Information
Orthos has a minion!
Aztec the Spectrulizard
Aztec the Spectrulizard
Orthos
Legacy Name: Orthos
The
Spectrum KeetoOwner:
holloAge: 17 years, 4 months, 4 weeks
Born: November 19th, 2006
Adopted: 17 years, 4 months, 4 weeks ago (Legacy)
Adopted: November 19th, 2006 (Legacy)
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 13
- Defense: 12
- Speed: 13
- Health: 12
- HP: 10/12
- Intelligence: 3
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Home - News - Games - Shops - Forums
Name:
Orthos
Age:
22
Height:
5'8"
Gender/Orientation:
Male/Gay
Favorite Activity:
Haunting the House
Personality:
Outgoing, although a bit harsh and secretive when alive. Now that he's dead, and ghostly, he's quiet and reflective. Can become obsessive of certain things (and people). Quite a bit more disillusioned and depressed then when he was alive, and pretended to be so.
Description:
Pale skinned, with cutting scars on his right arm.
Left-handed.
Hair is black and cropped short, with a short multicolored mohawk. Eyes are a pale violet, and rimmed in black, like thick permanent eyeliner.
He is lanky, too skinny.
Clothing choices depend on his mood, reflect the clothes he wore when alive. Usually black with a mix of violet or red. Tripp pants and studded collars. Think teenage-goth-wannabe.
Ears and tail are visible in human form.
Art:
+ Overlay
+ Previous Overlay
Life was for living. Even if he thought of it as a pain and a bore. It was there so you would do something with it, not just sit around and mope and be depressed all day. Clove cigarettes and dull voices, poetry and black - black - black - it all got too boring, too soon.
So he found himself a different way to live, even if he kept his black and his collars and his clove cigarettes, parading his scars as proof that he'd been there and he'd come back.
There were plenty of takers, and more than enough that would share their stash of illegal mind-expanding recreational drugs, for the right price. Or the right promise.
He was good at making promises. Maybe not so good at keeping them, but by that point the person in question would be too caught up in his life to remember their own.
Age didn't matter to him, he said. He was hitting nineteen-twenty-twenty-one and he was passing twenty-two and it wasn't age that mattered to him but what he could get out of them. Like an upscale apartment. Like that lux sports car. Like all the alcohol and drugs he could ever want.
For what? For being available when his benefactor wanted a little of the ol' horizantal tango? Or vertical, for that matter? Putting up with a few kinks, and the odd strange fetish, didn't seem like too high a price to pay.
For him, this was living
For as long as he did live, anyway.
At some point, binge drinking and piles of pills have to catch up, no matter how fast life is lived. He crashed, and he burned, and by the time he got to the ER he was too far gone
He was dead.
It was glaringly apparent, though, that he wasn't gone.
He found himself attached to a plushie, a little white and black and rainbow colored dog-thing that belonged to a young Montre in a place he only ever heard referred to as the House (that's a capital H).
No one could see him. No one could hear him. No one knew he was there.
For the first time, he was utterly and completely alone.
He could possess the plushie, at least for short periods of time, and only when no one was paying attention to it. He could go through walls and drop through floors and float up through ceilings.
He could also, apparently, fall in love.
He didn't understand it, truthfully. Not the why of it, why a ghost would even have the capacity for love, and not the feeling itself. He'd known it before, he had, but not like this. Not like this burning, living feeling that nestled itself deep down somewhere in his soul, setting what was left of his mind reeling whenever the object of his affections was near.
The man was hopelessly oblivious to Orthos's overtures. No matter how hard he tried, the other couldn't hear him or feel him, couldn't even feel his presence.
He followed the man as often as he could, and though he couldn't stray from the house and it's gardens, unless the damned plushie was taken somewhere else, he spent as much time as he could at the man's side. He possessed the plushie, sent it careening down stairs into the man's path, planting it among the gardening tools and finally, desperately, in the man's room itself, hoping beyond hope that something, anything, would make the man notice he was there.
Nothing worked.
He'd be content enough watching the man, being near him. He would.
He couldn't.
The burning in him, the longing, the want and need gave him no rest. No matter what he did, how hard he tried to turn his thoughts to something else, he would find himself in the same state again.
Desperate
Needy
So full of love, and no way to show it.
Orthos
Age:
22
Height:
5'8"
Gender/Orientation:
Male/Gay
Favorite Activity:
Haunting the House
Personality:
Outgoing, although a bit harsh and secretive when alive. Now that he's dead, and ghostly, he's quiet and reflective. Can become obsessive of certain things (and people). Quite a bit more disillusioned and depressed then when he was alive, and pretended to be so.
Description:
Pale skinned, with cutting scars on his right arm.
Left-handed.
Hair is black and cropped short, with a short multicolored mohawk. Eyes are a pale violet, and rimmed in black, like thick permanent eyeliner.
He is lanky, too skinny.
Clothing choices depend on his mood, reflect the clothes he wore when alive. Usually black with a mix of violet or red. Tripp pants and studded collars. Think teenage-goth-wannabe.
Ears and tail are visible in human form.
Art:
+ Overlay
+ Previous Overlay
So he found himself a different way to live, even if he kept his black and his collars and his clove cigarettes, parading his scars as proof that he'd been there and he'd come back.
There were plenty of takers, and more than enough that would share their stash of illegal mind-expanding recreational drugs, for the right price. Or the right promise.
He was good at making promises. Maybe not so good at keeping them, but by that point the person in question would be too caught up in his life to remember their own.
Age didn't matter to him, he said. He was hitting nineteen-twenty-twenty-one and he was passing twenty-two and it wasn't age that mattered to him but what he could get out of them. Like an upscale apartment. Like that lux sports car. Like all the alcohol and drugs he could ever want.
For what? For being available when his benefactor wanted a little of the ol' horizantal tango? Or vertical, for that matter? Putting up with a few kinks, and the odd strange fetish, didn't seem like too high a price to pay.
For him, this was living
For as long as he did live, anyway.
At some point, binge drinking and piles of pills have to catch up, no matter how fast life is lived. He crashed, and he burned, and by the time he got to the ER he was too far gone
He was dead.
It was glaringly apparent, though, that he wasn't gone.
He found himself attached to a plushie, a little white and black and rainbow colored dog-thing that belonged to a young Montre in a place he only ever heard referred to as the House (that's a capital H).
No one could see him. No one could hear him. No one knew he was there.
For the first time, he was utterly and completely alone.
He could possess the plushie, at least for short periods of time, and only when no one was paying attention to it. He could go through walls and drop through floors and float up through ceilings.
He could also, apparently, fall in love.
He didn't understand it, truthfully. Not the why of it, why a ghost would even have the capacity for love, and not the feeling itself. He'd known it before, he had, but not like this. Not like this burning, living feeling that nestled itself deep down somewhere in his soul, setting what was left of his mind reeling whenever the object of his affections was near.
The man was hopelessly oblivious to Orthos's overtures. No matter how hard he tried, the other couldn't hear him or feel him, couldn't even feel his presence.
He followed the man as often as he could, and though he couldn't stray from the house and it's gardens, unless the damned plushie was taken somewhere else, he spent as much time as he could at the man's side. He possessed the plushie, sent it careening down stairs into the man's path, planting it among the gardening tools and finally, desperately, in the man's room itself, hoping beyond hope that something, anything, would make the man notice he was there.
Nothing worked.
He'd be content enough watching the man, being near him. He would.
He couldn't.
The burning in him, the longing, the want and need gave him no rest. No matter what he did, how hard he tried to turn his thoughts to something else, he would find himself in the same state again.
Desperate
Needy
So full of love, and no way to show it.
Pet Treasure
Gothic Collar
Gothic Notebook
Spectrum Keeto Plushie