Post by Tequila Mockingbird on Jan 16, 2010 2:04:08 GMT -5
Name: Roderich Edelstein
Country of Origin: Austria
Age: 29
Affiliation: Associate of the Italian mob
Expertise:
"LAWYER, n. One skilled in circumvention of the law." - Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary
As attorney and legal advisor to the Italian mafia, Roderich uses the law to make the best of worst-case scenarios or lay down the grounds for one. He fixes mistakes caused by careless members in mafia operations and deals with the aftermaths of police raids. Largely disinterested in civil justice, he has no qualms with proving a guilty man innocent. On the topside he runs a one-man law firm out of his flat, and masquerades as a one-off pianist in numerous bars across the city.
Personality:
Despite his stern manner Roderich is upbeat - for all intents and purposes he is living the American dream, no matter how ill-achieved it may have been. He believes in decency but not morality; his position as a public servant does nothing to deter him from justifying lawbreaking. Unconcerned with ’doing the right thing,’ he is keen more on how a conviction or a bailout would affect mafia operations as a whole.
He keeps his head cool and his wits sharp, ready to combat any point given. Prudish to a fault, he only seems to get flustered at discussing intimate matters or putting anything private out in the air.
His creative urges seem to take him on a whim. His legal briefs are prone to walls of chords and measures and nightmarish doodles, peppered liberally with bits and pieces of lyrics and prose. Though practical and especially articulate, he vastly prefers to stay inside and compose than deal with the ruckus of the city.
Appearance:
Roderich leaves a striking impression: tailored suits, patent leather shoes, and lace-lined cravats; at 5’9 lean and gaunt, hair dark as coffee grounds impeccably slicked back though a strand of hair refuses to be tamed. His face is set in granite, high cheekbones, thin lips, a mole placed on a strong chin and the pulse of blue blood driving his eyes cold. He moves with the sort of high-handed grace so common to people of noble birth. It’s in the barest hint of acknowledgement when he greet his clients, the disaffected look of boredom as he leafs through papers, the slightly cocked, disapproving eyebrow as he skims the newspaper, his nigh-impenetrable composure in trials. The wireframe glasses are purely for aesthetics. Without them he wouldn’t have that air of aristocratic menace he needs to command answers out of a client or witness.
Privately, however, he dresses plainly and simply, living frugally to send as much money as he can to his relatives. More than anything he hates it when people catch him off-guard or see him disorganized, to the point where he’ll launch into immediate denial it ever happened.
Strengths + Weaknesses:
+ creativity
+ dexterity
+ languages (German, French, Italian, English, passable Hungarian and Spanish)
+ observant
+/- perfectionist
-/+ detached
- skewed priorities
- terrible sense of direction
- physically weak
- pride
Likes + Dislikes:
+ music
+ the fine arts
+ books
+ coffee
+ sweets
+ well-laid plans
- piggish boors
- disorganization
- marine life
- vulgarity
- emotional outbursts
- people confusing Austria for Australia
- people questioning his morals
Quirks:
* His thick accent renders him incomprehensible when he gets angry or excited and there’s no instrument around to properly express his feelings. He refers to others by ‘Herr’ or ‘Fraulein’ and their last name, rarely using the English equivalent of the titles and first names.
* Roderich is ambidextrous, favoring his right hand.
* When he’s thinking, daydreaming or just twiddling his thumbs, his hands move as if playing the piano. Sometimes he’ll hum along.
Phobias:
* On the ship to America he witnessed a suicidal drowning, which affected him profoundly; he can’t swim in the first place, and won’t go anywhere deeper than his ankles in a body of water. Marine life, like crabs and octopus, are more terrifying and disgusting to him than the most grotesque monster out of a storybook (unless said monster also happens to be of the aquatic variety). By extension he won’t eat seafood, either. Boarding ships, yachts and even rowboats is completely out of the question.
* Silence is a sound all its own, but it’s the vacuum left by the absence of life that make him squirm. Dead silence leaves the imagination unoccupied, fraying the nerves with tall tales and paranoid reveries.
History:
Like most associates of the Mafia, Roderich was at the right place at the wrong time.
The youngest of four brothers in an aristocratic family, he was nearly struck down by polio in his youth. Of his childhood he remembers most the hard leather of the wheelchair and watching his brothers garner all the attention. During this period of invalidity his uncle introduced him to the fine arts, where he developed an affinity for music. Music did not judge or mock or betray; it was wrought by his own hands, the only thing he had any control over. He became a sullen, introverted boy, angry at the seemingly unfair hand life had dealt him.
In time the polio proved to be treatable, and as he moved from wheelchair to crutches to finally walking on his own so did he as a whole. Ruled by Machiavellian principles the household turned quickly into a four-way game of mimicked diplomacy and treachery for their parents‘ adoration. Perhaps it’s those years that Roderich can owe his amorality - cover your flanks, flattery is such a useful tool, you know, and so are veiled threats and obtuse gifts, and remember they are your allies and not your friends, remember it’s better to have them in debt to you than you be in debt to them, remember, remember.
But he always liked his uncle and aunt better. They didn’t have the stomach for the underhanded dealing of the aristocracy, and had Roderich gone down a different path in mentality he would have liked to walk theirs. Shortly before the Great War broke out his aunt and uncle renounced their claims of land and emigrated to America to live without their name bearing them down. A year and a half later - in spite of accusations of abandoning his family and his country - Roderich followed suit.
The trip across the Atlantic was the worst month and a half in his life. Sometimes in feverish dreams he can still recall the stench of disease and waste, the lurching roll of the boat and staring numbly for hours into that infinite maw of the ocean. One passenger, overcome by despair and homesickness, jumped off; he saw the bulging eyes and the anguished mouth as it welcomed the water to inflate failing lungs. Through the journey, like everyone else, he clung onto hope, but now whenever he stares out across the bay he can’t help but think of drowned, bloated bodies gently breaking the surface…
After arriving in New York he tracked down his aunt and uncle. He found them in a cupboard apartment where they seemed relatively happy and ran a successful business out of producing artisan crafts. Roderich stayed for a while there, scouting out prospective trades and employers, until he came back to find the home completely ransacked. He found out then that in order to afford the apartment and the capital for starting his business his uncle had borrowed heavily from what he’d call later a loan shark, one associated with the Italian mafia, no less, and that particular month his uncle had failed to make the payment.
Against their wishes Roderich investigated further. After learning of the lucrative amounts of money the mafia made he struck a deal with them - to become their lawyer, a part of the political machine they ran, in exchange to have his relatives‘ debt paid off. After all, bribes and favors only got you so far. Why not have a perfectly sound, legal reason to protect operations from the prying noses of the police - and other mobs? A solid front ensured no suspicion.
It’s been nearly six years since he started, and he’s paid off his uncle’s debt at least five times over from the amount he’s been able to keep circulating. He doesn’t see himself getting out soon, but somehow he doesn’t mind.
Sample/Character Introduction:
In his modest flat trapped between dilapidated tenements and half-realized dreams, Roderich had the world at his fingertips.
He could make birds trill and bees buzz and spiders daintily weave their webs; he could sound the tale of star-crossed lovers and let loose the fury of lustful conquerors. One measure of church bells boomed a cluster of villages awake, and every chord after sought the clumsy footsteps of a charlatan peddling an elixir of love. Thunderfalls and catcalls vibrated and sailed out the open window as his fingers struck the keys struck the hammer struck the string. The delta of his hands was fed by the electrical river from his brain drinking greedily from the wellspring of his heart.
Now he was seated behind the trench of a well-polished desk and the chitter-chatter of machinegun fire shot its printed bullets onto the sheet of paper. Today he was waging war against the arguably righteous. Good for Herr Verrazano to dump Herr Medici in the Chesapeake, but how incompetent did one have to be to let the body be found? At least the connection was tenuous at best. How to prove conclusively, then, that they had never been partners…?
The rat-tat-tat came in hesitant bursts now. As he thumbed through evidence and witness reports he sighed and cracked his knuckles, flexed his fingers and rubbed his wrist. He resisted the urge to glance back at the piano in the corner and instead concentrated on the outline of his legal brief to his right. There was something not - quite - oh, there it was…
The typewriter sawed back to the next line down. A small, triumphant smile had crept to Roderich’s lips in the meantime as the paper gave in to the firing squad of keys. The evidence was bound to have been interpreted that way eventually. There was enough to push the blame onto the workers. They would find themselves at the Bay’s bottom by the end of the case, anyway. Better to try and bring a new case to attention and salvage what he could of the smuggling.
He gave the keys a last, satisfied thump, locked the typewriter in place and took his seat at the piano, all too eager to play the life back into the peddler and his failed ventures.
(I<3HETALIA~)
Country of Origin: Austria
Age: 29
Affiliation: Associate of the Italian mob
Expertise:
"LAWYER, n. One skilled in circumvention of the law." - Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary
As attorney and legal advisor to the Italian mafia, Roderich uses the law to make the best of worst-case scenarios or lay down the grounds for one. He fixes mistakes caused by careless members in mafia operations and deals with the aftermaths of police raids. Largely disinterested in civil justice, he has no qualms with proving a guilty man innocent. On the topside he runs a one-man law firm out of his flat, and masquerades as a one-off pianist in numerous bars across the city.
Personality:
Despite his stern manner Roderich is upbeat - for all intents and purposes he is living the American dream, no matter how ill-achieved it may have been. He believes in decency but not morality; his position as a public servant does nothing to deter him from justifying lawbreaking. Unconcerned with ’doing the right thing,’ he is keen more on how a conviction or a bailout would affect mafia operations as a whole.
He keeps his head cool and his wits sharp, ready to combat any point given. Prudish to a fault, he only seems to get flustered at discussing intimate matters or putting anything private out in the air.
His creative urges seem to take him on a whim. His legal briefs are prone to walls of chords and measures and nightmarish doodles, peppered liberally with bits and pieces of lyrics and prose. Though practical and especially articulate, he vastly prefers to stay inside and compose than deal with the ruckus of the city.
Appearance:
Roderich leaves a striking impression: tailored suits, patent leather shoes, and lace-lined cravats; at 5’9 lean and gaunt, hair dark as coffee grounds impeccably slicked back though a strand of hair refuses to be tamed. His face is set in granite, high cheekbones, thin lips, a mole placed on a strong chin and the pulse of blue blood driving his eyes cold. He moves with the sort of high-handed grace so common to people of noble birth. It’s in the barest hint of acknowledgement when he greet his clients, the disaffected look of boredom as he leafs through papers, the slightly cocked, disapproving eyebrow as he skims the newspaper, his nigh-impenetrable composure in trials. The wireframe glasses are purely for aesthetics. Without them he wouldn’t have that air of aristocratic menace he needs to command answers out of a client or witness.
Privately, however, he dresses plainly and simply, living frugally to send as much money as he can to his relatives. More than anything he hates it when people catch him off-guard or see him disorganized, to the point where he’ll launch into immediate denial it ever happened.
Strengths + Weaknesses:
+ creativity
+ dexterity
+ languages (German, French, Italian, English, passable Hungarian and Spanish)
+ observant
+/- perfectionist
-/+ detached
- skewed priorities
- terrible sense of direction
- physically weak
- pride
Likes + Dislikes:
+ music
+ the fine arts
+ books
+ coffee
+ sweets
+ well-laid plans
- piggish boors
- disorganization
- marine life
- vulgarity
- emotional outbursts
- people confusing Austria for Australia
- people questioning his morals
Quirks:
* His thick accent renders him incomprehensible when he gets angry or excited and there’s no instrument around to properly express his feelings. He refers to others by ‘Herr’ or ‘Fraulein’ and their last name, rarely using the English equivalent of the titles and first names.
* Roderich is ambidextrous, favoring his right hand.
* When he’s thinking, daydreaming or just twiddling his thumbs, his hands move as if playing the piano. Sometimes he’ll hum along.
Phobias:
* On the ship to America he witnessed a suicidal drowning, which affected him profoundly; he can’t swim in the first place, and won’t go anywhere deeper than his ankles in a body of water. Marine life, like crabs and octopus, are more terrifying and disgusting to him than the most grotesque monster out of a storybook (unless said monster also happens to be of the aquatic variety). By extension he won’t eat seafood, either. Boarding ships, yachts and even rowboats is completely out of the question.
* Silence is a sound all its own, but it’s the vacuum left by the absence of life that make him squirm. Dead silence leaves the imagination unoccupied, fraying the nerves with tall tales and paranoid reveries.
History:
Like most associates of the Mafia, Roderich was at the right place at the wrong time.
The youngest of four brothers in an aristocratic family, he was nearly struck down by polio in his youth. Of his childhood he remembers most the hard leather of the wheelchair and watching his brothers garner all the attention. During this period of invalidity his uncle introduced him to the fine arts, where he developed an affinity for music. Music did not judge or mock or betray; it was wrought by his own hands, the only thing he had any control over. He became a sullen, introverted boy, angry at the seemingly unfair hand life had dealt him.
In time the polio proved to be treatable, and as he moved from wheelchair to crutches to finally walking on his own so did he as a whole. Ruled by Machiavellian principles the household turned quickly into a four-way game of mimicked diplomacy and treachery for their parents‘ adoration. Perhaps it’s those years that Roderich can owe his amorality - cover your flanks, flattery is such a useful tool, you know, and so are veiled threats and obtuse gifts, and remember they are your allies and not your friends, remember it’s better to have them in debt to you than you be in debt to them, remember, remember.
But he always liked his uncle and aunt better. They didn’t have the stomach for the underhanded dealing of the aristocracy, and had Roderich gone down a different path in mentality he would have liked to walk theirs. Shortly before the Great War broke out his aunt and uncle renounced their claims of land and emigrated to America to live without their name bearing them down. A year and a half later - in spite of accusations of abandoning his family and his country - Roderich followed suit.
The trip across the Atlantic was the worst month and a half in his life. Sometimes in feverish dreams he can still recall the stench of disease and waste, the lurching roll of the boat and staring numbly for hours into that infinite maw of the ocean. One passenger, overcome by despair and homesickness, jumped off; he saw the bulging eyes and the anguished mouth as it welcomed the water to inflate failing lungs. Through the journey, like everyone else, he clung onto hope, but now whenever he stares out across the bay he can’t help but think of drowned, bloated bodies gently breaking the surface…
After arriving in New York he tracked down his aunt and uncle. He found them in a cupboard apartment where they seemed relatively happy and ran a successful business out of producing artisan crafts. Roderich stayed for a while there, scouting out prospective trades and employers, until he came back to find the home completely ransacked. He found out then that in order to afford the apartment and the capital for starting his business his uncle had borrowed heavily from what he’d call later a loan shark, one associated with the Italian mafia, no less, and that particular month his uncle had failed to make the payment.
Against their wishes Roderich investigated further. After learning of the lucrative amounts of money the mafia made he struck a deal with them - to become their lawyer, a part of the political machine they ran, in exchange to have his relatives‘ debt paid off. After all, bribes and favors only got you so far. Why not have a perfectly sound, legal reason to protect operations from the prying noses of the police - and other mobs? A solid front ensured no suspicion.
It’s been nearly six years since he started, and he’s paid off his uncle’s debt at least five times over from the amount he’s been able to keep circulating. He doesn’t see himself getting out soon, but somehow he doesn’t mind.
Sample/Character Introduction:
In his modest flat trapped between dilapidated tenements and half-realized dreams, Roderich had the world at his fingertips.
He could make birds trill and bees buzz and spiders daintily weave their webs; he could sound the tale of star-crossed lovers and let loose the fury of lustful conquerors. One measure of church bells boomed a cluster of villages awake, and every chord after sought the clumsy footsteps of a charlatan peddling an elixir of love. Thunderfalls and catcalls vibrated and sailed out the open window as his fingers struck the keys struck the hammer struck the string. The delta of his hands was fed by the electrical river from his brain drinking greedily from the wellspring of his heart.
Now he was seated behind the trench of a well-polished desk and the chitter-chatter of machinegun fire shot its printed bullets onto the sheet of paper. Today he was waging war against the arguably righteous. Good for Herr Verrazano to dump Herr Medici in the Chesapeake, but how incompetent did one have to be to let the body be found? At least the connection was tenuous at best. How to prove conclusively, then, that they had never been partners…?
The rat-tat-tat came in hesitant bursts now. As he thumbed through evidence and witness reports he sighed and cracked his knuckles, flexed his fingers and rubbed his wrist. He resisted the urge to glance back at the piano in the corner and instead concentrated on the outline of his legal brief to his right. There was something not - quite - oh, there it was…
The typewriter sawed back to the next line down. A small, triumphant smile had crept to Roderich’s lips in the meantime as the paper gave in to the firing squad of keys. The evidence was bound to have been interpreted that way eventually. There was enough to push the blame onto the workers. They would find themselves at the Bay’s bottom by the end of the case, anyway. Better to try and bring a new case to attention and salvage what he could of the smuggling.
He gave the keys a last, satisfied thump, locked the typewriter in place and took his seat at the piano, all too eager to play the life back into the peddler and his failed ventures.
(I<3HETALIA~)
