Carrie Beary
cooler than u
Posts : 4370
Join date : 2010-12-18
Age : 25
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 |  Subject: Venito Alessio Quadrelli (WIP)  7/5/2012, 3:11 am | |
| Venito Alessio Quadrelli
"And I like to think I can cheat it all to make up for the times I've been cheated on. And it's nice to know when I was left for dead I was found and now I don't haunt these streets, I am not the ghost you are to me."
-- Name: This certain person's name is Venito Alessio Quadrelli the second, though most people just call him Venn.
Age: He is seventeen years of age, born on September third, 1995.
Gender: Male.
Physical description: Venito is five feet, eleven inches with curly brown hair that seems to change shade of colour often. His eyes are a warm chocolate brown that is inviting, but have the capacity to be fierce and intimidating. This makes him a good liar, though he prefers not to lie. His skin is fair, not dark enough to be considered tan, not light enough to be pale. He's got a pretty good build, though nothing too drastic. He has a set of abs, and strong arms and legs, sure, but you can tell that he doesn't work himself too hard. He has a small tattoo on his left calf, reading "La Dolce Vita," meaning "The Sweet Life" in wispy-looking letters, above a large butterfly with cerulean wings.
He straightens his hair often, though people have often complemented him on his curls. He hates the curls, however, and straightens his hair every morning, or styles it in some way. He can do what he wants with his hair, regardless of what other people think. His wardrobe consists of the basic t-shirt and jeans with the occasional polo shirt, but he obsesses over whether one shirt goes with those pants, or if it feels right, and if it fits him correctly, and once he leaves the house, it's really nothing special.
Like I said, he doesn't really have anything extraordinary about him, besides his Italian accent. It's pretty thick, you can barely make out the words, but you can understand him nonetheless.
Personality description: In general, Venn is a pretty laid back person. He rarely holds grudges, and doesn't really care what you do as long as you don't hurt yourself. He can come off as apathetic and chilled, but in reality, he cares a lot, he's just afraid of showing it. He only opens up to certain people. They have to prove that they are trustworthy, and most importantly, actually care about him. But he's also a very trusting person, so it kind of contradicts itself. He despises liars, though he is one himself. All he wants is to do some sort of impact on someone, whether it be good or bad. Though he'd prefer it be positive. He thinks he's pretty dull, and is really shy. Sometimes it interferes with things, but never too bad. He loves to help people, regardless of who they are or where they come from. He's not very judgemental, so it kind of comes as a second nature.
Nationality: Venito is originally from Venice, Italy, and speaks Italian fluently, and English with a thick accent. He also fumbles with his English.
Hometown: Venn grew up in a small area of Naples, Italy
Family: Venito's father is the god of nighttime thunder, Summanus. His mother is the fair Melissa of Mexico. He has two older sisters and an older brother, Mara, Michele, and Giovanni. He has several cousins, but is especially close to one of 22 years of age named Alonso. He's the only one that really matters.
Pets: He had a cat once.
History: Venito was born in Venice's finest hospital on September 3rd, 1995. Despite being a demigod, he was loved by his step-father as if he was his own son. He was given everything a baby could want. When the boy was three years old, his step-father died, leaving all his money to his wife, but his lawyer had other plans. The lawyer cheated, and made it so all the money went to him and his colleagues. This led to the widow losing the house and she could barely fend for her four children.
She was forced to find a job as nurse, with her little college education. It was difficult for her, but her prayers were answered when her brother in law took them into his small farm until they could stand on their own again. During their stay there, a four year old Venito befriended his eight year old cousin, who showed him everything he knew (which wasn't much, really), and he learned how to prepare meats and pastas, and everything you'd expect the stereotype of an Italian man to know. Even though he was lousy at the pasta making, he found all that stuff fun, somehow. Sure, feeding the pigs wasn't too fun, or watching them die wasn't too great either, but he liked that life.
Then it was his turn to go to nursery school. It was the best the family could afford (which was apparently best in state). He struggled, to say the least. He couldn't keep up with the other kids, even if they were making little boats. His reading was sloppy and slow, even by four year old standards. His older siblings, who were already brutal with him, picked on him even more. His light skin contrasted their darker. They knew he couldn't be their father's son.
In primary school, it got a bit better. Venito still fell behind in classes, but they managed to get a little flat for the five of them. It wasn't very big, but he was happy with it. His oldest sister wasn't. He remembered when he was seven, his sister throwing a fit because "she didn't deserve to live in a dingy little apartment." He understood, though. Or, as well as a seven year old could. When he was ten, his dyslexia got worse, and he was diagnosed with ADD. Then, his mother told him that he was a demigod and all that jazz, and his siblings got worse with this realisation.
He wasn't their brother, therefore, they had no reason to respect him. While before they sent him to do things they should have done, like shop in Rome alone for Christmas presents until he called from a family friend's phone, crying because he was lost, they simply abused him with words. He could take it, he could totally take it. But when they called him half-blood scum, he lost it. He was twelve.
He had enough of his siblings harassing him for being something he didn't choose to be, and his mother simply ignoring him. He figured that siblings could be mean to each other a little bit, so it didn't faze him at first, but his own mother never listened to him, set the table for four people instead of five, made him go to school while he had the flu, and spoiling his older siblings, he couldn't understand. Wasn't the youngest supposed to be the spoiled one? Wasn't the youngest supposed to be the baby? The special one? He wasn't meant to be talking to a gang.
So why was he? They were nice enough people. They were just like him. Unloved, disowned. They were just so persuasive. The guns had no part of it, however. These guys - and girl- understood him like no one else did. He liked to think of them as lost souls like him. Maybe it was just his poetic side. He didn't really do anything in the gang, if he was being completely honest. It was just a band of sixteen-seventeen year olds, looking for trouble.
He started liceo, or secondary school, when he was twelve, too. He did even worse than he did before. His siblings called him a disgrace to their father's name. His mother was out more and more. He found relief in alcohol.
One day, he was sitting alone in his room, little Nokia phone by his side, blaring with texts from Leo, his friend who heard about his gang-thing, but he ignored it. It was dark in his room, and his iPod had Fall Out Boy playing, and he was singing along to words he couldn't understand. He snapped his fingers once and winced. Did he just shock himself?! He snapped again, this time watching his fingers. Sure enough, there was a small spark. He gaped at his hand. He snapped again. And again. Then he pointed to the lamp next to his bed, and snapped. The lamp turned on for a moment. That was cool. Really cool.
At fourteen, most of his gang had disbanded. Some going off to college, trying to better their lives, some just disappearing. He returned to school. Didn't mean he didn't keep fighting. He had to. He had a complex at the time. He thought he was always being sought out, and he had to fight to live. And, well, he had no job, and his family wouldn't feed him. He could have been classified as a street rat. But nonetheless, he went back to school, feeling like a stranger in his own city. He picked up the violin shortly, though his always sounded like a cat dying. It was ancient, left in a chest in storage, supposedly belonging to his step-father.
You could only imagine how his siblings reacted. They took the instrument and locked him in the hall closet for hours. He only got out when his mother came looking for her shoes and found Venito sitting asleep in the corner. She wasn't upset. She just gave him the violin back and left again. She was never home anymore. He wondered how she payed the bills anymore.
When the two oldest children left home, he was fifteen years old. His brother partied every day, and he used the quiet to practice. Everyone hated when he played violin when they were home, so he could never really get any better. But he learned a few songs here and there, and he found that he could play pretty well. He wasn't boastful, but he could play Shakira songs pretty awesomely.
He joined his school's football team at fifteen, and his popularity skyrocketed. He was on the sport team, he played in the orchestra, and his grades were improving. He had honourable mentions for the most improvement. He wasn't getting the best grades, but considering everything, he was pretty proud of himself. He got a job at a local bakery and learned about business there.
At sixteen, his whole family decided to go on a vacation to New York. They knew they couldn't just leave him alone for a month, and his cousin from all those years ago remembered him, so they brought him along. The problem was, his ticket was bought last minute, so he lost them at the gate, and on the plane. He waited at the airport for hours before he got a call from his cousin asking where he wandered off to.
And throughout the first week, it was cool. His sisters talked English fluently, and their accents were endearing, but his was just awkward, for lack of a better word. They acted like proper tourists and took pictures of everything. Then he found he couldn't stand being around them. They were loud, rowdy, and just all around annoying. So he spent the day walking around Times Square. He met someone who spoke Italian, a short guy with a limp named Leonardo. Kind of reminded him of his Leo in Italy. They swapped phone numbers and he went back to the hotel.
He found that no one had noticed he was missing, much less worried. So he left. He left all of those jerks and found a bottle of sleeping pills his mother had carried with her.
Was he that unloved? Did his being a demigod make him that much of a freak? Was it his fault that he could barely read? Was it his fault that he was born half god? He didn't understand. He hadn't done anything wrong. He was just a kid. Sure, he fought a lot. Sure, he wasn't good in school. But he deserved to be loved but someone, right?
Apparently not. He locked himself in his hotel room's bathroom and down all that was left of the pills. And the world went black. He woke up in the Camp's infirmary, Leo next to him, with worried eyes. He has been in camp ever since.
Role play example: It was an off day. But in the sense that it was unusually good. He had woken up in a good mood, gotten to his early morning orchestra classes on time for once, and school wasn't too unbearable. He got home, ate the last of the chocolate ice cream, not caring who was going to yell at him about getting fat, though they were all over weight themselves. He even sneaked some Oreos into his room. He pulled his violin out of its case (he'd named it Paolo) and plucked a light tune. He slowly played Inevitable by Shakira, humming along with the slow, out of tune plucking. He loved how something so simple could make him so happy. Unlike the rest of his family, who were greedy, money eating monsters. But that didn't matter right now. He was content with life, and that was all that mattered.
Powers: He can create electricity for a few moments with out a problem, unless he does it too much, he gets drowsy. Making something turn on, such as a lamp or something of the sort will tire him more, but not too horribly. He can work on things such as those lamps about twenty five times daily maximum. He can only create a spark of two hundred watts at the most, and it makes him yawn.
Weapons: A simple CB dagger. -- | |
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