crowley , ANTHONY

[CROWLEY , anthony]

If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs.

01. Name .

[/b]Anthony Jay Crowley
02. Age . 19 years old
03. Nicknames . Ant, Crowley
04. From . Altai, Mongolia
05. Shifting Animal . Snow leopard
06. Shifting Animal Appearance . Crowley is huge as a snow leopard; on all fours, he reaches to about a grown man's waist. His fur is thick and soft, similar to that of a tiger's, and well-adapted to the cold snow and wind of Alaska. His build is more for coordination than anything else; not particularly strong or fast, every step is a fluid, graceful motion, as if he was floating. Unlike his human hair, his pelt is usually immaculate, and a good two inches or so long. It's longest around his flanks and chest, but fades to a finer, bristly stubble around his muzzle. Unlike most big cats, however, his fur is actually very thick around his paws, as well; it has to be, since those are the part of him which are most exposed to snow.

Speaking of paws, his are about the size of dinner plates, so he can walk lightly on top of the surface crust of the snow, rather than break through it and sink, which makes for speedier travel. Because of this, his build is surprisingly light; most of his muscle is in his chest and shoulders, as well as his tail, which is a thick plume with a lot of muscle. His claws and teeth are razor sharp, since there isn't much to dull them on in the snow; he often goes out of his way to walk on rocks, to take the edge off of them. His pelt is a cream, off-white color during winter, and more of a grayish hue in the warm weeks of summer. Dark sable rosettes dot it regularly, like pawprints of ink along his pelt. The same dark color tips his paws and tail. His muzzle is blunt and squared off, and his eyes are deep-set and the same tawny color as in his human form. His facial features are blocky, almost, and angular. his ears are more like satellite plates than real ears, but are protected with a lot of fur to shield them from the elements.

The bark on the tree was as soft as the skies.

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01. Hair . Nothing fancy; a dark sable black color that just reaches past his ears. He cuts it regularly by hand, but it's constantly tousled. It's usually thick and healthy, though.
02. Eyes . A dark, tawny brown; not quite an amber, but warmer than hazel and flecked with gold.
03. Height . 6' 1"
04. Weight . 130 lb.
05. Describe . Crowley is, to put it bluntly, handsome. He doesn't seem to notice it, but if you remark, he'll acknowledge it with a grin and a breezy comment, such as, "It seems that living since the dawn of time has given me plenty of time for a proper beauty sleep." He has high cheekbones, sharply defined in his face. His skin is tan, more of a mid-tone than white or dark, and unblemished. His nose is perhaps a trifle too large for good looks, and perfectly straight, pointed at the tip. His teeth are perfect, even and strong, after the result of bristling metal braces as a child. His hair is thick and dense, and reaches just to the nape of his neck. It's no immaculate movie-star haircut, and falls into his face all the time, as if he had side-bangs, but that's probably because he does it himself with kitchen scissors. Crowley will often put it up into a short ponytail if it gets in the way, but normally it stays, spiking out messily around his scalp. He refuses to dye it, despite the jests about how good lime green would look on the ink black, and people don't pursue the cause any longer; no one messes with Crowley.

It's probably because of the impressive muscles that are visible under his clothing, but you never know. He's skinny; not painfully, Barbie-doll skinny, but lean and fit. His arms are long, more so than his legs; he's rather a top-heavy guy, but not noticeably. He has broad shoulders, and a broad chest, and despite his slim appearance, he can't be called willowy. Rumor has it that he even has a tattoo on his left shoulder, saying in bright letters, "LOST CAUSE", but then again, rumor can't be trusted. He usually wears a casual, dark-colored jacket, and jeans or khakis. His clothing, although casual, always hints subtly at expensive designer origins; but then again, Crowley doesn't have to worry about the cash. He always – literally always – wears huge, tinted aviator sunglasses, to cover his tawny eyes. They're not the usual almond shape of Mongolians; his parents were actually English. All in all, he's handsome, in a kind of unnoticeable-at-first way. There's something distinctly likable about his face. It's like he laughs all the time, and indeed, smile marks crease his lower face. He moves with a kind of willowy grace; not speed, not strong, but weirdly collected. Every motion is fluid and prepared, and he hardly seems to notice. He carries himself upright and erect, but when embarrassed is known to slouch down and push his hair down to shadow his face.

While the wolf waits below,
Hungry and lonely.

01. Likes .
● His sunglasses
● Mechanics
● Coffee
● Cats
● Watching people
02. Dislikes .
● Show-offs, suck-ups
● Staying still
● His nickname, Ant
● Dogs
● Water
03. Personality . Crowley is proud of his heritage. He'll use his animal side - literally - to his advantage whenever he can. He's proudly irrational, proudly proper, and proudly... well, fine, a tad insane. He believes he sauntered down from the skies with the angels, and that he's been alive and fine for... well, since the beginning of time, he says. Who knows whether it's true? Despite this minor lapse in common sense, he's an odd mix. Prim, proper, and neat, graduated highly-praised from highschool, he also knows all the latest gossip, flirts, and prizes his old Bentley more than anything. It used to be a dented, old-fashioned black car, reeking of petrol and tarmac, but Crowley has fixed it up into a gleaming, shiny, sleek automobile that would give a car critic a heart attack of sheer joy. It is, after all, his pride and joy, and he's fiercely territorial about it, too. He's an excellent mechanic, and can spend hours tinkering around happily on the underneath of cars. He hates his nickname, Ant, and indeed refuses to be called anything related to it - even his real name, Anthony. Instead, he goes by Crowley, and if called anything otherwise, he'll coldly ignore you.

He could be called the biggest oxymoron in the history of Alaska. He's perhaps a little too proud, and refuses to accept charity or even kindness. Still, with his dashing good looks and undeniable gallantry, he's a hit with the ladies, despite his marked eccentricity. He's most likely the least self-conscious person, or shifter, you'll ever meet, and his oddity has earned him respect - albeit often grudging - in even the highest social circles. He's different, refreshing, and he knows it. He loves to flirt, and he does it very well; coupled with his irresistible eloquence, he's quite the dashing young suitor. He's oddly child-like, though, at the same time; naïve about money, mostly. It's probably because he has so much of it lying around. He's also curiously honest. It's hard to imagine Crowley lying. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and many of his interests - such as sunglasses - aren't exactly typical of someone his age, but then again, he does think he fell out of the sky. He's addicted to coffee, but is a fiercely loyal friend. He loves to judge people, and just watch on the sidelines rather than get involved. Oddly enough, he has a seemingly irrational phobia of water, and refuses to go in.

He's cries to the moon, if only, if only.

Crowley was an illegitimate child. His mother, Maria was a human, and had a one-night-fling with a mysterious man – presumably a shifter – who Crowley doesn’t even know. Of course, poor naïve Maria went and got pregnant. Crowley’s father left the scene, and Maria never saw him again after that night. She says, rather bitterly, that the man fled as soon as he heard she was pregnant with his child – for after all, the news spread across the town like wildfire – but it’s more likely that he simply left, to roam once more. Anthony was brought up in a poor environment; his mother, only twenty-one when she had had him, was barely able to support herself, let alone a son. She worked in a laundromat, as well as a café. She worked most of the time, even during weekends, and Crowley barely ever saw his mother. He learned to take care of himself, but despite his responsibility, he’s oddly irresponsible. It’s almost as if the unjust burden that had been placed on his shoulder at a young age was preventing him from being a child, and only now is he exploring. He didn’t know, then, that he was a shifter. He knew was odd, different from the rest, but the idea that he was a whole different species was too far-fetched to even contemplate.

By the age of eight, Crowley was even taking care of his mother. They were living in Mongolia, for although Maria was English, she had moved here when she was a girl and didn't have the funds to return. She needed hip surgery at the age of only twenty-nine, because of the surroundings she had been in since she was born. She, admittedly, wasn’t much better than her son in that respect; although a legitimate child, her father had died when she was born, leaving her with only a mother. Maria had been working twenty hours a day, in cramped, damp, cold situations, often going hungry and losing sleep, and performing the most dangerous jobs for a handful of paper bills. And Crowley hated her for that. She was his mother, his only lifeline, his anchor to humanity, and she was killing herself to survive. She had fallen down a ladder from sheer fatigue and broken her hip, but they couldn’t afford to bring her to the doctor – after all, they didn’t even have enough to scrape up enough food each day. Crowley was painfully skinny, with not enough nutrition to get by, and his life seemed to be one huge pit of snakes and pain. He would sit by his mother, listening to her whimpering in pain, his hands balled up into angry fists as he thought about how much he hated her and loved her at the same time.

Finally, at the dawn of the third day, he couldn’t take it any longer. He hadn’t had anything to eat in nearly four days, and his mother was dying right before his eyes. He scrambled to his feet, where he had been sitting still for the past 48 hours, and appealed to the doctors. Reasonably enough, they said no; here was a grubby urchin boy, stick-thin and probably riddled with disease, asking for help. But one, David Kim, was rather a Santa Claus-type man. He even looked a bit like Santa; at only the age of 34, he had a cloud of a beard, and a round belly. To Crowley, this was only a sign of how well off David was. He followed Crowley obediently. Now Crowley, you must understand, wasn’t exactly pleading. He was standing there, leaning nonchalantly against the wall and waving at any doctor that approached. And it was love at first site – between David and Maria, of course. Crowley may be bisexual, but he was only eight at the time. David obediently fixed up Maria, and within the month, she was mostly recovered, albeit a trifle stiff. David continued making up excuses to visit.

In exasperation, Crowley – nine years old, now – cornered them one day and said impatiently, “You, David, give her the ring already. I’m getting tired of this.” Amused, but mainly mortified, David produced the ring he had been carrying all along. The two got married soon after, and the two moved in with the benefactor. He was rich, with a capital R. Crowley adapted well to the change of scene; he fits in well anywhere, really. He never completely forgave Maria, and as the months wore on, he talked to her less and less, sometimes going out of his way to avoid her. David, on the other hand, became his close friend. David was the one who taught Crowley to read. David was also the one who recognized Crowley for what he was. Although David had no knowledge of shifters, he realized there was something different about the goy. At the age of fourteen, Crowley ran away, scared by how he sometimes turned into a leopard in random intervals. In the years that followed, he learned how to harness his shifting a little, but being a half-blood, he was never able to fully control it. When he ran away, he had moved to Alaska - the farthest place he could think of from his mother and "father" - where he forged a home for himself. He was known as the quiet, odd boy who never spoke. He didn't have to buy food or supplies; as a leopard, he could kill his own food. Sometimes, though, he thinks back to what it was like when it was only his mother and he – and shivers.

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[Nikki Smith]

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