(no subject)

[nestingdevil]

player.
NAME/HANDLE: Tony
PERSONAL JOURNAL: N/A
ARE YOU 16 OR OVER?: Yes, 25
CONTACT: AIM | backsideofthetv
E-Mail | reno[dot]cicilia[at]gmail[dot]com
Plurk | theavarice@plurk
OTHER CHARACTERS: N/A

character.
CHARACTER NAME: Greed
SERIES: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherood
CANON POINT: End of Series, right after he is finally killed off by Father. He will not, however, be possessing Ling's body.
➥ History: Here
AGE: 200 plus
APPEARANCE:
➥ Here
➥ Here
➥ Here
➥ Here

Shield
➥ Here
➥ Here
➥ Here


PREVIOUS GAME HISTORY: N/A

PERSONALITY:

Greed has the atmosphere of a person that just does not give a fuck, to put it frank. He wants it all - money, power, status, women, sex. To quote, "He wants the finer things in life." But despite his avarice, Greed has a very friendly-bordering-on-unsettling demeanor - all smiles that welcome each and every person into his arms. Well, for the most part anyway. He comes off very frank and he's not afraid to show people who he is. The attention he gets, the feeling he gets - that is what matters to him. Status doesn't just mean money and power (though as I said previously, those are important too) - people matter. What they think of him matters - how they act around him matters. Everything is a possession for Greed and that is how he lives his life.

He's a care free kind of guy, sends his anxiety to the wind kind of guy. But he'll be the first to claim someone if they're loyal and once he's done that, he's there for life. Or as long as said person lasts. Greed does things his own way and he has no intention of following orders or rules. He'll break them as soon as he gets that spark of want, need - which is to say, he'll be quick to turn tail from law and order at the drop of a hat.

If one happens to get on his bad side, he can be vicious. But he has no intention of harming "women and people with loved ones." He'll spare a foe if they turn around and walk the other way. But if they continue to threaten his things, he'll stop at nothing to bring said offender down. And he does it with class and style.

Greed is also vain - as vain as he can be. His "ultimate shield" comes with the price and that price is less elegance than he's comfortable with. When he first shows off his ace-in-the-hole to the elder Elric brother, he even states that his shield form "isn't flattering."

Seems Greed also has a soft spot for outcasts, as seen with his taking in of the chimera from Lab 5. God help the outcasts all right - and Greed is the very man to do so.

ABILITIES:

➥ ABILITIES Greed is "immortal." That doesn't mean he can't die exactly, because that was proven false over and over again in Brotherhood. But he has an amazing ability to regenerate. He also doesn't seem to age at all - at 200, he looks at the most in his mid-to-late twenties. He also possesses the Ultimate Shield ability - it's a shell over his skin made out of carbon and seems to be as hard as diamond ( not to be too cliche) - he seems to be able to harden on command, but sometimes the shield comes up involuntarily, as seen when he possesses Ling in his first fight with Wrath in the prince's body.
➥ SKILLS Greed's got some hand-to-hand combat skills, but he doesn't have any sort of "technique." He's good on the defense and fast on his feet. It doesn't look as if he had any formal training.
➥ TALENTS He's a great talker.

POSSESSIONS:

Everything

No, but in all seriousness? His vest, his shades, his pointy-ass boots, leather pants, wristbands, shirt, and a matchbox from his bar.


samples.
JOURNAL ENTRY SAMPLE:

➥ Sample I:

[The feed sputters in a moment of static; sharper points made sharper by the comfortably sat in dark. Crisp cut corners and the faintest of light coming from the station ignites shifting blacks. A rise of a heel and it's a curved toe on the line. A shift and a fall to the slow crawl of a beat.]

Well - this is new.

[The voice on the other end is a compliment; a thick-heavy tone that's low in the chest. That seems to bubble in the throat and roll to that of recently-raked embers. A hiss that seems more pleased about the sudden outcome rather than shocked.]

[Fingers fan out and there's nails on a leather glad thigh. Palm spread open and even in the dark, there's a hint of red against flesh. Over the indents of veins and tendons, it stands stark-still against pale-tan skin; the serpent consuming itself. The Ouroboros.]

[But it slides away. Nails to fingertips and the owner in question hums low; as if there's an ever-present grin on those hidden features and legs bend. Heels twist and anchor and the feed spins with a pull and a crack of the spine. A creature seeming to rise from his heels rather than the muscles of his legs until he snaps over the jut of his hips. And from the faint light, teeth flash in the dark. Razors sharpened to that similar of a shark and they're laced right in a row.]

Oh-? [A slow push of an eyebrow above pitch-black shades; hollow sockets and it's like a skull staring back. Greed sinks himself low, dipping his shoulders like a gargoyle standing.]

[And he's about to speak, but there's that ol'familiar quip of static. The drawling noise of a speaker:] "Welcome to Zelien. If I could have your attention, please..."

[Which has the Sin in question jerking his attention to the sound. Lips closing shut under the peculiar fall of a lip. For a moment, the innocent gesture on his face feels foreign. But as soon as silence falls again, shoulders raise. And the fur cuff of his leather vest fans out behind his exposed throat.]

[All the while, that wicked grin returns.]

[Greed clicks his tongue against the smooth side of his teeth and there's a clack. The sound of a heel thudding against the ground.] Oi, oi, oi - [And it seems he's finally catching a glimmer at the video playing back. One finger lifting from his leather slacks and the other moves to his collarbone. Fingers hook like talons at the dip of the bone and he makes well on the mockery of a bow.]

This thing on, then? [A well placed guess at best. He snaps his jaws shut, allowing those proverbial knives a good look see.] Well, for anyone who's been paying attention - the name's Greed.

[And it's as if he's waiting with baited breath; as if he has a terrible secret to tell. And both eyebrows smooth across the rounds of his shades.]

Why don't you and I become good friends, hmn?


➥ Sample II: Taken from ryansgulch@dreamwidth
[The feed's been on for a couple of minutes; it's pitch black, but the bar seems quiet. Fans are buzzing normally and there's some jazz plucking away. But when the lights flicker overhead, there's a clear smear of blood leading from the top of the bar to the floor. A few broken shards of glass glimmer before fading back into the dark.]

[Then finally, a groan. A heavy, wet sort of sound interrupts the cracked voice of a vocalist: "I should have saved those left over dreams. Funny. But here's that rainy day.."]

[After a few more minutes in the dark, the lights finally stop sparking; they all turn on at once and the real damage can finally be observed. There's a good formation of blood on the countertop that trails down to the floor. A bar stool lies on its side with a thick crack running up one of its wooden legs. A couple of bottles of booze roll on the ground; some have split open and long-since spilled their contents. Others just lie dormant.]

[But the thing of interest is probably the hand: a hand and part of a forearm lying naked on the floor unattached to its former host.]



Didn't want to have to do that. [Greed's voice sounds far off, but he's there. That's made obvious when one of his signature curved-heels clops down next to the severed arm. He sighs.]

[The homunculus crouches down next to the massacred arm, elbows at his knees. The usual vest is gone and his purple eyes are free of his shades. He bends forward and reaches behind him; nestled into the top of his back is a large hook with a handle bar welded to the base. The homunculus clenches his teeth and tears the weapon out. And there's a horrible sound of ripping flesh before small red sparks shoot out of his back, mending flesh and cloth alike.] Ah-! Jeez. Any normal guy would have been heading straight for the hospital, friend.

[Greed drops the hook and it lands with a thud in the puddle of liquids now mixing on the floor.]

Couldn't have ya clawing at my gals like that, bud. Sorry. [Greed extends his hands, showing off a nasty set of talons. He hovers them over the flesh of the arm and it's ... well. Bubbly, scabby. Some sours pus over and the homunculus retracts his nails one by one, making a fist out of his hand.] That's something.

[He perks up, turns his head right to the feed.] - this thing on? [Greed reaches out for the communicator and plucks it up in his horrible talons.] Tch - well, guess it's too late. [He picks his shades from the floor and throws them open with a quick-snap of his wrist. Slides them over his face.] Could use a clean up crew down here. And before we get any wild ideas - this one landed the first punch.

[Greed opens his monster hands and slides them on the floor, leaving behind faint trails of God-only-knows what.] And a 'Doc. One of the gals got a little wounded when this guy burst in.


WARNINGS|
➥ TL;DR
➥ Images of violence and gore




THIRD-PERSON SAMPLE:

➥ Sample II: Taken from ryansgulch@dreamwidth
It was the shit side of town that The Devil's Nest called home. The left over dregs made by clearly-defined class lines and thinly-placed morality. The 'Drop was just the place for the city's piss to rain down on. And it was the perfect hideout for monsters.

It was the same day in and day out; left over remains from the rich upper slice filtered down in pieces. Not that Greed entirely minded; he preferred the shadow underbelly of Rapture's pristine paradise above. Liked the smell, the taste of copper and sulfur on the tongue. Liked the darkness that crept into the alleys and made the streets a cancerous sort of green. Maybe beauty was in the eye of the beholder. But there was value in the 'Pit and he'd claim the crown.

The doors to the 'Nest were barred and heavy; thick plated wood with double handles to keep customers coming and the nuisance out. Not that a little heavy-handed toss couldn't do the trick, but Greed was low on henchmen to work the bar. So when the lights went off, the bar sealed shut. And if someone happened to be trapped inside, having a good ol'fuck or just losing track of time at cards? Well, that was their problem.

Three in the afternoon - though time seemed completely irrelevant down in the watery depths - was when the doors snapped open to the public. Today was just the same, working like clockwork on a timer that ran on electricity instead of the sun. It'd be filled in an hour or two, Greed was sure. Always was, especially with the onslaught of new faces coming in through the network. And wouldn't most need a drink after all that? Bewildered, poor bastards. If the homunculus could feel sympathy - and he certainly could not - he'd probably offer his condolences. As it stood? He was only interested in the cash in their pockets or the talent at their fingers.

Both of which were in abundance. Plenty of show-offs on the network, though most of them were only kids playing a dangerous game of who's-got-the-most-juice-to-blow-this-shit-sky-high. Not worth the time and definitely not worth inviting under the roof of the 'Nest. Which left slim pickings; humans, a few moral-high-grounders, and the loud mouths. All of which seemed pretty damn bland.

But Greed was old - older than most - and had the patience of a saint turned on the bad side of bad. Eventually, he'd find a few worth the money and the time spent explaining how things were ran below the safety net of Rapture's boys-in-blue. Just had to be patient.

The homunculus flicked a match on the siding that encased the double doors of the 'Nest. Lit his face up in all the wonders fire and brimstone had to offer. He sucked at a lone cigarette, ignited it, then tossed the match aside. Smoke poured in wisps of silvery-blue, slid into the darkness of the silent bar. He flicked open the locks at the front and tapped on the various lights near the foreground window. The bar buzzed, yellows and reds flooding the place. The sickly green of the outside receded and the Sin grinned wickedly.

It was all about patience.



➥ Sample II: Taken from aliunde_rpg@livejournal
The bar wasn't busy, not yet. But the lights were finally working and there was music blasting out of the jukebox at the far wall. The floors had been scrubbed down over the last few days - when Greed wasn't busy working the streets filling his own wants - and the last touches on the bar had been put into place. It wasn't completely done, not by a long shot, but Greed had used almost all of the free-cash allotted upon his arrival, so he made do. The doors would open in a few minutes and he was ready for the cash-out, no matter how much.
It would only be more the longer he stayed here - people loved to drink, people loved to dance, people loved to let loose. And Greed would provide, all for the right price. Sometimes, they would pay in cash - most normal folks paid in cash. Or they ran a tab and paid later. Others would pay in something else entirely and Greed didn't mind. He wanted it all, and sometimes that included currency other than cold-hard coin.

The homunculus spun a whiskey-shooter mix in one hand (he found that one in the junk yard out back) and a glass in the other. He rolled the glass up his palm, down his forearm, then back again like a yo-yo. The glass was caught in an open hand and he spun it up on the newly-polished bar top. The whiskey shooter twirled in his fingers and he lowered it to pour. Then he jerked it up, presenting a brilliant line of golden-orange liquid. It splashed and rolled across the open mouth of the glass.

The gang had taught him a few tricks back in the day and he had some of his own. But he was hungry for so much more. The red arrays on his shoulder, chest, and torso were thirsty and it wasn't for the drink he was pouring. Power - he craved his spark, despite how many new faces he met, how many interesting things he found. He needed his spark back.

In time, he hoped it would. It would be boring without it!

Greed pushed the glass forward and raised his eyes to the double doors. They still needed work, but the constant thudding and creaking of the bad hinges didn't bother him in the slightest. It just made him crave the noise of a crowd having a good time, of the young folks mingling and laughing while they got half-cocked to next week, of old men whispering old stories with smoke billowing from their mouths, with the middle-aged men talking of success and glory while they wrung out their wallets on a gamble or two - Greed wanted it and his eyes grew wide with that desire. His fingers scratched at the bar top and his chest expanded.

"Give it to me." His voice screamed in his skull, rattled all through bones. He licked his lip, cut his tongue on sharp teeth, and swallowed the blood down into his hot core. It was hot, burning, but the heat stayed there. Greed grabbed the whiskey-shooter and threw it back in one gulp before slamming it down. Another, barkeep! He heard it in his head, but craved for someone to actually say it. Another. Another, and another, and another ....

Greed stepped away from behind the counter and shuffled to the door. His smile was wild and fascinated. He gripped the two-by-four that was only barely holding the door closed and ripped it from the flimsy metal fasteners he had fashioned to the frame last night. The wooden plank toppled over his head and crashed onto the floor. As if to announce his accomplishment, the jukebox crackled out a few lyrics Greed hadn't heard before.

He tapped his foot to the tune and shoved a hand on each door. He pushed them open and air tossed the fur cuff of his vest. Late afternoon was just settling it - he could feel it in his bones. He laughed and cast his arms to each side in a brilliant gesture.

The Devil's Nest groaned as its master's laughter filled its vacant halls. It seemed to say: Have a seat, have a drink - pay your tab to the Devil and he'll be sure to return the favor.