Brandon (Ghost) Harper O'Connor

[Brandon 'Ghost' O'Connor]

Brandon (Ghost) Harper O'Connor

FULL NAME Brandon (Ghost) O'Connor
NICKNAMES The Ghost, Ghost, Bran, Connor, BC, Harp
AGE Nineteen
BIRTHDAY April 3
GENDER Male
SEXUALITY Heterosexual
LEVEL Two, as of a week ago
WHAT THEY DID Brandon O'Connor was a good kid, until the day that his little brother was shot in a stray drive-by bullet that pierced his heart. After that, he started doing drugs, he joined a gang, and became pretty god with a gun, himself. All this, he said, was to get back at the person who shoot his brother.

EYE COLOR Light hazel
HAIR COLOR Chestnut brown
HEIGHT 6"2'
WEIGHT 172
APPEARANCE The basics; weight, height, eye, and hair; have already Ben gone over, which is nothing new. What you truly want, are the juicy details which lay under clothing or under flesh and blood. Well, here is your insider to The Ghost.

Brandon's face, though slightly disfigured is rather attractive, maybe too attractive for his taste. He's disfigured in the sense that his nose is broken, crooked to the left from a right hook that sent him to the ground at he age of eleven. Just under his eye, and moving up to his temple, is a vivid, ivory smooth scar from a switchblade that someone had brought to a fist fight at the age of fourteen. His eyes are a bit set back, but it has a deepening affect that draws most people in, while the light hazel color just seems to be a balm rather than the cold, empty stare that people should read. His lips, though plump and could have been perfect for kissing or more, never curl up into a smile, but always seem set in a parallel line with his deep set orbs. Chestnut brown hair, that seems to curl atop his head, sits watch, protecting his scalp from the sun's harmful rays. In his right ear, there is a hole for a piercing, though it is still healing, since from the age of twelve, the hole has been ripped, where an opponent had thought it a good move to ripe out his earring.

From the outside, Brandon looks like the kind of guy who pumps weights from time to time and has gotten wide set shoulders with growing arm muscle. That would be the truth, if he had the time. Any muscle he has pretty much came from eleven years of pent up rage that flowed through him in fights and raids. Under the worn, and possibly torn T-shirt, there is a scarred individual that just doesn't care anymore. His chest is defined, but not to the point where he looks odd, or is need of a bra more than most females. His pecks are formed, but it looks more like flowing muscle than anything, that moves down from his pecks, to his wash-board abs, and toned abdomen. The skin that stretches over the muscle under it, is a slight tannish color, but for the most part, he stays a slight tan colored. He doesn't tan, he burns. Scars litter his chest and abs, most from knife fights, there is a bullet wound that looks like whoever helped him didn't know what they were doing. It starts at his left muscle, just below his ribs, and exits in the back. It missed vital things, but hurt like the dickens. His arms are toned, hiding his true strength, as he can lift more than he looks like he can. Granted, he's no Superman, he can hold his own.

From the waist down, under clothing, would look like a white piece of paper before the lines are added. He doesn't go around without pants very often, if ever. In Summer times . . . . there aren't many memories of going to the beach with the family. His legs are not overly bulky, as he made his legs his life. He was in more fights than he can remember before the age of sixteen, and the boy had to get around somehow. None of the higher ups in his gang would let a filthy little runt into their nice cars. Soft, brown hairs curl along his legs, though it isn't like a fur coat, more like a soft down blanket. His hips are slim, having to use a belt to keep his pants up, as he doesn't sag. It prevents full leg motion.
FACE CLAIM Josh Hartnett[/color]

PERSONALITY A turmoil of emotions run through this young man, though only a few will ever get shown. He is very guarded with his heart, as he views his reasoning for being at Lake Destiny to be his whole family turning on him. Guarded and cold, Brandon doesn't opening up to anyone, about anything. The last person he did, lets just say laughing at his past is a right reserved for Brandon Harper O'Connor, himself. Not a gamble man, Brandon is a clear thinker, able to rationalize on things on a dime, but at the same time, it doesn't mean he's clear headed all the time. He had a quick temper that gets the better of him and often ends him up in the middle of a fight with upper Levels, or anyone who pisses him off. Easy to set off, but clear-headed when in a good mood, Brandon is a mystery of personalities.

He's not social, in fact, he would rather be as far from society as possibly, if given an option. He doesn't like large crowds, it puts way to many people close to him and he doesn't do large crowds. Knives are easily concealed and quick in close range to kill. You are extremely lucky if you get to see Brandon O'Connor smile, or laugh. He's not the joking kind, but he does smirk if he finds something funny. On a rare occasion, he will chuckle, but it is a cruel sound and causes most around him to watch him warily after hearing the sound, so he tends to keep his mouth shut when it comes to joking/smiling/laughing times.

When he isn't fighting to survive, or battling against inner demons, Brandon is really a hard working. He thinks of hard labor as a way to redeem the soul, though he knows good and well, for the lives that he has taken, he will never walk beside his father again. Not truly a religious man, he simply believes that his soul is lost, he just wants to keep it in shape and make sure that it is strong, to stand the test of his body's trails. Constantly training his body, or doing whatever work the Mother's and Father's throw at him, he does it . . . . with or without complaint, it depends, but he does it. It is his balm . . . to his weary soul.

TALK TO US. HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR VOICE? "How would I describe my voice? Well, I would have to say it is smooth, a slight Scottish accent that only shows up when my temper rises. I've heard some use the phrase 'sounds like a deep baritone."
HUMOR US. HOW TICKLISH ARE YOU? "I honestly wouldn't know. Hardly anyone has ever sat down and tried to tickle me. You can try if you want, but I can't promise anything."
TELL US. HOW COMFORTABLE ARE YOU WITH HUGGING? "I don't do the hugging thing. It puts someone close enough to stick a knife between my ribs, or it hinders my gunhand."
CLOSE YOUR EYES. CLEAR YOUR HEAD. WHAT DO YOU SEE? "We really shouldn't do this . . . . but whatever you say. . . . . I see my little brother . . . Jeremy . . . Standing beside me. He's five, we are walking home from the first day of school. I'm eight. I look over, and the first thing I see is red, bright red liquid seeping from Jeremy's chest . . . . My brother is dead."[/color]

HISTORYBrandon Harper O'Connor was born to good Irish/Scottish parents and had two other siblings; one older and one younger. He was given the nickname 'Ghost' at a young age, as he had a bad habit of disappearing and reappearing where his parents didn't want him too. He was very good at hide-and-go seek, whenever he could get his older brother, Mark, to join in. It wasn't very often, but enough to have fond memories. When his younger brother, Jeremy, came into the picture, things kind of changed.

When Brandon was two, Mark nine, his parents decided to have another baby, hoping for a girl. After the nine months were up, Brandon was three, and there was a new baby in the house, Jeremy Dalton O'Connor. Instantly, Brandon's parents were fighting, as soon as the baby was home. On more than one night, Mark and Brandon stayed up the entire night, kitchen knives in their hands, laying flat on their beds, listening to their father rage in Scottish, while their mother screamed in Irish. Then it happened. At the age of three years old, Brandon listened to his father hit their mother. He can remember hearing her scream in surprise and then drop to the floor. Mark was up in a second, running to the door, and flinging it open. Brandon was right behind him and when he crossed the threshold of the door, he was surprised to see Mark laying on top of his father. All was silent. Over the next couple of days, many men and women dressed in police uniforms came into the O'Connor house. Most were simply there to cover the crime scene and find out what happened. Some there to figure out if there were any signs of child abuse and such. But it all didn't change the fact that they were all there for one reason: Jeffery Martin O'Connor had been stabbed in the spine by his nine year old son.

Two years after Jeffery's death, Brandon's mother remarried, a nice younger man from the better part of town. Mark, after extensive therapy, returned home and was given a clean bill of health. Jeremy never knew that the man that his mother was married to wasn't his real father, and Brandon simply kept quiet and let his life play out.

When Jeremy turned five, Brandon eight, and Mark eleven, a new year started, and it was time for Jeremy's first day of school. With their mother having to work nights, and their step-father having to leave early some mornings, Brandon and Jeremy walked to school, while Mark rode the bus. It was then, that while Brandon was walking his little brother to school, a stray bullet from a drive-by gang war hit Jeremy in the chest, nicking a lung, and killing the young boy slowly. When 911 finally showed up, Jeremy was dead and Brandon was scarred for life. He would never be the same toward others again.

Therapy did nothing for Brandon. As soon as he was out, he found the biggest, baddest gang in the city, and at the age of eleven, he joined it. He became distant after that, to the point that his mother wouldn't even look at him, his step-father kicked him out of the house, and Mark wouldn't even look at him anymore in school. Of course he stayed in school. He was pissed, but he wasn't stupid. He kept his grades up, tried his best to stay out of trouble, but it seemed like almost every other week he was getting into a fight with someone over something stupid. Mark stepped in once, but after the first fight that ended with Mark having a black eye and Brandon with a broken nose and a busted lip, his older brother didn't step in anymore.

He never did graduate, as the day of his graduation, Brandon was knee deep in trouble and covered in the glory of his first murder. He had been sent out with two other gang members, one who had been in the gang for nearly ten years, and the other a newbie like Brandon. It had been their job to take a hit out on some guy who was screwing around with the wrong woman. Brandon had taken the killing shot, and the older member had been impressed. He was officially in, and the next day, officially enrolled in Lake Destiny. His mother had stepped back into his life, and the police had to escort Brandon "The Ghost" Harper O'Connor in the doors of Lake Destiny.

The first year was Hell. He was in a fight every hour, almost on the hour. He walked around the halls, always on his guard and back to the wall. He had never thought there could be so many people out in the world that wanted to hurt him, but he learned quickly. And as of a week ago, he was promoted to Level Two. Whoop-Tee-Doo

NAME Ghost is fine
AGE 20
GENDER Female
CONTACT PM is fine
RP SAMPLEStanding on the side of the woods, at the back of the Donut Hole, Clayton merely had to sniff the air to tell him that Elena was back. Her scent was like a balm that cooled his being, though he'd already told her that. Of course, not with those words. Anything he told anyone, now-a-days, came out harsh and uncaring. Elena being gone had meant that Clay had way too much time on his hands and nothing to do but think and hunt. The forest around Stonehaven was starting to empty because the animals were getting smarter.

Looking at the Donut Hole and knowing Elena, Clay already had a guess that she was sitting infront of a window, watching anyone who passed, hence the reason he had entered from the small tree-line behind the place. Of course, that meant the only way in was through the kitchens.

Slipping through the back door, Clay made quick work of figuring his way through the maze of the kitchens. There was a reason Jeremy had a single kitchen, even if it was twice the size of this one. Someone could get lost back here, or worse. Reaching the first human, a burly man with a meat clever, Clayton watched, with unemotional orbs, as the human started to lift the clever, but slowly lowered it when Clayton simply glared at him. Smart, he thought as he moved around the burly cook, moving to where a few waitress' were standing behind a closed door, but infront of a line of grills. No glance was spared for the ladies as he walked right through the door, a tray of pancakes and bacon, big enough for one human . . . but not two werewolves.

Moving toward Elena's table, he walked on the toes of his boots, not allowing any sound to be made as he neared the only female werewolf's table. Would he be able to make it, or would she scent him, turn, and run?

Pausing, waiting for the human female to leave, Clayton couldn't help but growl as the woman questioned Elena, over something so silly as if she was a local. Of course Elena wasn't a local. She was too pretty to be born of Bear Valley. Shaking his head, Clayton picked up two forks from the basket on the other side of the counter and carried the tray to food to Elena's table, as if he had worked there his entire life and surviving was most natural to him.
- From Howl, Character Clayton, Mine under the account Clay

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[Valissa Dragonais]

Accepted !
Thank you for joining Lake Destiny! Don't forget to add to the face claim :3. Get roleplaying! Just got to mention, I love that FC xD.

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