The Player
Name/Nickname: Ellis
Age: 26
Pronouns: He/him or she/her accepted
Contact: woodiron on AIM, woodironbone [at] gmail
Currently Played Characters:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
johnny_truant, mr_fring, apidae
The Character
DW Account:bibliophale
Name: Aziraphale
Alias: Azraphel, A. Ziraphale, Ezra Fell
Age/Birthdate: 6,000 years, give or take a decade
Species: Angel
Canon: Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Canon Point: After the fact
Played By: Richard Ayoade
Icon:
Abilities:
Extensive matter and mood manipulation - he can create just about anything from thin air or make things disappear into it; he can alter the material nature of objects and places, within reason; he can heal physical wounds and ease emotional pain, even give people bursts of divine ecstasy if they've earned it. While he is technically duty-bound to use for the forces of Good, a little bending of the rules here and there is not unforeseeable.
The Rift limits his abilities such that he can no longer communicate with the Authorities, cannot do anything to escape Manhattan, cannot do any really huge spatial alteration, and cannot alter anyone's mind beyond mild/temporary measures.
He can teleport/fly, though he doesn't do that very often; he has a flaming sword that he only brings out in emergencies.
Very occasionally he does sleight of hand/street magic, but he's terrible at it.
Appearance:
Aziraphale's current man-shaped form is 6'2, handsome in an incredibly nerdy sort of way, bespectacled, and fluffy-haired. He has an abysmal fashion sense - tweedy jackets, clashing colorful ensembles, bowties, a really unfortunate penchant for tartan. He dresses rather like a flighty philosophy professor, or someone's bird-feeding granddad, and he has the affected, stuffy air to go with it; some of it is intentional, and a lot of it is circumstantial. He keeps his hands extremely clean, commonly seen with an elegant manicure, but this is more about book care than vanity. The rest of him is often unkempt - his wings in particular, though beautiful and tawny, are messy as hell. He tends toward gluttony and a stationary existence, and his bodies of the latter couple centuries have generally been a little on the pudgy side. Recently though he's gotten thin and lanky due to extenuating circumstances, but as the game progresses he'll be putting weight back on gradually.
Personality:
Aziraphale has been succinctly described as appearing English, intelligent, and, infamously, gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. These affectations suit him well enough, so he keeps them. Human sexuality constructs don't entirely apply to him, but it's apt enough that why bother arguing the point.
He tries so hard to be Good. He really does. Aziraphale has always wanted to believe that the Authorities and the powers of Heaven are infallible, and that ineffability equals righteous ends. He knows, G-- does he ever, that this is not entirely so. His recent learning experiences with the whole averting-Armageddon thing have left him a little less convinced of Heaven's ultimate wisdom and righteousness, and a little more willing to follow a certain personal code. It's a slippery slope he's progressively less afraid to trip on.
Vain and rather judgmental, prim and insufferably genteel, he reads as kind of a smug, superior asshole, and he can indeed be a bit of a jerk, though it's often accidental. He has the capacity for immense kindness and powerful, unwavering love, but all too often the good he does is more for the opposition's benefit than out of genuine concern (hey, it doesn't matter how the job gets done as long as it does get done, right? right??). Extended time among humanity has skewed him toward the morally questionable more than he'd like to admit. Over the centuries he's become prideful, lazy, heavily indulgent with food and drink, covetous and materialistic when it comes to his beloved books - that's five of the seven deadly right there! - and of course, lustful, but only in very specific circumstances.
History:
Technically, Aziraphale is a principality, but in these simpler times, "angel" will do. He was in fact the angel assigned to the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden. In those times he carried an impressive flaming sword, which he wound up giving away to the refugee knowledge-infested humans. Probably not the best move he's ever made, but pretty important in the long run, when you look at the big picture. He has since acquired a new flaming sword, which works about the same, and though he doesn't produce it very often, it is pretty badass.
Since the whole Garden debacle, Aziraphale has mostly kept company with the demon Crowley (formerly the serpent Crawly). After a good deal of fighting, in the 11th century the two of them made an Arrangement, whereby they would work around each other, and essentially stay out of one another's way. Possibly technical treason, but really, it was so much easier that way. They even did each other's work once in a while, when it was a time-saver. As such, they became quite familiar, and eventually, quite attached. Aziraphale would hate to admit it, but really, he cares more about Crowley than just about anyone or anything. Additionally, the two of them developed an affinity for life on Earth. And when the shit really hit the fan - that is, when the Antichrist arrived and the countdown to Armageddon began, well... he couldn't much resist Crowley's suggestion that they do everything they could to delay and eventually stop the Apocalypse, so that they could keep their bookstores and sushi restaurants and good music for as long as possible. Their plans went all kinds of awry, which was probably a good thing in a long run, but even so, through a series of increasingly botched events, they did, sort of, manage to assist the cancellation of the End. After this, when they were amazingly not punished, they settled more or less back into their lives.
Until the Rift messes that all up.
The Rift, in its infinite Riftness, chooses to take Crowley before Aziraphale, plucking him out right in the middle of a severe bout of mutual drunkenness and leaving Aziraphale to spend a month or so on his own, wondering what in the world could have happened to hisfriend counterpart, going so far as to allow the stress to impact his body, forgetting to shave sometimes and growing lean and wiry. The Rift waits until his transformation into a hot mess is complete, and only then decides to pick him up, dropping him in right around the same time as Crowley arrived. Just to screw with him, really. So rude.
Writing Sample:
"What about," Aziraphale is saying, "about. Wait. Wait. What-" He sloshes back the rest of the contents of his wineglass, spilling a bit on his tie. Oh bother. He cleans it up with a wave of his hand. "-about... cimna- cim- cimnanonom. That's a ridiculous word." He giggles, now thoroughly sidetracked. "You know what I mean though, right?"
The odds are unlikely, but it doesn't matter. A moment more and there's a physical crackle in the aether, Aziraphale can feel it trembling through his skin and he sits up sharply. "What-" he stammers, but there remains no one at whom he can finish his sentence. Crowley is gone. Crowley is gone.
Aziraphale sobers himself up in an instant, wiping away every trace of alcohol along with the side effects. He stands up and stares at the old couch, still indented with the shape of the vanished demon. He reaches forward and touches it gingerly, like he expects to feel evidence of the Event that's just taken his friend. He only feels the vague warmth of a just recently departed body.
"What in the world," he murmurs to himself, then stumbles out of the back room and into the main part of his reconstructed post-arson shop. He has half a mind to assume this is some sort of ill-conceived prank, but the ill-conceived part doesn't fit Crowley at all. There hadn't even been a good setup.
At a loss, he attempts to contact the Authorities, who fail to answer him, either because They're quite busy, or because he's temporarily on a no-call list. Not implausible, given the whole Armageddon thing. Oh dear, might this have something to do with that? Some sort of retribution? A lesson to be taught? He hopes not. If that were so he'd be next.
Well, what is he meant to do now?
This is a question that goes unanswered for days, then weeks. Aziraphale waits, wanders, even takes some marginally inadvisable measures in his increasingly frantic effort to locate his counterpart. When They do eventually get around to contacting him, the Authorities are no help at all: They have no idea where Crowley's got to, and are a little irritable about it, like somehow this is Aziraphale's fault. He bristles at the notion of a replacement and neglects his own work, gradually beginning to neglect himself too, even allowing his physical form to change in tune with the stress he's under. He can barely remember a time without Crowley, and his inability to cope shows in the facial scruff he doesn't bother culling and the increasing narrowness of his face and body.
Later - he's lost track of exactly how much time later - he's finishing off another miserable bottle of wine by himself when he feels that sensation again. Crackling, tingling, just as before. He gives a violent start, looking around in the throes of hysterics, when the scene changes. It's him this time, compressed, unmade, rearranged, and deposited elsewhere. Really elsewhere. He squints and blinks in the sudden, unwelcome sun and summer heat, and finds that, of course, he's staring up at an angel. An imperious stone angel, scowling at him in stark disapproval from atop its grand fountain. Aziraphale scowls back at it for a sulky moment before turning away to take in the rest of the world he's suddenly populating.
The world is... Manhattan.
He should probably react to this, but he doesn't have enough energy to bother. Why not this new turn of unpleasant events? This might as well happen.
"Crowley?" he murmurs, allowing himself a moment of hope, but there's only unfamiliar faces all around him. He sighs sadly, sobers up again, unbuttons his jacket, and places his hands on his hips, looking critically around the terrace and trying to pick a direction to wander in.
The Game
How did you find out about Big Applesauce?
I'm a fixture and I have a SICKNESS
What interests you about the game, and your character's place in it?
YOU KNOW WHAT THIS GAME NEEDS? MORE ANGELS
Anything else?
Name/Nickname: Ellis
Age: 26
Pronouns: He/him or she/her accepted
Contact: woodiron on AIM, woodironbone [at] gmail
Currently Played Characters:
johnny_truant, mr_fring, apidaeThe Character
DW Account:
bibliophaleName: Aziraphale
Alias: Azraphel, A. Ziraphale, Ezra Fell
Age/Birthdate: 6,000 years, give or take a decade
Species: Angel
Canon: Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett
Canon Point: After the fact
Played By: Richard Ayoade
Icon:
Abilities:
Extensive matter and mood manipulation - he can create just about anything from thin air or make things disappear into it; he can alter the material nature of objects and places, within reason; he can heal physical wounds and ease emotional pain, even give people bursts of divine ecstasy if they've earned it. While he is technically duty-bound to use for the forces of Good, a little bending of the rules here and there is not unforeseeable.
The Rift limits his abilities such that he can no longer communicate with the Authorities, cannot do anything to escape Manhattan, cannot do any really huge spatial alteration, and cannot alter anyone's mind beyond mild/temporary measures.
He can teleport/fly, though he doesn't do that very often; he has a flaming sword that he only brings out in emergencies.
Very occasionally he does sleight of hand/street magic, but he's terrible at it.
Appearance:
Aziraphale's current man-shaped form is 6'2, handsome in an incredibly nerdy sort of way, bespectacled, and fluffy-haired. He has an abysmal fashion sense - tweedy jackets, clashing colorful ensembles, bowties, a really unfortunate penchant for tartan. He dresses rather like a flighty philosophy professor, or someone's bird-feeding granddad, and he has the affected, stuffy air to go with it; some of it is intentional, and a lot of it is circumstantial. He keeps his hands extremely clean, commonly seen with an elegant manicure, but this is more about book care than vanity. The rest of him is often unkempt - his wings in particular, though beautiful and tawny, are messy as hell. He tends toward gluttony and a stationary existence, and his bodies of the latter couple centuries have generally been a little on the pudgy side. Recently though he's gotten thin and lanky due to extenuating circumstances, but as the game progresses he'll be putting weight back on gradually.
Personality:
Aziraphale has been succinctly described as appearing English, intelligent, and, infamously, gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. These affectations suit him well enough, so he keeps them. Human sexuality constructs don't entirely apply to him, but it's apt enough that why bother arguing the point.
He tries so hard to be Good. He really does. Aziraphale has always wanted to believe that the Authorities and the powers of Heaven are infallible, and that ineffability equals righteous ends. He knows, G-- does he ever, that this is not entirely so. His recent learning experiences with the whole averting-Armageddon thing have left him a little less convinced of Heaven's ultimate wisdom and righteousness, and a little more willing to follow a certain personal code. It's a slippery slope he's progressively less afraid to trip on.
Vain and rather judgmental, prim and insufferably genteel, he reads as kind of a smug, superior asshole, and he can indeed be a bit of a jerk, though it's often accidental. He has the capacity for immense kindness and powerful, unwavering love, but all too often the good he does is more for the opposition's benefit than out of genuine concern (hey, it doesn't matter how the job gets done as long as it does get done, right? right??). Extended time among humanity has skewed him toward the morally questionable more than he'd like to admit. Over the centuries he's become prideful, lazy, heavily indulgent with food and drink, covetous and materialistic when it comes to his beloved books - that's five of the seven deadly right there! - and of course, lustful, but only in very specific circumstances.
History:
Technically, Aziraphale is a principality, but in these simpler times, "angel" will do. He was in fact the angel assigned to the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden. In those times he carried an impressive flaming sword, which he wound up giving away to the refugee knowledge-infested humans. Probably not the best move he's ever made, but pretty important in the long run, when you look at the big picture. He has since acquired a new flaming sword, which works about the same, and though he doesn't produce it very often, it is pretty badass.
Since the whole Garden debacle, Aziraphale has mostly kept company with the demon Crowley (formerly the serpent Crawly). After a good deal of fighting, in the 11th century the two of them made an Arrangement, whereby they would work around each other, and essentially stay out of one another's way. Possibly technical treason, but really, it was so much easier that way. They even did each other's work once in a while, when it was a time-saver. As such, they became quite familiar, and eventually, quite attached. Aziraphale would hate to admit it, but really, he cares more about Crowley than just about anyone or anything. Additionally, the two of them developed an affinity for life on Earth. And when the shit really hit the fan - that is, when the Antichrist arrived and the countdown to Armageddon began, well... he couldn't much resist Crowley's suggestion that they do everything they could to delay and eventually stop the Apocalypse, so that they could keep their bookstores and sushi restaurants and good music for as long as possible. Their plans went all kinds of awry, which was probably a good thing in a long run, but even so, through a series of increasingly botched events, they did, sort of, manage to assist the cancellation of the End. After this, when they were amazingly not punished, they settled more or less back into their lives.
Until the Rift messes that all up.
The Rift, in its infinite Riftness, chooses to take Crowley before Aziraphale, plucking him out right in the middle of a severe bout of mutual drunkenness and leaving Aziraphale to spend a month or so on his own, wondering what in the world could have happened to his
Writing Sample:
"What about," Aziraphale is saying, "about. Wait. Wait. What-" He sloshes back the rest of the contents of his wineglass, spilling a bit on his tie. Oh bother. He cleans it up with a wave of his hand. "-about... cimna- cim- cimnanonom. That's a ridiculous word." He giggles, now thoroughly sidetracked. "You know what I mean though, right?"
The odds are unlikely, but it doesn't matter. A moment more and there's a physical crackle in the aether, Aziraphale can feel it trembling through his skin and he sits up sharply. "What-" he stammers, but there remains no one at whom he can finish his sentence. Crowley is gone. Crowley is gone.
Aziraphale sobers himself up in an instant, wiping away every trace of alcohol along with the side effects. He stands up and stares at the old couch, still indented with the shape of the vanished demon. He reaches forward and touches it gingerly, like he expects to feel evidence of the Event that's just taken his friend. He only feels the vague warmth of a just recently departed body.
"What in the world," he murmurs to himself, then stumbles out of the back room and into the main part of his reconstructed post-arson shop. He has half a mind to assume this is some sort of ill-conceived prank, but the ill-conceived part doesn't fit Crowley at all. There hadn't even been a good setup.
At a loss, he attempts to contact the Authorities, who fail to answer him, either because They're quite busy, or because he's temporarily on a no-call list. Not implausible, given the whole Armageddon thing. Oh dear, might this have something to do with that? Some sort of retribution? A lesson to be taught? He hopes not. If that were so he'd be next.
Well, what is he meant to do now?
This is a question that goes unanswered for days, then weeks. Aziraphale waits, wanders, even takes some marginally inadvisable measures in his increasingly frantic effort to locate his counterpart. When They do eventually get around to contacting him, the Authorities are no help at all: They have no idea where Crowley's got to, and are a little irritable about it, like somehow this is Aziraphale's fault. He bristles at the notion of a replacement and neglects his own work, gradually beginning to neglect himself too, even allowing his physical form to change in tune with the stress he's under. He can barely remember a time without Crowley, and his inability to cope shows in the facial scruff he doesn't bother culling and the increasing narrowness of his face and body.
Later - he's lost track of exactly how much time later - he's finishing off another miserable bottle of wine by himself when he feels that sensation again. Crackling, tingling, just as before. He gives a violent start, looking around in the throes of hysterics, when the scene changes. It's him this time, compressed, unmade, rearranged, and deposited elsewhere. Really elsewhere. He squints and blinks in the sudden, unwelcome sun and summer heat, and finds that, of course, he's staring up at an angel. An imperious stone angel, scowling at him in stark disapproval from atop its grand fountain. Aziraphale scowls back at it for a sulky moment before turning away to take in the rest of the world he's suddenly populating.
The world is... Manhattan.
He should probably react to this, but he doesn't have enough energy to bother. Why not this new turn of unpleasant events? This might as well happen.
"Crowley?" he murmurs, allowing himself a moment of hope, but there's only unfamiliar faces all around him. He sighs sadly, sobers up again, unbuttons his jacket, and places his hands on his hips, looking critically around the terrace and trying to pick a direction to wander in.
The Game
How did you find out about Big Applesauce?
I'm a fixture and I have a SICKNESS
What interests you about the game, and your character's place in it?
YOU KNOW WHAT THIS GAME NEEDS? MORE ANGELS
Anything else?
