Individual Character's Full Name: Ezra Pahlke
Alias/Nickname/Codename: n/a
Gender: Male
Age: 305
Date of Birth: Autumn of 1712
Birthplace/ Home/ Place of origin: Ingolstadt, Germany
Nationality: German/American
Ethnicity/Cultural Heritage: Ambiguous
Ezra speaks in
olivedrab.
AppearanceHair Color and Style: Jet-black hair, slightly wavy, hangs just past his shoulders. Usually pulled back in a ponytail or bun. Loose strands of hair often fall free of the tie, giving him a disheveled look.
Skin Tone: Sickly, ashen tan skin with a spider web of grey veins clearly visible. Deeper grey around eyes and lips. Inside of mouth (gums, lips, tongue) are dark grey/almost black.
Eye Color: Protuberant amber eyes with faintly yellowed sclera.
Height: 7’0”
Build: Tall and spindly, gaunt.
Visible Mutation: He has a humanoid but unnatural appearance, lack of a nose, and a flat, walnut-sized red jewel embedded in his sternum.
Scars/Tattoos/Piercings: Faint scars from head-to-toe, like a spiderweb or a lightning strike.
Other Features: Elegant in his demeanor and reserved body language. Sharp cheekbones, gaunt jawline. Beneath the heavy scarification, one might guess that he’s late 20’s, early 30’s by his appearance, though his demeanor often leads people to guess older. Ezra always smells of soil. Big ears, one of which has a notch missing from the helix.
Everyday Clothing Style: Tweed suits (coordinating, not necessarily matching), collared shirts with neckties, underneath an ugly knitted sweater, and oxford shoes for work. If he’s going for a more casual look, he’ll just don a sweater and ditch the suit coat or tie. He doesn't own jeans or t-shirts, beyond undershirts.
Uniform: N/A.
Sleepwear: Coordinating top-and-bottom, top is typically of the button-up variety. Tends towards linen material and short sleeves in the summer, and towards flannel and long sleeves in the winter. Always with pants, never with shorts. Also wears slippers and a robe around the house.
Miscellaneous Clothing: Wears hats like newsboy caps or fedoras when he goes out. He also has a pair of specially-made leather driving gloves. Reading glasses.
CharacterPersonality: Ezra is a whisper of a man who carries himself as though he’s constantly apologizing for his grotesque appearance. He tends to be nervous and bumbling, formal and polite to a fault. His tenor voice is soft and accented, and he tends towards a constantly concerned expression.
Ezra is most animated when his niche interests are brought-up—these include literature, gardening, classical music, or world history. (His voice becomes very robust when he’s reciting his favorite soliloquies… but you need to get him drunk enough to figure that out! Otherwise he’ll just info-dump until you ask him to stop.) Beneath the flighty exterior is the mind of an intellectual. Though well-spoken, he often misses plays-on-words, sarcasm, or jokes altogether. Swearing or staring flusters him. He’s old fashioned. People didn’t use such vulgar language, in those days.
Ezra’s biggest struggle is his tendency towards self-blame, and he often shoulders more responsibilities than necessary. This often manifests in a tendency to apologize far too frequently, acting very scatterbrained, and the occasional panic attack. Deep down, he believes himself to be altogether unlikeable, which means he tries to do far too much for others, almost to the point of self-sacrifice.
Hobbies/Interests: Strategy games (particularly chess), reading, playing the piano or stand-up bass, gardening, classical music, cooking, sleeping/eating (yes, these are hobbies rather than necessities), cleaning, and knitting.
- Ezra has two cats, Gertrude and Alice.
- Gentleman Thieves/Swashbucklers/Etc.: Ezra is also particularly enamored with gentlemen thieves/ swashbucklers/ etc.… those daring literary heroes who boast hearts of gold. It’s something he aspires to, though he asserts that he “doesn’t have the heart” for “daring acts”.
Job and Description: Librarian at Xavier’s Sister School. Periodic superintendent in the gigantic apartment complex that neighbors the micro-neighborhood where his townhouse is. (Works for the owners of the complex where
Rebecca Grey-Morris and
Raine reside, in the close proximity of hundreds of others.) ((While on the topic, his townhouse is a three-story abode within
this collective.))
Fears/Phobias/Concerns:
- History Repeating Itself: If you live long enough, you start seeing patterns. Ezra has lived through no less than two registration/internment situations, and gets antsy when the warning signs start to arise.
- Technology: He’s adapted through the ages relatively well, thus far—but recent technological advancements befuddle him. Think of a beloved grandparent who isn’t entirely sure of how to turn a computer on—that’s Ezra. This is reflected in the push-button cell phone he carries around and his lack of a personal computer.
- Doctors/Surgery/Anything Medical: Given his background (and physiology), the whole concept of letting an “esteemed scientist” poke around his body terrifies him.
- Never Finding Love/Acceptance: Also stems from his origins. Hey, when the man who gave you life ran-out the moment you were born (and you have enough wherewithal to remember it) finding a friend-group or a lover would be a concern of yours too! Related fears/concerns include outliving said friends/loved-ones which, given his immortality, is also a very real concern. Also, he’s flamingly gay, to add another layer of complication.
- The Wellbeing of Others: He’d never knowingly hurt anyone, and he wants to please everyone. Ezra even takes this another step further, and acts like a mother hen towards anyone he feels personally responsible for.
Special Talents: Since Ezra doesn’t require sleep, he’s had centuries to pursue various interests. This is reflected in the talents he’s acquired—he is multilingual (fluent in English [duh], Spanish, German, Russian, and Arabic… presently studying Mandarin) and plays piano as well as the stand-up bass. He’s also a rather adept gardener and chef.
MoralityGood: Ezra tends to adhere to what’s morally or lawfully good by societal standards. He keeps to himself, though—you don’t glide under the radar for three centuries by making a spectacle of yourself.
Mutations Mutation Description: “It’s prounounced Frahn-ken-steen.”
That's right-- Ezra is the creature upon which the Frankenstein myth is based. But, to anyone who's willing to listen, this soft-spoken man will be quick to dispel a number of misconceptions regarding the nature of his being and origin-- Victor Frankenstein was not a doctor, he was a dropout. Also, he didn’t transcend God himself through shear medical genius… he was a mutant.
Frankenstein’s power was such that he could imbue nonliving creatures with life, and use them to serve him. In order to facilitate this, he possessed a “philosopher’s stone” (of Frankenstein’s own design), which he would take shards off of to power undead constructs. Prior to Ezra, these included resurrected dogs, cats, courier pigeons, et cetera. Behaviorally, they acted like their living counterparts, but more subservient. These smaller constructs demanded only splinters of the stone to operate.
Ezra was different-- Ezra was Victor’s first (and only) attempt at resurrecting a human, the last attempt Victor ever made at reanimating the dead-- for a number of reasons. First of all, he demanded a majority of the stone in order to function, with Victor blindly bequeathed unto him. The seat of his power was within the stone itself, so after that, he only had enough power to direct his animal constructs. Secondly, while most of the constructs existed to serve, and had no free will of their own, Ezra had free-will. This is largely because, when Victor resurrected Ezra, one of the main cadavers he utilized had formerly been a mutant-- a baker with the ability of regeneration (self-healing) by bestowing life unto Ezra, Victor kick-started the slumbering mutation. Ezra began to repair himself, and effectively subverted the “homunculi” directives (to serve unquestioningly).
Though Ezra is very different from others of Frankenstein's’ creations, he still shares a number of similarities with them. His body was unwittingly donated by human cadavers... and yes, the use of the plural was intentional. Seams here-and-there and the slightest shift in skintone make this apparent.
Beneath the skin, his flesh is comprised of clay, ash, mandrake root, spring water, and one pint of pig’s blood, hence the earthy smell that clings to Ezra and his greyish skin tone.
A red gem, bestowed upon Ezra by Victor and most commonly referred to as “the nexus” or “The Philosopher’s Stone” (“stone” for short), sits at the base of his sternum. It's flat, and the size of a tennis ball and shape like a walnut. The gem is the battery that powers Ezra’s body, acting as “the brain” so to speak. A more spiritual person might say that it houses Ezra's "soul" or "mind".
Though Ezra has all the bodily systems within him, and can use them, they’re more vestigial then much else… he can eat, breathe, and sleep if he so desires, but he doesn’t need to. (Ezra also asserts that he doesn’t like eating much, if ever.) The blood that flows through him is sludge-like and black.
Strengths:Bodily Functions Optional: He doesn’t need to eat, breathe, or sleep to survive, but he sometimes sleeps (“goes into stasis”) for his own enjoyment or for healing. (Discussed further in weaknesses and limitations.) Likewise, this affects his strength-- his size and lack of human muscles (remember the clay-ash mixture?) places him at above-human levels of strength, since he does not have muscles that can get fatigued. However, because of his size, Ezra is distinctly less agile than most, and it takes a significant amount of effort to get him moving quickly.
Piecing Himself Together: If Ezra loses a limb, so long as he reattaches it within two hours of losing it, he will be able to reintegrate into his being. It does, however, have to be a limb that was originally his. (Since the nexus functions as his brain/heart/whatever, beheading Ezra is comparable to losing an arm or leg. He doesn’t maintain functionality of any appendage that’s been detached, but anything connected to the nexus can still move.
Essentially Immortal: His lack of bodily functions means that he doesn’t age. He doesn’t breath (except for effect) and so he isn’t susceptible to airborne viruses. Or any viruses, really. Wounds that would technically be lethal to humans would only inconvenience Ezra. And, because all of his bodily functions are dictated by a gem (rather than systems of organs), there are less ways to kill him.
Weaknesses and Limitations:Superhuman Capabilities: His strength, speed, agility and durability, although above-human in levels, are nothing compared to mutants who specialties are these traits. His limitations are as follows: his strength, speed, and agility are at peak human levels, while his durability is average.
Unique Healing Capabilities: In order to heal his wounds, Ezra slips into “stasis”, which is akin to sleeping. He does not otherwise (naturally) heal, due to his lack of body functions. A minor cut could be healed by a fifteen-minute cat-nap, while a large gash (akin to a dog-bite) would require a night’s rest to repair. This is by no means a regenerative capability. Let’s say, for example, his arm got lobbed off. He will not grow another arm. He could, however, stitch his arm back on (or have someone do it for him), and it will eventually heal. In order to heal a broken (or reattached) limb, Ezra would need about three weeks worth of stasis, and a brace to keep it in-place until then. Beheading would simply kill him. There’s no coming back from that. (He doesn’t know that, though. He’d have to be dead to know that.)
Homunculi Have Feelings Too!: Ezra is still susceptible to the damage inflicted by extreme heat or cold, and he can still experience pain, despite his heightened resistance to injury... the veins that extend out from the nexus may be to thank, for that. There is a slight delay, however. (Please recall the part of Frankenstein where the Creature accidentally stuck his hands in the fire-- yes, that really happened, much to Ezra’s chagrin.)
Damage to the Stone: The stone is, essentially, Ezra’s brain and soul. If it is shattered, he will die. If it is scuffed or scratched, he may suffer a seizure or pass out (severity of the damage determining). The gem is akin to a gemstone (like a garnet) in durability. If damage is done to the stone, it will repair itself over time, but the healing is not instantaneous. It takes 1-3 days, severity of the damage determining, to fix. Also, if the gem is shattered, there’s no coming back from that.
Adapteds: Since the stone essentially powers his body/houses his soul, walking into an Adapted field makes Ezra a narcoleptic time-bomb. An Adapted’s field will render him unconscious after about thirty seconds of exposure. If he expects it, Ezra can fight it, but he’ll be noticeably groggy and will “feel faint”. (It’s akin to fighting a bout of vertigo, or how you might feel if you drink alcohol on an empty stomach.)
Physical AbilitiesGeneral Physical Capabilities: Ezra has peak human levels of durability and strength. His stamina or speed aren’t necessarily good though.
Fighting Style: Fighting is uncivilized, and something he’d rather not engage in. In his early years, he didn’t know any better, and was the cause of many deaths. In interest of self-preservation, he has raw, brute strength to rely on, and will usually opt to throw a person to another location, where they won’t be a threat. If he happens to be toting a cane or umbrella, he might ream you over the head if provoked.
Fighting Style Pros/Cons: You can’t fight if you’ve been thrown into a river. Can’t lose a fight that you never fought, and Ezra sees no shame in running away. However, he’s gigantic and unrefined, and would be completely ineffectual against a trained martial artist. Hopefully he can ream any potential attackers on the head before they can attack him.
History Of Your CharacterI met with Mrs. Shelley by happenstance in Gersheim, in the year 1814—I was nearly one-hundred years old at the time. I was intrigued by her, initially, due to my familiarity with her husband’s work (particularly his most recent published work,
Queen Mab: A Philosophical Poem). I became more profoundly interested in her because, unlike many individuals with whom I’d crossed paths, she looked me squarely in the eyes. Her look was unflinching, sharp and sympathetic. I felt like I could unearth my entire origins story to her.
At the time I thought nothing of it. Over the unfurling steam of hot tea, I told her my story. Then, like that, we parted ways. Nearly ten years later, I would be in France, perusing the tomes at a small bookstore, when my father’s name would snag my attention. “Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus” by Mary Shelley.
Of course I read it—I poured over those pages as a starving man might devour the first meal he’d seen in months. It was uncanny how accurately she had transcribed the story of my origins—how I awoke with a spark, how I was spurned from the moment I could walk, how I spent my early years in the woods, taught myself to speak, lived on the fringes, engaged in a bloody retaliation against my father, and found him on a boat in the wild North.
There were omissions, of course—why wouldn’t there be? I never offered Mrs. Shelley the specifics of how I had been made (intentionally, of course) because I feared what tribulations another such as myself would have to endure. As such, she made vague references to Mr. Frankenstein’s fascination with death and rebirth. Similarly, Mrs. Shelley suggested that I sacrificed myself to the sea. Obviously that’s a farce, or else I would not be recording my origins upon the paper now.
Victor Frankenstein believed himself to be a practitioner of the arcane arts—a scientist and an alchemist whose abilities allowed them the gift of resurrection. Of course this perspective was typical for someone of that century—nowadays one would refer to him as a “mutant”, but Mr. Frankenstein was of the belief that he had a gift of the mystical variety.
I spent months after my creator’s death scouring his study for answers. Through journals I found, I learned that I was not Frankenstein’s first creation. Those like me occupied vessels such animals, and were used for menial tasks. They were unthinking and easy to train. And, in the midst of his experimentation, he began to entertain the idea of a humanoid creation.
The humanoid creation was me. I was to be his magnum opus. It would be simple, he said, like his other constructs. Until the moment I opened my eyes, that is. I remember sitting up, for the very first time, and being greeted by horrified screams. I remember Frankenstein fleeing from me. Of course I was confused. Scared. He saw nothing wrong when resurrecting animals, but when met with an intelligent gaze, the weight of his transgressions must have come crashing-in on him.
The rest is history, and I laud Mrs. Shelley for her accuracy. For sake of saving paper, I will not reiterate what has already been published in her works.
Much of my early years were spent in Europe and Asia. You could find me on the outskirts of society, often in libraries or in bookstores. Traveling afforded me anonymity—with each new town came a new name, a new job, a new walk of life.
I found others like me, people with gifts, people who were ostracized or similarly revered because of the “gifts” they possessed. These days, you refer to them as “mutants”, but in the days of old, we were more than human—monsters, miracles, magicians, and so-on. Sometimes, that mindset is hard to let go, and I see ripples of it throughout society, even now.
I peregrinated frequently, devoured the books that I could get my hands on, became worldlier, and learned to integrate with human society. As time wore-on, I realized that I was not aging, did not require sustenance, and healed at a phenomenal rate. I used these advantages to devour as many books as possible.
I left Europe during the Great War, which would later come to known as World War One. I found my way to New York City. Having accrued a comfortable wealth over my centuries of traveling, I purchased a modest townhouse in Manhattan.
It was difficult to bid my former life of travelling adieu, and thus I traveled as often as my busy life would permit, across the Americas and back again, frequently returning to my abode. Having cemented my existence within the confines of four walls, I found it necessary to falsify my own identity, every now and again faking my own death, bequeathing my home and my possessions to an imagined progeny (my new identity). In all honesty, however, I led a fairly lonely existence—I have no progeny to speak of, and any—how do I say it—charming young men with whom I spent my time rarely stayed very long.
In my current life, I work as a landlord (my townhouse now converted to an apartment complex), and a Loss Control Specialist/Claims Adjuster for an insurance company. Though I continue to live a relatively lonely existence, I still frequent the local library, and have also (in the past few years) started to play in a band. It’s a quiet life but, to be entirely honest, that’s how I prefer it. After all, I have my cats. They’re all I really need…
RoleplayWhere did you learn about this site?: I’m an oldie. Been here since December 2010.
Do you have any other characters on MRO, if so who: Jack, Gina, and Chase.
Sample RP:Red. Pain. Uncontrollable spasming. A bestial yowl—a voice—my voice, yowling into the cold. How—where—who—why? Why? Why? Head-to-toe, I am scalded by the spark that gives me life. It rends my flesh with burns. Red subsides, and melts to black. I wait. Will the red come back? I will wait. It’s not safe. The black remains. A good black. Safe. The worst is over.
How wrong I was.
My eyes open to slits.
It is not really black. In the dim light of the room, there is much more. There are more colors, more shapes. I am not in black. I am in a place. A safe place? A flicker of white-yellow-orange burns nearby. It sits on hard edges—and this room, likewise, is filled with hard edges. I am on a hard edge. It’s cold below.
My eyes open wholly.
Two eyes stare back. They are smaller. I like their eyes—not red, not black, but blue—blue and filled with such mirth I can’t help but feel reassured. This place is not just my place—it’s someone else’s, too, and I’ll be safe here. This blue-eyed man will give me the answers I—
The smile leaves his eyes, and his expression turns red. White. A horrified scream. He retreats into the black. Wait—wait! Wait, please! I move before I am even aware I can. Weak legs quiver and give. I stumble with an inarticulate wail. He’s gone. Where? I can’t. I can’t follow. Where he goes, I cannot follow. I pull my legs up beneath me, plant the feet flat on the unforgiving stone floor. I stagger to my feet. Please… Wait…
===
The lanky man awoke with a shuddering breath, knobby fingers grasping at the afghan. His eyes swam about the room, desperately seeking something familiar to cleave onto for strength. His gaze finally found the familiar contours of a potted plant, the round glinting surface of a silent alarm clock… everything looked foreign, in the darkness, but it was unmistakable. Ezra was in his bedroom. A fluffy tabby cat, jarred by her master’s sharp awakening, unfolded itself from beside the man’s thigh and gave a chastising yowl.
“Apologies, Gertrude,” the lanky man crooned, leaning forward to scratch the cat behind her ears. The tabby flopped over, consoled. A twinge in the man’s calf caused his hand to retreat, clenching the spasming muscle.
A particularly churlish dog-shifter had bitten a chunk out of his leg, which would mean a few days of recovering from the damage. The homunculus fell back into his pillow, arms outstretched and expression scrunched.
Finding sleep once more would be a struggle—the nightmare had made sure of that. Perhaps the worst of it was that it was actually a memory from his first day on Earth. The reawakening, Victor Frankenstein’s flight from his creation, and the creation’s—Ezra’s—panicked confusion. He’d spent hours of his first night fumbling around Frankenstein’s abode, scared and lost… only to find his master asleep in his bed-chamber. But upon trying to wake him up, Victor Frankenstein ran away once more.
More often than not, literary critics focused their analysis on Victor Frankenstein who, upon finishing his creation, was repulsed by his own transgression against God and nature. Very few critics paused to consider the creature’s terror as it was spurned by the only person it knew.
Ezra rose, resigning himself to being awake—perhaps a glass of brandy would cool his nerves.
Sensing her master’s imminent departure, the tabby cat unfurled herself from the bed, slinking to the floor. The gaunt man slid his feet into his slippers before rousing himself from the bed. Hopefully Miss Charlotte would forgive him for rousing her at such an hour… if she’d even been to bed at all.
“Come, Gertrude,” Ezra groaned tiredly, “Let’s find ourselves a glass, hm?”
