I did a thing. Shootable NPC, if @LetMeDoStuff is tempted.
Name Graf ("Count") Oskar von Bodenn, "Oskar the Owl"
Gender Male
Age 25, 3rd July 1889, Bodenn.
Sexuality Heterosexual
Race Imperial Nobility of Bodenn
Appearance Von Bodenn's uniform and general demeanour shows his elevated birth. Always keeping his uniform clean and spotless, he struts around with an air of confidence and reassurance, as his icy cold eyes examine even the most minuscule of details. Well kept blonde hair and a clean shaven face crown the tall and lanky figure of the aristocrat, which stands tall even among tall men. He walks with surprisingly soft steps, and it is said that his voice is but a harsh whisper, enough to send chill downs the spine of resolute men. Von Bodenn is also fond of pelts, and on occasions he adorns himself with the skin of his kills. An adept huntsman, he compliments the symbol of authority that is the officer's sword with a well kept hunting rifle crowned with a top-of-the-line scope to enhace his marksmanship.
Height 6'3"
Personality Oskar von Bodenn is a stern man who is embittered by the chains of commanding. A borderline misanthrope, he oozes cynicism in each of his words, and has a low opinion of everyone, including himself. While he finds use in formalities and honour codes, he simply sees them as useful guidelines rather than being hardcore principles every man should strive for. He however, has high standards on his troop, and he does not forgive weakness or incompetence. Many a soldier (specially the Darcsen) have been at the wrong end of his rifle for this reason. Fond of hunting game and marksmanship feats, Oskar is a ruthless hunter, exemplified on his moniker of the Owl, for his love of nocturnal operations and predatory nature, as well as signifying no small amount of tactical acumen.
Von Bodenn is also driven by the need to wash out a stain on his honour committed by a member of his family. Her aunt Emilia von Bodenn, who fled the Empire forsaking her birthright alongside a certain engineer called Karl Wagner. He is a strict enforcer of social classes, but not because he thinks himself superior to any of them, more like he knows deep in his heart they would do the same were their roles be reversed, specially the Darcsen filth.
Rank 1st Liutenant
Role Imperial Officer - Unspecified Platoon and Regiment
Biography Oskar was born in privilege in one of the many Empire's provinces, being the de-facto ruler of the location that bore his name: Bodenn. A woody area with lot of timber and wildlife alongside the settlements, it made Oskar always have a touch with nature and embrace it whenever he felt downcast about the affairs of his birth and condition could have. A perceptive child from a young age, he quickly learnt how to see the fake smiles and courteous manners hiding daggers in what was the Empire's politics. He still had two loving parents and aunt whenever he wanted to feel comfort.
Until the scandal happened. He could barely remember it, as he was just a child, but the younger aunt of Graf von Bodenn, eloped with a commoner and brought shame to the entire family. This also drove a wedge between her two parents, as her mother could never stand the wild Emilia and used every single opportunity to take shots at the foolishness of her decision, while his father could never fully reject his own sister, flaws and all. The whispers of politics became more vicious, and all the competitors for posts of honour viciously attacked this black stain to get ahead in what it was possible to do so.
Oskar as a result, became embittered in his teen years, and began to resent everyone including himself, but specially the Federation who had allowed Emilia to live in peace after so much trouble she had caused to her family. He also began to go out in the woods more frequently, and to take up firearms to hunt game as an attempt to quell the fire inside him. When his father caved in and allowed his sister to visit, Oskar could barely hide the comtempt for the mongrel child she brought home. It was only due to his father's actions that he stayed his hand somewhat, and the entire situation did not explode.
Among rumours of weakness of the von Bodenn line, Oskar entered the militar academy, where he was directly sent to the officer courses due to his blue blood. It was there where he excelled, earning the trust of his peers not only to his capabilities as officer, but the marksmanship he had honed during his teenage years back at home.
The world had yet to take another turn, as tensions were rising among neighbours and the Federation. During a routine visit, a terrorist bombing from some Imperial traitors took the life of his father away in a single sweep. His mother did not much last longer, and poisoned herself with hemlock to follow his husband into the grave, for despite their differences, she was still mad in love with him. Losing both parental pillars in a quick sucession left him as the man to carry his honour and take care of his sister, Rachel, which put a noticeable strain on his character.
And then, because disgraces call to disgraces, the War happened. Oskar, in his function as vassal of the Emperor had to take arms. He did so without complaining, and using his nature attunement, love of nocturnal operations, and more importantly, being one of the best marskmen of the entire Bodenn county he earned himself a name among his troops.
The Owl of Bodenn.
Affiliations Friedich von Bodenn - Father - Died in a terrorist car bombing in 1912 Anna von Bodenn- Mother- Committed suicide not long after his husband died in 1912 Rachel von Bodenn- Younger Sister- Alive, managing the Bodenn estate in his absence Emilia Wagner née von Bodenn- Aunt - Alive Mila "Mimi" Wagner - Cousin - Federation Soldier (and thus traitor)
It was a shock to see the first volley come so successful. Initially, the shocktroopers threw their ragnite bombs into the opposing trench quickly in large clusters. A few panicked shouts from Imperials notably noticing the approaching tools of explosive destruction filled the air. It was as if they had seen the legendary Valkyria on the battlefield, which in of itself was a myth that could never be relieved. A second volley was tossed, this time from those who weren't shocktroopers. It became a realisation, to Jean, that these were people suddenly switching in their human natures. They were almost programmed to act, and to kill, for their own sake. One, the notable sweetheart that had falsely complimented his facade of bravery, pulled the pins on an Imperial corpse before shoving it back inside the trench. And as the final few bombs landed within the trench, everyone covered their ears and heads from any falling debris. The explosion shuddered the foundations of Europa's soil, physically moving the small fragments of earth beneath their roughened boots. The once human shouts of realisation and panic were soon drowned out by the inevitable expansion of ear-piercing white noise. A ghostly shatter broke the once peaceful repertoire caused by the machine-gun's cannonade. The orchestration of automatic fire was temporarily ceased when the ignition of shrapnel and handheld discharge spilt blood from those still pestering within that quadrant of the trench. A sharp pain spun in Jean's inner-guts as he was brutally reminded that despite not acting upon the detonation, it was his idea to commit to such brutality. His eyes widened and his breath drew short. A heavy burden lay itself upon his shoulders with a wide reach, pampering him with self-loathing and discriminatory backlash.
When the explosions were finished, the conclusion opened a window of opportunity for those committed to the war already. Some of the subjectively braver companions within Jean's platoon were quick to take the mantle, rushing inside with their bayonets. One woman in particular bespoke of a ruined ritual that showed chaotic nightmares in her wake. Jean froze, not getting up in fear of what this woman was doing. She'd risen from the ashes of the explosions she'd set off and vowed revenge on some small individuals he did not know of. Her violent underlining terrified him, making him realise that within seconds people had the chance to lose their innate humanity for that of a barbarian.
More and more were following in her footsteps and Jean could her the first few shots from the barrels of the Longfields. Those insane enough to make the first move were quick to jump in, leaving Jean and a few others to struggle as he tried to find his own courage. Eventually, Jean arose from his foxhole and slowly began to ascend the final few steps of the hill, watching over the trench around him. What laid within those trenches was far worse than what he'd ever experienced thus far.
Men and women were engaged closely in hand to hand combat. Those with loaded and bolted shots at the ready quickly aimed and fired. Several soldiers were still injured from the explosions and stood no change from those like the madwoman who violently led the charge. He remembered the words that the crazy female had said, about how the only way out was through the mess. But before him laid more than hell and dirt, but instead the destabilisation of mankind's own intrinsic and virtuous ethical standards. Jean, a lowly Darcsen, felt as if he could look out in disgust at the race that had descended to such atrocity. Those who looked kind and sweet before were being forced to react, taking their sharpened bayonets and striking them deeply into the chests of their adversaries. Human life was being extinguished like the fires of nearby forests almost instantaneously. Around him was war, but not in the way his homeland had portrayed it. Jean's instincts were to descend himself into the trench, making sure his comrades weren't alone in the struggles, but he soon realised how much of a mistake it was.
Some were already struggling in the narrow corridors, but where Jean had landed placed him directly in front that of another Imperial, one who seemed to carry similar versions of his own native gear. A rifleman, most likely, judging by his gear. The two stared at each other in almost unified disbelief of the terror around them, but Jean was late to raise his rifle first. The Imperial, only about four metres before him, raised his gun and aimed it directly at Jean, slowing down the passage of time. Was he staring in death's own jaws? But where the bullet didn't eject instead came the unforgiving click of a jammed rifle. Jean was stunned as the Imperial looked back down at his rifle, realising the mistake of its muddy components. Jean raised his rifle without hesitation, for once, and quickly pulled the trigger.
The rush. It was unbearable. The recoil felt almost nothing like it had during training. Almost throwing itself from his hand, Jean saw the muzzle flash signify where his hostile's end began. A spout of blood shot from his chest and almost exploded from the compartment that was hit. A gaping tear sprang through the Imperial's freshly made uniform, one that had been clean before the battle had started. Whatever he'd shot, it was effective in instantaneously ending his foe, one that he questioned. Jean's eyes widened as the foe dropped, letting him stand there amidst the chaos with shocked arms by his side. He couldn't reflect upon the moment for long before a large blunt object slammed into the rear of his helmet, knocking him down to the ground quickly.
Jean's face collided with the bloody dirt, blending that maroon substance with the pale and tainted face he carried upon his weakened shoulders. The concussion wasn't enough to keep him stunned for too long as he rolled onto his back, seeing the figure that had attacked him. Another Imperial, this time dressed in the plates of iron worn by shocktroopers, lifted a fist to slam into Jean's face. It was a quick punch, one that brought a lot of pain to the Darcsen man. He could hear the Imperial shout as he landed the first fist onto his cheeks.
"Darcsen scum! It'll be days before we off you all!" A second fist rammed into Jean's head, causing him to become woozy and almost lost in place. A large boot slammed into the side of his thighs and rolled him against the walls of the trench, the man seemingly toying with him. It was a terrifying situation to be within, but Jean was determined to try and survive the hellhole for some strange reason. Previously, all hope had been lost, but that wild and feral intention of survival began to kick in. Jean lifted his knees up and kicked the man back, throwing him against the opposite trench wall. It gave him a small window of opportunity to create some distance, allowing the weakened Lance Corporal to leap up and run further down the trench, unfortunately further away from the squad he'd entered with. He'd only managed to muster a few more metres when a shot went zooming past his face, scraping his cheek gently.
Jean fell. Whilst it hadn't dug into his skin, the opening of his of blood, like a cut from a sharp razor, suddenly caught him of guard and caused him to stumble against the wall before him. Two hands grabbed onto his shoulders from behind, this time from a different soldier, and threw him against yet another set of duckboards. Two were now acting as his hunter, one standing above his head whilst the other at his feet. They held all of his limbs in place for a second, as if he were confined to a bloody stretcher, and tried to draw their own blades. The imperial at his feet had to remove one of his hands in order to reach for his sharpened tool, giving Jean the freedom to kick once more. As he slammed the steel-toecaps of his left boot into the man's throat, aiming to take him away from the action for a few seconds, the once aggressive and toying imperial shocktrooper looked at his friend in surprise. This hesitation, much like the one Jean was accustomed too, gave the Darcsen another opportunity to strike. He freed one of his wrists and suddenly grabbed whatever he could to hsi side. The groggy fingers wrapped tightly around a rock, one sharpened by its natural carvings in the hill, as he threw his arm upwards. The stone harshly slammed against his captors head, throwing him off once and for all.
Without a moment's rest, Jean got the upper hand, shouting to himself in a faint war-cry of fear and agony. One by one, he began to lower the rock again and again. The man's face began to bludgeon and crack beneath the constant pressure of Jean's assault. Even though he was likely dead from the fourth hit, adrenaline still wounded Jean's mind as he continued to slam. Blood began to stain both of their uniforms. And around the seventh hit, Jean stopped, looking down at his second kill of his life. He froze, started to shake and threw himself off of the body, crawling away backwards against the walls of the trench once more. What had he done? How had he done such a horrible thing?
During his panic, the man he'd kicked before rose up once more, and was preparing to strike again, when the sudden noise of a clean slice suddenly forced Jean to turn. And like many parts of the battle, he regretted facing it once more. With one single swipe, a large ceremonial sabre had cleanly torn the head of the last aggressor from the shoulders and laid it onto the floor, not too far from Jean's crumbled body. Before him stood...him. And with a strange smug grin, one that was quite surprising to the very least, he began to talk down to the fallen Lance Corporal.
"You're supposed to be leading by example, Dark-Hair. Can't have a rag-tag bunch-of-greenhorns messing up the plans now, can we?" Jean was still in shock from his beating and the head that Middleton had cleanly swiped from its previous body. There was still life in its facial features yet it was clearly dead. Jean was simply blown away in fear by the terrific presentation of war Middleton had bestowed upon him. "Liven up, you coward. They're retreating down the opposite end of the hill. Time to call it some quits whilst our boys shoot them in the back as they run. If you can't handle a simple scuffle like that, Darcsen, then you ain't fit to fight here."
The last few imperials who were unable to get out of the trench were quickly ganged up on by the forcing natures of the Federation wave. Those who'd survived the climb and the battle in the trench were eager to sit down, but many were being reported to the opposite end of the trench to inspect the artillery pieces they were called up to claim. Many of the trenches systems were open areas were the large cannons laid, but the tightly weaved segments connected them all together. Now most of them were filled with either corpses or tired Federation soldiers.
Middleton wandered off, aiming his revolver down and shooting it at a struggling Imperial who was begging for redemption. His departure temporarily left Jean alone, alone long enough to feel the tears pour from his eyes. He started to cry. Jean was crying silently to himself, begging for someone to rescue him from this darkened depression.
By the time he'd finished his scouting spree, the group around him had already thickened in numbers. The rubble they were hiding amongst was starting to become cramped, which was a dangerous constraint onto the group's possible survival. All around the hill's ascendance, troops were still beginning to climb up, some even taking the time to shoot whilst they clambered up with little aim. More and more were starting to reach the top, but those behind the church rubble were still finalising their plan. It was an honest and smart move to make, but Jean still felt under pressure from those behind him. What if they were being framed for cowardice? Lieutenant Middleton was always going to be on their back, he felt, especially with a Darcsen like Jean. Before he could initiate the plan, the gunners were still shifting on their stomachs to line and deploy their armaments, giving him a few seconds to take in the scenery of the comrades around him. All of them were grizzled and drenched in the rainfall. Some had specks of other people's blood soaked into their uniforms whilst others were somewhat clean for the conditions of the battle. A thick ooze of mud slopped off of one's helmet like a guttering gall sloping from a liver. For starters, he saw two individuals having a bit of a small argument, one that seemed to irritate Jean. The man, at least from Jean's perspective, was persisting to take his tools to give him better speed. For what? Jean was already on edge from the stress of the battle, the violence taking its toll around them and the dropping of bodies left, right and centre. This was not needed. Jean, still squatting, crawled forward and broke the two a part, his eyes starting to stress out with red veins of worry.
"No one is taking anyone's gear. N-No one, you hear?" Jean was required to raise his tone to compensate for the gunfire in the morning's dew. There was still a tremble to his tone, letting everyone know that he was in fact afraid, possibly more than anyone else. Jean had someone, a very interesting looking girl, compliment him on his act of heroism and bravery towards fishing out a dead Sergeant's body. What cruel irony. "U-uhh...t...thank you, uhm...Private."
Whilst he didn't know Kalisa's name, the impact of her outspoken compliment was quite a lot to take in. Had he really transformed so quickly as to garner some minor respect within the first ten minutes of conflict? It was a large consideration, yet he still persisted in awkwardly nodding. And so, Jean stood up slightly, still concealing his head only slightly below the ridges of the debris. Jean whipped out the binoculars one last time, checking the situation. The pathway was still clear, but only if the gunners did their job. And now was the only time they'd have to move, knowing that the overflowing numbers of friendly soldiers taking cover behind the broken church would only justify mortar or artillery barrages on their position.
Jean took to the front of the rubble, holding his rifle and checking that the bayonet was still attached to the tip. It wasn't blocking the barrel and still allowed for him to shoot, but it still gave some extra weight to its tip, making aiming slightly more trickier for the young Lance Corporal. Everyone was behind him and his heart pounded with fear over whether or not it was a plan he could comprehend. Some of those waiting for the signal were watching him with beady eyes. Jean then started something he couldn't imagine doing ever. If anyone paid enough attention to him, they would have seen the singular tear dribble down his right cheek, signifying that he was desperately wishing to be elsewhere. All around them, bodies continued to fall and others managed to narrowly dodge the rounds of Imperial gunfire, yet he still found his inner emotion to panic. And with that, he turned back to the gunners, and raised his hand hesitantly with constant shaking.
"O-Open fire, Gunners! Go, go! Follow me, i-if you will!"
Jean, for once, didn't hesitate to stand up and be the first one to run as soon as some of the gunner's began to open fire. The wall of suppression holding them back was a risky challenge but Jean was determined to see himself survive. However, it wasn't out of bravery or nobility, but cowardice and fear itself. He rushed forward, knowing that some of the shocktroopers and other vital soldiers were behind him. He couldn't guess who was and who wasn't. In all honesty, Jean would not have blamed if all of them stayed behind the cover and waited for him to run alone into the faces of death. They were human too, and the Darcsen Lance Corporal was nothing more than a sub-species of the rest of the group.
When he took those first steps from behind the church, his mind and ears fell silent. Everything became muffled as he let his legs desperately carry him onward. There was nothing but then poetic reality of the battlefield all around him. His mind spoke in rhymes and cryptic stanza as they rehearsed what needed to be said about the battlefield. The damnation of mud, blood and soil corroded into the facec of the mountain in such a way that Jean thought they could dig beneath the entire battle. Obsolete shots of retaliation came from the barrels of unnamed soldiers all around him, committing to their own charges up the hill. It was as if everyone wanted to triumphantly conquer this piece of hell, yet it was futile to even think in such a positive manner. Jean was desperate to prove to Olivia that this was to be the time he joined her in the heavens above. With a stride forward, he continued the pursuit. The pitter-patter of bullets from the Federation machine guns seemed to slam against the hill's peak, pinning down those who were quick enough to dodge their incoming hellfire. Frantic squeals of whistled bullets sprayed above his own head, passing from both in front and behind. Footsteps were somewhat audible in the splatter of the mud below their boots. Jean was scared, beyond all comprehension, which was why he must have continued the pursuit of the hill's top.
Metres turned into drawn out miles as they continued what felt like forever's distance. It was clearly not as far as he thought, but the wave of unrelenting sombre ensured that he was in a drawn out suffering that lasted an eternity. But despite this, he finally fell into it. By some miracle, he and several others began to drop into the foxholes just below the hill's peak. It was the specific place he had designated their plan to call a rendezvous point. Quickly, he turned, taking the time to breathe and take in the massive achievement of surviving up until now. Without thinking, he turned and barked out, in a trembled and fragile manner, to those who'd followed him.
"S-Shocktroopers! Lob the b-b-bombs! Lob 'em now!" This was it. Throwing the ignited bombs into the trenches would give them a small segment to jump into within their hiding place. From there, it would be a brutal case of close quarters engagement and bloodfest. Jean just hoped that it wouldn't be as bad as he imagined the gruesome battle would conclude. However, he knew deep down that he was wrong.
For quite some time, there was nothing but the emptiness of her heart when she first saw them take the first steps up the ladder. As a bystander, someone who could not prevent, save nor assist those savagely scouting out the frontline she hadn't yet seen, her mind dropped into a spiralled anguish of fear. She closed her eyes when the first whistle of a tipped bullet splattered through the first man and woman who dared to show themselves upon ascendance. It was a small glimpse before she cowered away, but Lucia had seen enough to truly strain her mind from peace. For quite some time, she didn't look, but heard several thuds and shouts of pain ring throughout the trench. An innate reaction to cower forced her head to look away, ensuring that she wouldn't force her eyes open to see the result of those climbing the ladder. It was clear that some were starting to scale and reach the top, taking their initiative to run in different directions. Several shot their guns as the scarily familiar tone of the Longfield rifle could be heard amongst the now rapid engagement of gunfire.
She tried to block out the sounds. Her mind drifted to happy places of colour and light, where she used to run through the meadows with friends and family members alike. A coat of daisies and poppies were always nearby when she was at home, allowing her to spread her wings and float like a gentle butterfly. In those memories, there was nothing but glee and carelessness to contain her inner sorrow, but now there was a world outside of that bubble she'd been thrown into. The more she tried to block it out, the more she realised that this world was not another world by all means, but in fact was a measurement of the hell she'd been refusing to accept.
Suddenly, when her mind became distorted and reduced to static imagery of the one peaceful past she'd experienced, there was a strange silence. It wasn't the ringing in her ears caused by the uproar of gunfire, nor was it the slightly distant growls of men and women charging into the fray, yet it was her sudden shock to see what was before her. A tremble in her eyelids forced her to open and bear witness to what was before her, and it was far from satisfactory. There were no more men nor women climbing the ladders as such, spare for a few more who had fallen back. Some had bullet wounds in their arms or hips, yet they were still being told to walk up the ladder a second time. Her eyes drew colourless and devoid of all light, tone and shade. Nothing stood before her except the manifestations of the demonic movement, slaughtering the men and women around her like common cattle. Her legs nor body couldn't move and were frozen by the mixture of fear and chilled temperatures surrounding the trench. A worse smell flickered across her face as tears dribbled down her cheeks. The bottom of the ladder and on the top edge of the trenchline laid bodies that were freshly mangled by the rain of bullets upon them.
Hundreds of souls were being condemned to something she couldn't see outside of the trench. Within seconds of being called to the frontline she'd seen nearly a hundred dead bodies littered only around her specific part of the trench. She could no longer feel anything except the numbness of human regret. Was she really supporting the regime by joining this military? No, of course not. She was conscripted like all of the victims of war. She was nothing more than a tool of kindled violence, a toy of the Cartesian Devil. She shivered and broke down into a pup-like whimper, crying for help silently beneath her own condensed whisper.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps. She must have blanked out for at least five minutes, as the battle had already taken its toll on certain individuals. At the top of the trench, retreating for their own life, a woman suddenly appeared and began to climb down the ladder. Her soldier's instinct suddenly was halted as they realised Lucia had forced herself to bring up her rifle. Their heads turned and their eyes met. Both paused in position, the lady barely halfway down the ladder in her own panic.
The sound of Lucia's Longfield, shivering and shaking in her own anxiety, was almost as loud as the battle raging on above. Her eyes were now a source of continuous tears, flourishing and dominating her pure smooth skin. Her legs were trembling in a tremolo rhythm whilst her gun struggled to stay aimed on her. She tried to say something, realising that failing to do her duty would result in not only punishment on her end, but also for the individual who'd just retreated before her. She was assigned the duty of murdering her comrades, at least the ones who retreated, without remorse. Lucia couldn't face the orders, nor could she keep her bright red cheeks from glowing. A ray of sunshine, amongst the dark clouds and rainfall, shone on her, enhancing her features more and more. With a petite call, the woman remained frozen on the ladder, almost trying to beg for forgiveness telepathically. Lucia finally broke the silence between the two with a broken sentence, drowned in her own fresh tears.
"H-Halt!" There was no threat in her tone, only a beg for saving. The poor girl was a victim, more of a victim than anyone else in the war, for having to not only commit crimes against the enemy but instead against her own people. "I...I...I n-need to...s-shoot if you..."
But before she could continue speaking, she collapsed onto her knees, bursting out into a loud cry of tears and sniffles. She consistently kept on repeating herself, stating that she was sorry not only to the woman but her family that had been killed in the past. She'd become a shadow of her former self, one that was ripped into several broken pieces without friends, comfort not morality. The woman she'd been aiming at looked at her, still in fear, before slowly rising back up the ladder and rejoining the fight, leaving Lucia to swallow her own tears in agony and solitary confinement.
_______________________________________________ Owen Reese Riley _______________________________________________ 26 ┃ August 21, 1992 ┃ Male ___________________________________ High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, England ___________________________________ Soloist
Character Summary
Personality ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
Owen always considers himself as expressive when it comes to his music. Anything that lurks on his mind and prolongs his thought acts as inspiration, which he hopes to develop towards other individuals. When talking to others, it is always an interesting topic to discuss hardships, silver-linings and so more as he finds the best influences come from the worst of times, as they produce the most genuine of solemn compositions.
He has consistently faced hardships with other people in the past, sometimes making him distrusting towards others at first. This hindering can be overcame with effort and showing true colours, as a career in such a wild industry has been known to throw people beyond their pure moralities.
Without a doubt, Owen is quite clearly empathetic and sensitive towards other people and their feelings. An advocate for silence amongst adversaries, he is known to avoid situations of aggressiveness whenever he can compose himself, whilst trying to appease others in debated topics. These reasons contribute to his initial solace in introversion.
Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
Height:6'1" Weight: 169lbs
Physical Description: Owen, by unsolicited reports, has always been imagined and pictures as a dull and colourless man without any spark of life, however there is plenty of tone and youth to his weathered personality. Clear and pale skin surrounds his face, and the blend of a neatly shaven stubble and shortened walnut hair accompanies his amber-toned eyes. He isn't overly well built in comparison to most men, but that slender stance is far from being unhealthy.
Fashion Style: Without a doubt, he's always been pinpointed as a commoner amongst glamorous numbers. Owen will occasionally dress well for specialised events which require or prefer the high-life style, but he prefers to keep things simple with button shirts, flannel designs and occasionally tattered jackets to suit his personality. Despite the initially rugged clothing, he does go out of his way to alter them into slightly more presentable attires that differentiate him and establish his own unique appearance of normality.
Background ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
Raised from birth within High Wycombe, one of the larger towns in Buckinghamshire, England, Owen grew up amongst a series of different artists and struggling practitioners of imagery. He was the youngest of the small family, having his mother, Jane Riley, take the podium to only be followed by Edward and Tamara Riley, his father and older sister of course. One thing that defined the family was their appreciation of one another's artistic values: Jane having been a somewhat successful author, carrying the family, Edward having been a struggling painter and Tamara looking to make a professional life out of photography. All of them were honest individuals all helping one another to try and find a balance in life, one that would give them happiness and stability.
School was never an interesting area for Owen to explore as he found it dull and uninteresting at first. However, when he first found his interest, during the 3rd Year of Junior School, in music he began to pay more attention to each and every subject from the years onwards. Whilst this was mainly to appease to his mother's demands of maintaining good grades for her to continue funding his private tuition for newfound piano lessons, it was still a step in the right direction. He eventually graduated with decent grades, with his standing two being English Language and Music fully.
His initial experience with performing was simple; school concerts became his highlight of those childhood years whilst the occasional chance to tour with his local adolescent ensemble gave him some much needed experience in the arts of collaboration and practice. He became a determined soul who was set on making this music life a reality, being optimistic at first. A lot of his first inspiration for song-writing came from his piano performances at a young age, whilst still in school, where he wrote a lot about gleeful stories he'd experienced. Some were comedic and others were filled with swing or upbeat tempos that thrilled him throughout his performance. During secondary school, he even picked up an old weathered acoustic guitar and self-taught himself how to play during lunch-breaks. Having more options to express his feelings through giddy tunes were a life saver, but of course, things had to change for him to become the person he was due to become.
Owen was extremely close to his older sister. There was only a three year gap between the two and they'd spend the majority of their smallest years with shut doors and toys out. When they couldn't figure out what to do with their tools, they'd create their own in the outside world with collaborative creativity and imagination. Each of the two supported one another's eventual introduction into the world of art and culture, following one another to each award ceremony they attended and showcasings of their work. Tamara was keen to, during a GCSE course-work assessment, use a short composition from her younger brother to accompany a video-to-photographic presentation, which gave her flying colours on the marks. They were dependent on one another for troubles, sorting out their social and personal issues hand in hand without a care in the world. Both of their parents were happy to be blessed with such a colourful pairing of children. And of course, one week after Owen passed his GCSEs, Tamara was caught within a bus crash within London, one that would claim her life before she had the chance to go somewhere big with her artistic intentions. Owen began to drop to his lowest then.
No longer were the smoothly written swings of cheerful radiance playing in the local halls. Never more were the sweet symphonies of appreciation and gratitude to appear on staves, piling up sheet by sheet on his bedside counter. Owen was left alone in the world, and was known to fall into a deep pit of solitary confinement. His parents gave him moral support, but could do little to physically rekindle his spark. Yet, it led to something special. At 18, Owen finished his A-Levels with mediocre grades, having worked little without the drive he once loved, he managed to come across a triage of individuals interested in his past musical life. Having been old school companions of his secondary school years, they recruited him for tryouts in becoming a guitarist and potential lyricist for their upcoming band: Problematique.
Life was simple during those first years of performance. They gathered a few small EPs to sell in local Wycombe shops, advertised through their papers and eventually starting small gigs in pubs, halls of residence and other unique ground. However, they never really hit it off until the day where Ellen Willets, a rising star who originally hailed from a local village near High Wycombe, offered them a place as a supporting act. During that time, Problematique were producing songs that suited Owen's style. They became more strange and technical. Since he first joined, Owen practised several other instruments to incorporate into his music, from cello to drum machines and synths. They weren't initially as up-to-standard as his singing, piano or guitar abilities, but they were definitely useful for his ability to experiment. Some of their songs took a melancholic look with brooding tones of hopelessness taken straight from Owen's poetic lyrics. After their performance as a support act, a London record label took them in and allowed for them to pick up a full album opportunity.
Things took off almost immediately. A following was built and concerts began to be established all over the UK. Reading Festival, Glastonbury and the O2 Arena all saw them arrive to perform for a growing fanbase. In the 6 years Problematique reigned, they accumulated three albums and several singles in-between, as well as also committing to two performances in Canada, America and Germany on a small tour they planned. But on that sixth year, their grace fell when personal disagreements between Owen and the previous rhythm guitarist, Joshua, argued in such a way that resulted in personal and direct threats towards the tragic past of his family. Within a few months of silence, Joshua took over the band by removing Owen and throwing him under the bus, continuing the band onwards to further success. Owen became a small name amongst the industry of music, having his shot of collaborative fame ruined by that of his old friends and their quest for dominance.
Their ideals went against what Owen felt in music, having treated it like his pillow to cry into whenever he needed to vent, writing about his sister, his distrust in others, the fall of grace and the ever-growing sensation of emptiness, alongside some rather happy silver-lined lyrics that accompanied darkened harmonics. Thus, after a year of mental recovery, Owen returned to local performance. His old band began to become a recognised name, whilst Owen was stuck performing in small hotels, releasing an occasional EP by himself with what little money he could earn. Eventually, he attended a small music festival in Milton Keynes, planning on performing an experimental set-piece involving drum machines with syncopated patterns, looped guitar riffs and strong piano rhythms. It was just by luck that a A&R Scout from Honey Lake Studios based within the UK had come to look for new talent, and saw potential in Owen's strange and unique tragic form of experimental art rock.
Miscellaneous ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
▶ He is an animal lover at heart, but refused to purchase one due to feeling a lack of responsibility to commit to owning one. ▶ As an experimental solo artist, he performs mainly with a large array of instruments: from his signature Gibson, Taylor Big-Baby Acoustic, cello, small assortment of drum machines and synths, as well as the odd trumpet or two. When it comes to his live performances, he uses mainly loop pedals and other effects to perform almost alternative renditions of his tunes, mostly using his acoustic guitar to hold up the noise. ▶ Owen has a really bad habit of eating pears. No reason why, he just enjoys them.
Who doesn't want some of that melancholic experimental stuff that everyone secretly loves? Hopefully it's up to scratch.
Banned
