather flee for the hills if guns and swords are pulled, but if anyone was trying to mess his his family? Then the gloves are off. And the dark side of this heir to the Vargas throne is not one you want to see. The normally bubbly cry baby turns into a sadistic, shiny eyed killer, who will sing nursery rhymes as he breaks your knee caps and chatter about his day as he gives you a Chelsea grin with one of his favorite knives.
After words, down from the high as he's puking in the washroom though he does something that is nearly unheard of in this time. Feliciano prays. His family had deep roots in religion and he and his brother learned the bible and its hymns. After each incident, and before every meal and before he goes to bed, like a good little altar boy, the Italian-American prays.
Strengths and Weaknesses: Feliciano is very good at running – away that is. He is an artist and a lover so any sign of conflict have him running and hiding, usually behind a body guard like Vash or his grandfather. He hates fighting to a great degree, one of the biggest weaknesses you can have in this dog eat mutant dog world. The ace up his sleeve though is a great strength (though his weaknesses cloud over it and this side doesn't come out too often) and that is the sadistic mafioso he can become under extreme pressure and threat.
Equipment/Weapons: Feliciano always carries around with him - two butterfly knives, a switch blade, a Swiss army knife, art supplies and snacks (in a fashionable backpack) and a fully loaded .45 revolver (did I mention he has horrible aim?).
History:
One of the grandsons of the current largest and most influential (as far as they know) gangs, Feliciano was coddled since birth. He is one of the heirs to the throne after all, and all little mafia princes are given what they want, when they want and fast. Introduced into the world in the teeming Vault 69, he was one of the first of the “new” generation to be born post-bombing in the Vargas family, preceded shortly by his older brother Lovino.
When he was 6 years old a caravan came past and stayed a while, one of the men old friends with his grandfather. In the large break room converted to be his play area Feliciano, in his raggedy but cute clothes that could be mistaken for a girls, fell in love for the first time. When the time came for the caravan to leave he was devastated and there, in the dusty sunset as a wind storm started to howl its fury, he gave his first kiss to that dusty blond haired blue eyed angel who had stolen his heart. He left with a shouted promise from the back of the car – ”We will meet again! I swear!”.
Years and years passed though and the boy had been pushed to the back of his mind, still there but not thought of, memories jumping when Feliciano was feeling depressed or whimisical. There were more important things to worry about and think on, he couldn't sigh over a love who might not ever return. He had to learn how to fight, something both his grandfather and the elder's bodyguard insisted upon. Guns shook wildly in his unsteady hand (odd when he could paint such straight and perfect lines) and melee weapons were swung in clumsy and off balance ways. Knives were finally settled upon, the gleaming metal grip in the teens hand proving a danger to his foes (aka sacks stuffed with rubble and sand). A collection grew from it, and is religiously taken care of to this day as new pieces are added.
Most of his childhood though, apart from learning how to run the casinos, deal with traitors and defend himself, was learning art. His grandfather believed there was still beauty in the world, from the beauty of a person's body to the strokes of a brush. The latter, art and cooking to be precise, were things that he grew to love as he learned more from his grandfather. He also learned the art of love from a long line of beautiful men and women his grandfather either paid for or helped him woo, a variety of sexual knowledge filling his mind and guiding his body until he became a great lover of both sexes.
Nowadays he is taking a bigger role in the running of the city. Of course he still flirts and has his one night stands, still paints and plays music and cooks, still watches the sunset with a forlorn look, eyes brightening at the dusty approach of caravans, but for the most part he runs one of the newly rebuilt casinos (and by rebuilt we mean, really just spruced up enough to not die in) and takes care of small things for his grandfather – like dragging a certain stubborn older brother to their meetings.
((more stuff will be added once people come in and we talk relations~))
Writing Sample: (I am lazy. And as such I'm totally just copy pasting a bit of my mafitalia fic I wrote. Yeah, imma Admin, I can cheat like this... it's technically related after all since Feli's in the mafia 8Db Full thing is here)
"See, I told you it was fun~" Feliciano giggled eerily as he stepped from the shadows, twirling the baseball bat in his hands. "We should tie it up so he doesn't pass out~" He moved slowly, freshly shined black shoes, that probably cost over several hundred dollars and made of genuine leather, tapping the floor lightly as he moved so he was standing in front of the chair, careful to avoid the puddles of drying blood from the previous men and this one. " 'cause then he wouldn't be fun to play with anymore~" The bat hit his hand with a dull smacking noise over and over as he watched the large man pull something from his pockets. The stray curled bobbed as the Italian mobster shifted to try and see what was pulled out, free hand reaching to push the fedora out of his vision.
"Cauterizing is easier, da?" Ivan didn't even wait for an answer. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air as the lighter was struck and gagged screams resounded like a symphony. Had the man not been gagged there was no doubt the screams would have been ear shattering.
"Ivan you make such bella musica~" Feliciano giggled happily, bat in the crook of his arms as he clapped. The lighter was flicked off and slipped back into the Russian's coat as he stood. The scent of burnt flesh and burnt blood still lingered in the air, tainting the stuffy warehouse air until it was you couldn't breath or taste anything but it. Ivan took a deep breath as if to savor it. Sadistic smiles mirrored the other's as they watched the panting man who was now slumped forward with only the tight rope binds keeping him up. Ivan moved off to the side as Feliciano raised his bat, using the handle to tilt the tortured man's head up. "If you'd just tell us who else you told secrets to then we would stopped hurting you~" A point-blank lie. The evil twist of lips and teeth had melted into something sugary sweet that promised no pain, a typical Italian smile, but his eyes were still sharp and dark, lusting for another's pain.
The man shook his head. No. It was a bad move. Stupidly brave was what he was, and he would pay dearly for his bravery. Reminded Feliciano of Alfred, the stupidly brave part, when la Cosa Nostra first showed up in New York and Chicago and all those other big cities in America. But stupidly brave people never fared better than the cowards. This would end, with his life seeping to join those already spent on the floor and then in their harbor.
"No? Well then I just get to show Ivan that I can make pretty music too~" He stepped back and started humming the more upbeat tune of a famous French pop song, flipping the bat with ease so the handle was in his grasp, fingers curling tight. "Here~ we~ go~~~!" The bat was pulled back and swung forward with such speed and force that the nation's friend's and allies would have been astonished. Weak little Italia heaving a bat hard enough for a crack bones was laughable outside of this room. The bat had hit its mark and the shin broke messily, bones poking from now bloody pants, leg bent in half. The cracks from the break were drowned by the cries of pain that seemed loud even with the gag. Splendido~
Player Name: Stitchez
Player Age: 17
Instant Messengers: wastelandmods (AIM), mr.stitchez (Skype)
IC
Nation:
North Italy
Name:
Feliciano Vargas
Vault of Origin:
Vault 69 - Las Vegas
Age:
23
DoB:
June 2nd
Sex:
Male
Height:
5 feet and 7.7 inches
Weight:
140lbs
Appearance:
to A bit on the heavier side for his height and age Feliciano is a little dough man of hugs and happiness. He's always got a smile on his face, well most of the time at least, and brown eyes with a near constant shine in them. His hair, parted down the middle, is a similar brown to his grandfather's with a rather large and unruly patch of hair curling away from behind his left ear, something that all three Vargas' share in common.
Being the grandson of the Don, his wardrobe usually consists of fitted suits and ties, nice leather shoes and various shiny accessories. During meetings and around associates that is. With the extremely hot weather though he much prefers wearing things a bit lesss stiff but still very fashionable, and his boots, because you'd have to be mad to go running around the world now in anything less protective than hard leather.
Town: Las Vegas, Caesar's Palace
Job: The Don's grandson
Personality: Feliciano has always been a bubbly person, with a large smile and generous nature. He was raised in such a good way he figures, what's there not to be happy about most of the time? With this as his way of thinking he never seems to be down, always chattering and waving his hands around to elaborately explain even the most simplest things, and often going off onto tangents; something that most people find highly amusing. At times it seems like nothing can damper his sunny spirits or erase the brilliant smile plastered to his face.
Despite being so nice to everyone he meets, Feliciano can also be blunt but, yet word things in the oddest way so that sometimes it sounds like a compliment instead of an insult. It can take anywhere from a few seconds to days, or longer, for someone to figure out that, yes, he had just completely and utterly trash talked how they had dressed that day. If someone tried to call him out on it though he'd instantly deny it with a bright smile and offer to make you some delicious food.
His love for arts and music is even greater than his grandfather's, ranging from cooking to painting and from dance to the pure human form. Paints and canvas are scarce though so what work he does do is done on scraps of paper first with charcoal, then carefully rendered with pencil onto the canvas before being filled in with precise strokes. Music wise, he'd very skilled with a violin he found in one of the crumbling hotels. It took years with no formal training and simply trying to play by ear and see what sounded good but no one covers their ears when he plays anymore at least.
Personal space has no meaning to him, so be warned if you're in contact with the Italian. From random hugs and jumping on you from behind to kisses on the cheek and awkward personal questions, there is no limit to his total disregard for personal space and privacy. Nothing of the nature seems to faze him (a by product of living with his grandfather perhaps?), which might explain why he's so nonchalant about people seeing him in the buff when he forgets to put clothes on after his daily naps - at 3 o'clock precisely.
Beneath all the sunshine and sugar cubes, he's a coward and crybaby. He doesn't think too much on it since it isn't like him to dwell on the negatives. If someone yells at him or he feels threatened though the young man will break out into crocodile tears and start making up elaborate reasons for just why you shouldn't hurt him. The result is usually the offender feeling really, really horrible, like they just kicked an abandoned puppy or something. The method has proved so effective he even got a raider to run off after stuttering out an apology. Not that Feliciano noticed since he was still crying and begging to not be killed because his grandfather would miss him, and oh so would his brother when he found out and he was so sure the guy could be a nice person if he just tried.
Despite how odd he acts, from how cheery he can be one minute, to a complete begging mess given the right conditions, underneath the cowardice lies a competent warrior. He knows how to defend himself and wield certain weapons to an extent and he has a deep running need to keep those he loves safe. Sure he'd much rather flee for the hills if guns and swords are pulled, but if anyone was trying to mess his his family? Then the gloves are off. And the dark side of this heir to the Vargas throne is not one you want to see. The normally bubbly cry baby turns into a sadistic, shiny eyed killer, who will sing nursery rhymes as he breaks your knee caps and chatter about his day as he gives you a Chelsea grin with one of his favorite knives.
After words, down from the high as he's puking in the washroom though he does something that is nearly unheard of in this time. Feliciano prays. His family had deep roots in religion and he and his brother learned the bible and its hymns. After each incident, and before every meal and before he goes to bed, like a good little altar boy, the Italian-American prays.
Strengths and Weaknesses: Feliciano is very good at running – away that is. He is an artist and a lover so any sign of conflict have him running and hiding, usually behind a body guard like Vash or his grandfather. He hates fighting to a great degree, one of the biggest weaknesses you can have in this dog eat mutant dog world. The ace up his sleeve though is a great strength (though his weaknesses cloud over it and this side doesn't come out too often) and that is the sadistic mafioso he can become under extreme pressure and threat.
Equipment/Weapons: Feliciano always carries around with him - two butterfly knives, a switch blade, a Swiss army knife, art supplies and snacks (in a fashionable backpack) and a fully loaded .45 revolver (did I mention he has horrible aim?).
History:
One of the grandsons of the current largest and most influential (as far as they know) gangs, Feliciano was coddled since birth. He is one of the heirs to the throne after all, and all little mafia princes are given what they want, when they want and fast. Introduced into the world in the teeming Vault 69, he was one of the first of the “new” generation to be born post-bombing in the Vargas family, preceded shortly by his older brother Lovino.
When he was 6 years old a caravan came past and stayed a while, one of the men old friends with his grandfather. In the large break room converted to be his play area Feliciano, in his raggedy but cute clothes that could be mistaken for a girls, fell in love for the first time. When the time came for the caravan to leave he was devastated and there, in the dusty sunset as a wind storm started to howl its fury, he gave his first kiss to that dusty blond haired blue eyed angel who had stolen his heart. He left with a shouted promise from the back of the car – ”We will meet again! I swear!”.
Years and years passed though and the boy had been pushed to the back of his mind, still there but not thought of, memories jumping when Feliciano was feeling depressed or whimisical. There were more important things to worry about and think on, he couldn't sigh over a love who might not ever return. He had to learn how to fight, something both his grandfather and the elder's bodyguard insisted upon. Guns shook wildly in his unsteady hand (odd when he could paint such straight and perfect lines) and melee weapons were swung in clumsy and off balance ways. Knives were finally settled upon, the gleaming metal grip in the teens hand proving a danger to his foes (aka sacks stuffed with rubble and sand). A collection grew from it, and is religiously taken care of to this day as new pieces are added.
Most of his childhood though, apart from learning how to run the casinos, deal with traitors and defend himself, was learning art. His grandfather believed there was still beauty in the world, from the beauty of a person's body to the strokes of a brush. The latter, art and cooking to be precise, were things that he grew to love as he learned more from his grandfather. He also learned the art of love from a long line of beautiful men and women his grandfather either paid for or helped him woo, a variety of sexual knowledge filling his mind and guiding his body until he became a great lover of both sexes.
Nowadays he is taking a bigger role in the running of the city. Of course he still flirts and has his one night stands, still paints and plays music and cooks, still watches the sunset with a forlorn look, eyes brightening at the dusty approach of caravans, but for the most part he runs one of the newly rebuilt casinos (and by rebuilt we mean, really just spruced up enough to not die in) and takes care of small things for his grandfather – like dragging a certain stubborn older brother to their meetings.
((more stuff will be added once people come in and we talk relations~))
Writing Sample: (I am lazy. And as such I'm totally just copy pasting a bit of my mafitalia fic I wrote. Yeah, imma Admin, I can cheat like this... it's technically related after all since Feli's in the mafia 8Db Full thing is here)
"See, I told you it was fun~" Feliciano giggled eerily as he stepped from the shadows, twirling the baseball bat in his hands. "We should tie it up so he doesn't pass out~" He moved slowly, freshly shined black shoes, that probably cost over several hundred dollars and made of genuine leather, tapping the floor lightly as he moved so he was standing in front of the chair, careful to avoid the puddles of drying blood from the previous men and this one. " 'cause then he wouldn't be fun to play with anymore~" The bat hit his hand with a dull smacking noise over and over as he watched the large man pull something from his pockets. The stray curled bobbed as the Italian mobster shifted to try and see what was pulled out, free hand reaching to push the fedora out of his vision.
"Cauterizing is easier, da?" Ivan didn't even wait for an answer. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air as the lighter was struck and gagged screams resounded like a symphony. Had the man not been gagged there was no doubt the screams would have been ear shattering.
"Ivan you make such bella musica~" Feliciano giggled happily, bat in the crook of his arms as he clapped. The lighter was flicked off and slipped back into the Russian's coat as he stood. The scent of burnt flesh and burnt blood still lingered in the air, tainting the stuffy warehouse air until it was you couldn't breath or taste anything but it. Ivan took a deep breath as if to savor it. Sadistic smiles mirrored the other's as they watched the panting man who was now slumped forward with only the tight rope binds keeping him up. Ivan moved off to the side as Feliciano raised his bat, using the handle to tilt the tortured man's head up. "If you'd just tell us who else you told secrets to then we would stopped hurting you~" A point-blank lie. The evil twist of lips and teeth had melted into something sugary sweet that promised no pain, a typical Italian smile, but his eyes were still sharp and dark, lusting for another's pain.
The man shook his head. No. It was a bad move. Stupidly brave was what he was, and he would pay dearly for his bravery. Reminded Feliciano of Alfred, the stupidly brave part, when la Cosa Nostra first showed up in New York and Chicago and all those other big cities in America. But stupidly brave people never fared better than the cowards. This would end, with his life seeping to join those already spent on the floor and then in their harbor.
"No? Well then I just get to show Ivan that I can make pretty music too~" He stepped back and started humming the more upbeat tune of a famous French pop song, flipping the bat with ease so the handle was in his grasp, fingers curling tight. "Here~ we~ go~~~!" The bat was pulled back and swung forward with such speed and force that the nation's friend's and allies would have been astonished. Weak little Italia heaving a bat hard enough for a crack bones was laughable outside of this room. The bat had hit its mark and the shin broke messily, bones poking from now bloody pants, leg bent in half. The cracks from the break were drowned by the cries of pain that seemed loud even with the gag. Splendido~