Post by Dionysus on Apr 28, 2010 15:16:46 GMT -5
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- | + | - Character Basics - | + | -
.:Full Name of Character:. Dionysus
.:Nick Name: N/A
.:Appearance Age:. 28
- | + | - Appearance - | + | -
[/u][/center][/size][/font].:Look:.Short, light brown hair; green eyes; bronzed skin and attractive features typical of Olympians. He has a perpetual smile on his face – indicative of his mirthful nature.
.:Height:. 6’ 3”
.:Portrayed by:. Henry Cavill
- | + | - Personality - | + | -
[/u][/center][/size][/font].:Basic Personality:.
A hedonistic playboy in every sense of the word; entirely consumed with receiving and giving pleasure. He’s the patron saint of revelry, drunkenness, and unrestrained passion. There is an eternal party saddled with him; all within his presence becomes consumed by its influence. Throughout the ages, he has been known as the “Liberator” – the one who frees the willing from the chains of their normalcy and propriety.
Dionysus does not approve of misery; he hates the gods’ endless squabbles and incessant whining – and hell if he’s going to put up with it. Anytime there’s a fight, he uses his divine gifts to shift moods – and if that doesn’t work he disappears in a blink of an eye, and returns to the heart of woods. There in that uncharted terrain, he calls forth mortals to revel in their baser, hidden desires; there, the mortals begin to rave. Nymphs and satyrs adore this god; they accompany him frequently to his parties, leading the dance and music on their reed flutes and ram-skin drums. He is, of course, always joined by his Maenads – intoxicatingly beautiful women (no pun intended) utterly devoid of any semblance of boring normalcy.
- | + | - Status - | + | -
[/u][/center][/size][/font].:Species:. God
.:Position:. God of wine, unbridled liberty, and mirth.
.:Power:. Only one dominant one: his presence reduces mortal to their most basic, natural form. He forces them to rave, dance, drink, and make love. Among the gods, his powers are more limited, but he does influence them to a weaker degree.
- | + | - History - | + | -
[/u][/center][/size][/font].:Family:. Father – Zeus; Mother – the mortal Semele; children - Many, five by Aphrodite, six by Adriane, one by Nyx, one by Althaea, and one by Circe.
.:History:.
Dionysus is the son of Zeus and the mortal woman Semele. Semele died before giving birth, and Dionysus was carried to term by his father. He was born on Mount Pramnos. Zeus delivered him to the rain nymphs of Nysa so that they could raise him; the impression of their beauty and carelessness impressed him deeply. At a young age, he discovered the remarkable properties of the grape vine, and traveled throughout the lands to share the knowledge of wine. He grew into an exceptionally attractive youth, and egoism was born of it. His fascination with beauty, coupled with his own arrogance, created his initial following on earth – a following largely comprised of satyrs, nymphs, and Maenads.
Dionysius developed a cult in Greece, Anatolia, Minoan Crete, and Rome, to name a few places. He became known as the god of mysterious rites; he had his own rituals performed by his faithful Maenads – a group of mortal women who drowned themselves in wine and lust for his eternal enjoyment. Dionysus perpetuated madness and liberty throughout the land; he made it his habit to visit earth and draw mortals into the woods for nights of dark entertainment. He was a god of passion, present everywhere there was chaos and dark amusement.
Even as the pagan religions began to die, Dionysus’ influence continued to be felt throughout of the human world; everywhere, the taint of his hand stretches to cajole the masses into a frenzied dance of madness. Many religions began to associate his touch with that of Lucifer – a more menacing entity, to be sure, but equally a purveyor of mischief. He has kept himself more distanced from mortals, but cannot resist their charms. He still frequents secluded villages, searching for nighttime friends and lovers – and he has had many.
.:RP Sample:.
“Yes.” An amused voice, deep and echoing throughout the fields. “Go on; GO ON!”
The voice boomed over the crowd, over the masses of people. None of them looked in the direction of the voice – perhaps because it seemed to come from everywhere. Up and down and all around. But they still responded with great ferocity – as cries of pleasure and ecstasy rippled throughout them. Dispersed throughout the crowd, musicians ripped the noise from their instruments, beating on drums and blowing into their flutes. The crowd had been there for hours, moving as one big mass – like a giant feral animal in the night – raving and dancing. Their feet stomped the ground as they pulled at their hair and thin clothing. And the drums kept beating, beating, beating. They screamed and sang and panted in endless lustful sex. Beating. Again and again and again – never with the same partner. The sweat glistened off of their bodies in the dim light of a hundred campfires – their naked arms, like the smoke, reaching to heaven in a tangled spiral. And still the drums kept beating, like a terrible knocking on the door of their playground.
One reveler, a woman, collapsed upon the raised dais at the head of the crowd. Her long, naked body trembled with the moment of relaxation; head lowered to face the platform, elbows bent and jutted out as she attempted to raise herself – to obey the silent voice – back rising and falling rapidly with ragged breath. Her body, too, was slick with sweat – and blood. A deep gash that ran from her elbow to her wrist was bleeding profusely, though she didn’t seem to notice or care that such a wound, left untreated, could be fatal. Her skin was already turning a lovely shade a blue.
A hand, like a snake, struck at her upper arm, clasping it in an iron grip, viciously yanking it forward. The hand’s owner – a man, seated on a brooding, simple throne of eucalyptus wood – stared down at the women, his frame towering even in a seated position. He had short, clipped hair that was gold-dusted brown. A strong face with an olive complexion, and royal blue eyes – a fitting color for the divine Olympian he fashioned himself to be. There was perpetual amusement in his eyes – a hedonistic glint that only pretended to be harmless.
The woman, drunk and drugged, struggled to look up at the one who held her so firmly; but when she did, when her eyes met his, her body coiled with tension, sober in an instant. The man smiled at her, his eyes narrowing, as she began to sob.
“What’s wrong, love?” he asked, warm laughter in his voice. “Is it this?” he said, tightening his grip on her arm and raising it up. Bringing his free hand up, he ran his long fingers through the length of the cut on her inner arm, unresponsive to her screaming.
He chuckled as she squirmed, shaking his head, lips pursed like a parent facing a spoiled child’s protest. “Oh, don’t do that. Here, let me help.”
Leaning down, the man ran his tongue along the gash, drinking in the blood. His lips continued to her mouth, where he kissed her softly. Their eyes met, and – at long last – the man released his marble grip. The woman fell to the floor with a thud.
Licking the blood from his lips, Dionysus leaned back in his throne, his boots listlessly resting on the dead woman’s body.
His deep laughter rumbled over the crowd.
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