[hider=Patrick Harrow]
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[h2]| [color=darkgray]Patrick[/color] | [color=darkgray]45[/color] | [color=darkgray]Widowed[/color] | [color=darkgray]Demisexual Panromantic[/color] | [color=darkgray]Male[/color] |[/h2]

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[color=darkgray][i]- A P P E A R A N C E -[/i][/color] 

[color=gainsboro]A lifetime of dressing for business everyday has left Patrick fashion colour blind. He knows only two settings, two 'styles' for everyday wear; casual and formal. And within those two categories there is very little variation or experimentation. Formal means a shirt, a tie, a blazer, a jacket and a nice pair of shoes. Casual means a shirt, maybe a T-shirt, and some comfortable trousers. Not that many see him in this less composed state, Patrick rarely ventures from the safety of his house without donning his formal attire. In much the same way that a veteran might sleep with a weapon beneath their pillow, Patrick has become too accustomed to leaving his house clad for white-collar battle to ever be comfortable dressing another way.

Apart from his wardrobe, people tend to notice two things about Mr. Harrow first; one is his sombre, resigned expression, the other are his broad shoulders and solid physique. Even in a community of rich, affluent, gorgeous people with personal trainers, Patrick's sheer muscle mass stands out. Whether he's standing completely still or sitting in a comfortable chair, he projects an air of dual stoicism and restraint, like a man in a storm who knows he should run to safety but can't bring himself to stir. It's almost despairing, something which more than one person has suspected him of doing, but with a definite element of self loathing and another of apathy. Patrick looks like a man with the world on his shoulders and a great many things in his past, the shadows of which darken his every moment.[/color]

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[color=darkgray][i]- P E R S O N A L I T Y -[/i][/color]

[color=gainsboro]To put it simply, Patrick is a man who has lost the two things he held most dear, his wife and his work, and is still reeling from the aftershocks. Ever since he was a young boy, Patrick believed that all one had to do in life to succeed was to work hard, be courteous and to tell the truth wherever possible. And while his father owning a law firm and his mother being a judge couldn't have hurt, those principles saw him rise in his chosen field (accountancy and investing) and achieve what could be only described as matrimonial bliss. And while things went smoothly, Patrick was whole, hearty and happy. He played with his child, laughed with his wife and generally acted as you might suspect a rich man to. His life philosophy had served him well and he was yet to encounter an obstacle he couldn't overcome by following them.

But when tragedy came calling, it took everything, up to and including his sacrosanct rules. First his wife was diagnosed with cancerous growths in her pancreas, which ate away at first her looks, then her spirit and finally her life. No amount of hard work on Patrick's part could save her. Then he was accused of embezzling vast amounts of money from the prestigious bank he managed the books for, causing him to be hounded by the law, the press and even his erstwhile colleagues. And while he was eventually declared innocent, no amount of courtesy could restore his good name or get things back to normal. Finally, his daughter claimed he had become too emotionally distant to truly be called a father and severed all ties with him. The truth didn't heal the rift between them, because the only truth to tell was that he agreed with her.

The scars of the past are still deeply evident in Mr. Harrow's countenance and daily routine. He rises and makes two cups of coffee, drinks one in silence and pours the other away before dressing to face the world. Some days he ventures into the city to meet old colleagues and listen to their tales of work, some he spends socialising, or trying to, at Lakewood Country Club. Most days involves hours of what others might consider exercise or working out, though Patrick privately thinks of it as penance. The raw ache in his arms and sting in his legs after an extended session brings with it a bitter, visceral satisfaction that's hard to come by elsewhere. But by and large, he is not longer a man who connects with the world, merely one who moves through it.

Perhaps something, or someone, will come along to change that? Stranger things have happened, though I can't bring one to mind right now.[/color]

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[color=darkgray][i]- H I S T O R Y -[/i][/color]

[color=gainsboro]Born to two wealthy parents who had decided a child would be a wise investment of time and effort, Patrick was not drowned in affection as a child. For the most part, he was treated like the children of those people who put work above all else are; as another project to be efficiently brought towards its goal. Looking back, he wouldn't be surprised if his parents had drawn up annual evaluations for him, grading him like an underperforming employee. It could've been worse, he saw them regularly and there was little he wanted for that could be purchased. But as soon as Patrick was of schooling age, the lessons began.

His parents had seen too many of their contemporary's children fail to learn the lessons taught by success. Those were the ones who spent their days driving expensive cars, buying things they didn't need and generally wasting their parent's money. They were determined that any son of the Harrow household would do no such thing, and so they taught him to work hard, be polite and to tell the truth. The latter was largely for their own peace of mind, as they were too suspicious to take even a child's word at face value. They were sure that he'd soon grow out of it, just as most children soon learn the habit of lying. With this, as with so many things concerning Patrick, his parents were mistaken.

Thanks to their stringent education, the Harrows knew their son was perfectly placed to began a career in the practise of law. They expected that he'd start with a nice placement, study for his qualifications while picking up valuable experience and then simply ascend through having the right friends, right parents and right wealth until he would either be a partner in a prestigious firm or become a judge like his mother. They were both surprised and dismayed, therefore, when he instead became a glorified banker. What sort of profession was the handling of money for a child groomed for the delicate task of wielding the law?

And while Patrick's undeniable success and meteoric rise in his chosen occupation caused them to be grudgingly impressed, they never truly forgave him for his first and greatest act of rebellion. They faded out of his life and he out of theirs, each acknowledging the existence of the other only if prompted. They didn't appear at his wedding and he missed their divorce, each reading about the other years after the fact. There was no bang or even a whimper, just a mutual lack of interest and engagement. But we're getting ahead of ourselves, for before there can be a wedding, there must be a meeting.

While making fiscal predictions based on a frighteningly complicated set of algorithms, Patrick happened to look up from his computer screen to see a rather unusual woman. In a world of shirts, ties and power suits, she was a colourful splash of fresh air. And her flowery dresses, tinkling laugh and bawdy jokes weren't the only things that things that disrupted the meticulous world of banking. As the representative of a non-profit, this confusing woman brought a whole host of taboo ideals with her too, like generosity, selflessness and charity. The woman was Cassandra Abercrombie, who would later become Cassandra Harrow, a name she would often complain was far too morbid even for Patrick.

We will skim over their courtship, engagement and early married life, as it is all rather dull, in that way that other people's happiness can be. Suffice it to say that when he approached her with more than a little nervousness and an awful lot of stiffness, she found it just endearing enough to like. With time, Patrick learned some of her carefree nature while she in turn absorbed some of his calculating, reserved nature. They were wed and soon after had a child together, the beautiful bouncing babe that would grow to become their spirited daughter, Samantha Harrow. All was well for Patrick in that time, for he achieved both financial success and personal happiness. Of course, there's no happiness so great that fate can't shatter it with a single blow, and fate reserved a string of strikes just for him.

The first was mundane but terrible; Cassandra was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It was untreatable and she wasted away before her husband and daughter's eyes, the latter of whom was now a fully grown woman of twenty. The worst was't seeing her muscles and flesh deteriorate but the moment when her colourful, chaotic spirit was broken by a choice tonic of chemotherapy and lack of sleep. When she passed, at least her family were free to mourn the person she had been, rather than the one the illness had made her. That would've been enough alone to change a person's outlook on life but things had only just begun for Patrick. Next came an unforeseen, unpreventable and wholly unacceptable scandal in his professional life.

Patrick was accused by one of his colleagues of embezzling vast amounts of money from the bank and its clients. Given the central nature of the bank and its importance to the local economy, tabloids and financial journals alike seized on this story. For several weeks, the Harrow home was surrounded by cameramen and Patrick was harassed  by reporters wherever he went. Things got bad enough that for some weeks, he was forced to hire personal security for both himself and Samantha. When his name was finally and officially cleared, little changed. After all, the public reasoned, no perpetrator had been caught. Just because the law hadn't labelled him as a villain didn't mean he was innocent. The harassment stayed and therefore the bodyguards did too, something Samantha too issue with. And so things took almost a year to settle down and when they did, things were hardly the same.

Firstly, Patrick was unable to return to the bank after being so publicly accused of stealing from it. He tried for a few weeks to maintain his position and composure but it soon became clear that he was as unwanted as he was uncomfortable. Just before he chose to leave of his own accord, the board of directors made him an offer; leave quietly and immediately and they'd grant him a generous severance and pension settlement. Being no fool, he took the money and ignored the bitter taste it left in his mouth. The second change was that, somewhere along the way, Patrick had stopped treating Samantha like a daughter and started acting as though she was just another thing to be endured. Rather than rage against him or hate him, she simply acted as he had to his parents; she left. For a time, he tried to contact her and make amends but soon resolved to allow her the room she obviously wished for.

And so, after carefully being edged out his erstwhile position, stripped of his good name, torn from his wife's side and separated from his only child, Patrick has retreated to Lakewood Summit. Without work or a family, there is little to fill his time these days. Some days he socialises, some days he works on a various economic papers he intends to one day submit for publishing but most days he spends alone and quietly. His basement gym has become a temple to physical effort, a place to burn calories and desperately try to feel alive once more.

He wonders, some days, whether any of the inhabitants of Lakewood Summit know of his past. And if they do, he can't even tell whether he cares anymore.[/color]

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[color=darkgray][i]- O C C U P A T I O N -[/i][/color]

[color=gainsboro]In a previous existence, Patrick was a financial analyst and an extremely talented one. His job was to analyse patterns in the market and in history to make predictions on what would happen in the future, to trawl through vast seas of data for pearls of useful information and to manage the investment of eye-wateringly large sums of money.[/color]

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[color=darkgray][i]- H O B B I E S -[/i][/color]

[color=darkgray]{{ [color=gainsboro]Physical Exertion has become one of Patrick's most singular pursuits, one that helps him feel alive and has granted him an almost Herculean physique. He prefers to work alone in his basement gym but has begun to venture outside for jogging exhibitions. Similarly, he had begun a routine of regular swimming at the Sparkling Springs[/color] }}[/color]

[color=darkgray]{{ [color=gainsboro]At the Country Club, Patrick has become accustomed to settling in for a few hands of poker (low stakes, no one likes a big winner at high stakes) or a game of pool. More rarely, he might venture into playing something more physical, like Squash or Tennis.[/color] }}[/color]

[color=darkgray]{{ [color=gainsboro]Cassandra once taught him the basics of watercolour painting and with his near infinite supply of free-time, Patrick has been trying to recall her lessons. Currently, he doesn't allow his largely impressionistic works to leave his work room but should someone express an interest, he could likely be persuaded to share them.[/color] }}[/color]

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[color=darkgray][i]- R E L A T I O N S H I P S -[/i][/color]

[b][url=https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/14/a3/01/14a30198b14c5581519e045e76f594a1.gif][color=darkgray]Samantha Harrow[/color][/url][/b] – [i]Estranged Daughter[/i] – [color=gainsboro]In the fallout from Patrick's professional disaster and their mutual loss, father and daughter lost something. Rather than try to repair the damaged connective tissue, both chose to ignore the rift until it finally cracked them apart fully. Samantha, having inherited much of her mother's forthright, self determined nature, simply left her father to his self pity and moved far, far away. But absence makes the heart grow stronger and each now misses the other more than they ever expected they would.[/color]

[b][url=http://66.media.tumblr.com/452b61e726bc6c94e1fefb9dd1178c07/tumblr_inline_mjiqnb4pa91qz4rgp.gif][color=darkgray]Michael Waterson[/color][/url][/b] – [i]Ex-Colleague[/i] – [color=gainsboro]One of Patrick's fellow bankers, Michael has taken an interest in how things have gone for his exiled compatriot, occasionally going as far as to visit him. The whole nasty business is just water under the bridge, he says, and he only wants to help his friend through the aftermath of such a difficult time. Which is a little odd, it must be said, as they were never even close to friends when they worked together.[/color]
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[hider=Aron Rostow]
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[h2]| [color=f51d34][i]Aron[/i][/color] | [color=f51d34][i]Fifty-eight[/i][/color] | [color=f51d34][i]Married[/i][/color] | [color=f51d34][i]Pansexual[/i][/color] | [color=f51d34][i]Male[/i][/color] |[/h2]

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[color=silver]⇋[/color] | [color=f51d34][i]A P P E A R A N C E[/i][/color] | [color=silver]⇌[/color]

[color=silver]Despite being below average height and possessing a soft, cultured voice, many grown men and women have cowered in Aron's presence. It's not just the air of imperious superiority that he projects with his every motion, it's something in the eyes. Every look measures you, weighs you against his estimation of what you could be or should be. Even when Aron seems relaxed, a fruity cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other, his vigilant eyes appraise those around him. It's pressure, applied indiscriminately but with experience and precision. You know, in a single look, whether you've lived up to his expectations or whether he's found you wanting.

And all this comes from a fairly short man with grey hair, an unremarkable physique and an... eccentric dress sense. Years of living on the cutting edge of fashion have made Aron immune to embarrassment over outfit choices or flamboyant colours. He wears whatever feels most in tune with the beating heart of the moment; this year, 70s jackets and red flared collars, next year, black wool and bow ties. Many of his more eccentric and striking outfits are of his own design, for who else could manage to create something so perfect, but sometimes he consents to wear designs by other artists, most commonly his wife.[/color]

[color=silver]⇋[/color] | [color=f51d34][i]P E R S O N A L I T Y[/i][/color] | [color=silver]⇌[/color]

[color=silver]In some ways, Aron is still a little Polish boy, fresh off the boat and with the smell of New York fresh on his nose, staring into a shop window at a set of lazily arranged mannequins. In that moment, even though he was awash with new sensation and reeling for a thousand reasons, he was glaring at the billboard and thinking "is that the best you could do?". It was this ability to see through his own emotional investments and situation and assess work objectively that saw him rise like a comet in the world of fashion design, coupled with a talent for inspiring that same awe in others that had once almost overwhelmed him. He still takes great delight in anything truly original or brilliant, it's just that years of experience and study have made most concepts seems derivative or disappointing.

In most ways, of course, you would never be able to tell that Aron was every young and uncertain, as every aspect of his manner implies omniscience and experience. Much of this aspect of his person comes from what came directly after his arrival in the country, working his way from the ground up to become the fashion deity of the city. In that time, most of his contemporaries were of the middle class or trust fund children that would constantly complain about the work they were doing. If Aron could learn the languages of fashion and English at the same time while working a second job, he privately reasoned, everyone else should have no trouble keeping up. And yet in life, Aron has found that almost no one lives up to their potential, does all the work they could if they applied themselves. Those who work with him or have ever received his criticism can attest that he expects nothing but the best and, frequently, receives it.

Which is not to say Aron is mirthless or stoney. On the contrary, he once had a reputation for throwing the most lavish and exotic parties in living memory. And those people who count him as a acquaintance rather than a friend often express that he is witty, supportive and self deprecating. And those people who have worked hard enough to earn his approval know that it's true, he just doesn't reveal that side to those who have failed to reach their limits, only to those who have succeeded or those who he has no emotional attachment to. Indeed, he's close friends with many of his previous protégés, who still think of him fondly as a guide and mentor. Of course, that's only the ones that matched his standards, the others were long since discarded and forgotten. Some days, Aron wished his child was as pliable, efficient and [i]grateful[/i] as his many earned students.[/color]

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[color=silver]⇋[/color] | [color=f51d34][i]H I S T O R Y[/i][/color] | [color=silver]⇌[/color]

[color=silver]Born in rural Poland, Aron came to America at the age of twelve with his family. In America, his father swore, the Rostows would find the wealth and security that was so hard to come by in the old country. As an experienced farmer and general man of the world, of course he didn't believe that the streets were paved with gold or that there was a job on every street corner, but he came with some hope. Unfortunately, the Red Scare was still prevalent in American culture at the time and those with eastern European accents were less than popular. So the Rostow patriarch took up a job doing menial labour, the mother took on two waiting jobs and the children were told to shed their accents with all speed.

Aron saw the wisdom in this lesson but, at the same time, refused to pay it any heed. He learned English with a feverish intensity, devouring books and magazines as fast as he could find them. With wisdom beyond his years, Aron realised it would be best to conceal from friend and family alike that his favourite ones were those that showed clothes or models. Something about their splendour entranced him, the way they held themselves or the unreasonable wealth the clothes implied. For a boy who had grown up in clothes more akin to sacks than anything else, the allure was undeniable. Every copy of [i]Vogue[/i] or its sibling magazines he could scrounge was studied with careful, deliberate focus. His parents weren't to know that articles bemoaning the current trends in denim were responsible for their son's excellent vocabulary.

Being small and unthreatening, Aron escaped the American schooling system with no more than a little emotional scarring. He went to work, as his father wished, studying to be a teacher, without telling any of his family, he also applied for and received an internship at a major fashion label. Balancing studying with his duties as the new dogsbody were difficult and when push came to shove, he skipped lectures and rushed assignments. Most of his duties at the label were menial, fetching coffee and ferrying designs from one office to another and so forth. But everyday, he felt immersed in the glossy, colourful, majestic world he'd been imagining since he first stepped off the boat. Of course, often the jobs were less than glamorous or down right humiliating. But Aron could and would endure.

Before long, his enthusiasm and steadiness was noticed by one of the more important names on the label,  Jeremiah Martin, and Aron was made an assistant. It wasn't much of a promotion, really. It just meant that know he fetched coffee for only one person and was occasionally asked for an opinion on a controversial design. His big break came when Jeremiah was experimenting with aviator shades and tie dye, and remarked that something was off, that it just wasn't cool. Without a word, Aron ran and fetched a denim jacket to return and wrap it around his boss's shoulders. The effect was instantaneous, they both felt it. This look would work, this look would sell, this look would [i]last[/i]. Being the senior designer, of course Jeremiah took most of the credit as he ascended to the board of directors on the label. But he made sure that Aron got his old position, giving him a definite leg up.

At this point, Aron was still making almost no money from his endeavours in the fashion world and had long since fallen far enough behind in his teacher training that he'd been asked to leave the program. The sensible thing would've been to settle down and find a steady job. And Aron did, in a fashion. In fact, he found two part time jobs that he could juggle alongside his work at the label. So while his contemporaries, largely from families with more than enough wealth to support them, went to parties and rubbed shoulders with the glamorous and the famous, Aron worked long shifts at chair factory or as the frier at a diner. Neither were enjoyable or engaging but they gave him space to think, to internally experiment and to meditate on the nature of design. So when his colleagues came in to work hung over, Aron was tired but full to the brim with ideas.

Hard work, luck and creativity served him well and, within a span of years, Aron was the head designer for the label, did freelance work for other labels and wrote a regular feature in his beloved [i]Vogue[/i]. He was able to quit his side jobs and take part in some of the parties he'd been told so much about. They were not, on the whole, as exciting as he'd been promised. Even as his star rose and his reputation grew, people muttered about how aloof this Polish migrant was. There was little his detractors could do about his financial and critical success, however, and both were finally starting to pour down. Any design with his fingerprints on it, even those published under different names, sold like hotcakes and his column was the most popular by a long way. And he might've remained the first among equals if he hadn't met a very special someone.

During a glorified meet and greet, Aron happened to enter into a conversation between a neophyte model and a more experienced member of the industry. The two were arguing over the release of a recent line of dresses, the older woman calling them creative and the younger derivative and boring. Aron agreed with the latter, a woman he learned was named Estella McKinley, and went so far as to suggest that the current western fashion world was becoming more and more creatively stale due to a lack of diversity in the major labels. In a flash, Estella seemed to turn on him and said "Then why don't you make something better?", words that haunted Aron for weeks afterwards.

He couldn't deny it, he had no right to bemoan the world of fashion without doing something to improve it. In a move that would change his life and the lives of many others, he quit every one of his jobs and invested every cent of his savings into a new label, one under his direct creative control; [i]Aronista[/i]. And his first move was to recruit the forthright, plainspoken woman who had put him onto the idea in the first place; Estella McKinely. At first they were employer and employee, then artist and muse and finally romantically paired. Aron was enamoured with her ambition, something he took inspiration from and admired. On his more introspective days, he would wonder whether he loved Estella or loved the being with a model, the very symbol of the world he sought to rule.

[i]Aronista[/i] was a hit like nothing else on the market. Its financial success allowed Aron and Estella to pursue more personal, experimental projects, some of which were well received and some of which faded quickly into obscurity. One of Aron's projects was starting his own fashion magazine, [i]Who runs the Runway?[/i], which to this day duels with [i]Vogue[/i] as the authority on all things fashion. One personal project the two were never able to complete was having a child together, nature stood in their way there. Although they adopted a wonderful child and Aron assured his beloved wife that it changed nothing between them, he still sometimes wonders whether a child of his blood would be more like him or would've responded better to the strict rules and high expectations Aron has placed upon his current heir.

Still, he had his empire to rule and a world to define, there was always something to do and Aron was never happier than when he was working. Only, in the last few years Aron has found it hard to concentrate on his work, no matter how innovative the hemline or creatively applied the colour. There's always been something bothering him and it took him a long while to work out exactly what it was; his family was disordered in a way he'd never allow his workplace to be. His child hides their secrets from both parents, his wife is unsatisfied with her work and the general mood of family dinners is of sullen resentment. For a man who always demanded excellence from everyone in his life, especially himself, Aron cannot stand this situation and moved to rectify it.

Handing control of his label and magazine to some shocked but [i]very[/i] pleased protégés, Aron has moved his family to Lakewood and is attempting to mend the broken fences and seal the rifts. He's not entirely sure whether he's doing out of love or a desire for his family to be perfect but, in the end, does it matter?[/color]

[color=silver]⇋[/color] | [color=f51d34][i]O C C U P A T I O N[/i][/color] | [color=silver]⇌[/color]

[color=silver]For most of his working lifetime, Aron has managed the Fashion Magazine [i]Who runs the Runway?[/i] as well as running his own fashion label, [i]Aronista[/i]. Both have been financially successful and incredibly influential over the larger fashion world. He has now retired from both, handing them on to some of his protégés.[/color]

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[color=silver]⇋[/color] | [color=f51d34][i]H O B B I E S[/i][/color] | [color=silver]⇌[/color]

[color=silver]{{[/color] With easy access to the Lakewood country club, Aron has taken up horseback riding or, as he insists people call it, Equestrianism. There's something very cultured and dignified about prancing around upon the back of a horse, or so he tells himself. [color=silver]}}[/color]

[color=silver]{{[/color] Although he has officially retired from the world of fashion for personal reasons, much of Aron's time is still devoted to it. He gives advice to the men and women now heading up his brand and magazine, mediates troublesome disputes telephonically, calls in old favours in exchange for new ones and generally pulls strings from behind the scenes. [color=silver]}}[/color]

[color=silver]{{[/color] A habit he picked up from a British colleague, Aron loves to hold tea parties. It sounds childish and mundane and, yes, well, it is, but it also provides an oppurtunity for those residents of Lakewood who do nothing but gossip to come and gossip together. [color=silver]}}[/color]

[color=silver]{{[/color] To keep in shape, Aron likes to run with the family Poodle, Shutzy. Admittedly, she can't run very fast and is more interested in stopping every few metres to smell lampposts, trees, walls and passersby but then Aron isn't overly invested in fitness as a concept so that fits him just fine. [color=silver]}}[/color]

[color=silver]⇋[/color] | [color=f51d34][i]R E L A T I O N S H I P S[/i][/color] | [color=silver]⇌[/color]

[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3852075][b][color=f51d34]Estella Rostow, née McKinley[/color][/b][/url] – [i]Wife[/i] – [color=silver]Married for many years, Aron and Estella have been celebrated as a celebrity 'power couple' for longer than Aron has known what the phrase meant. And while there is some genuine love between them, too often their respective ambitions and desires get the better of them.[/color]

[url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/3924520][b][color=f51d34]René Reno/Rostow[/color][/b][/url] – [i]Adopted Son[/i] – [color=silver]Aron dearly wishes that René was a reflection of himself, a mirror image that could be taught the lessons that have seen Aron's dreams come true and his life go so well. Alas, it's clear to them both that René is his own man and that they don't always get on that well.[/color]

[url=https://66.media.tumblr.com/336a85ee401867559cba0b643ec3641d/tumblr_mzazi9ECrq1sxbtemo1_500.gif][color=f51d34][b]Shutzy[/b][/color][/url] – [i]Family Dog[/i] – [color=silver]Bright eyed, bushy tailed and always ready to run (slowly), play, cuddle or devour a bowl of dog food.[/color]
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