“STOP, THE TRAIN IS RIDING DOWN TO THE STATION”
Where I lived when I was a cool kid.

AGE . Fourty-eight
GENDER . Male
DISTRICT . Two
OCCUPATION . Mayor
SEXUALITY . Straight
TALKING . Big desire
DOING . Into
DEEP THOUGHT . Fresh bark
HEARING . Red


APPEARANCE .

“HEY IS IT MY FAULT THAT THE FALLEN EMBERS BURN”
Down in a spiral, round your crown of thieves.

Who is he?

There's a photograph, an old gray one, edges turned yellow from being kept poorly. It's a young man, in his late teens, handsome face looking at the camera, not grim, but not smiling either. Straight black hair firmly combed back, sleek as raven feathers. With piercing green eyes underneath, seeming to stare straight at the person taking the photo. Just staring, no silent plea, more like he's got something to prove. The young man is slight, and wiry with muscle, just a teenager. He's wearing a suit, so maybe he's getting his photo taken on a reaping day, in preparation. If he gets reaped and doesn't come home, his parents will have something to remember him by. He already looks so tough, he's a career. He's been through a lot already, you can tell by the way he holds his left arm closer to his body, like it may have been bruised. All together, he almost looks hopeful.

Compare it to the hand holding the photo. It's skin is not as taught as it used to be, but is still better than what it should be because of his age. Veins stick out, making road maps upon the older skin, and wrinkles have begun to meet around the edges. The fingers have gone a little crooked from years of use, but the nails are spotless, and kept carefully trimmed. He's never had thick fingers either, deft and spindly. A few faded pink scars lie placidly on his tired skin, fading from years spent being a brighter pink. There is still a tan line on his left ring finger, suggesting a wedding ring's long life there, but there is no sign of it in day to day use. Once, his secretary thought that she saw Ridley playing with it in his coat pocket, but she couldn't know for sure.

If one were to do a selected viewing of Ridley's body, they would work their way up to the arms next. Strong and muscular, although he is getting older, they haven't lost any muscle, only gained some. He's got the body of a twenty year old only because he's never missed a day of training in his life. He's been building up his body since he was ten. Cords of muscle seem to connect his arms, shoulders, and neck into one, sloping thing. Although the skin around his sharp jaw has already begun to loosen.On his upper left arm, there is the memory of a scar, recarved once a year by Ridley himself. Because some things just can't be forgotten.

Broad shoulders fit snuggly inside a three piece suit every day now. Not a very big change from black pants and a dress shirt. He's always had a thing for dressing well. And his six foot and two inch frame looks rather dashing in a suit. Always dark colours, black with a gold tie, or a maroon one. The clothing is always spotless as well. Some people say it's because lint and dirt wouldn't dare touching him. More likely it's because he keeps a lint roller in his desk. The Mayor of District Two can't look like he's unfit for the job, after all. Some people only voted for him at first simply for his good looks. And who can blame them? He's always been a handsome man.

Those piercing green eyes have learned how to stare in such a way that it cuts almost. So intent, but so calm, like the eye of the storm. And the colour only adds to the idea, green like seaweed, or rather, in what his District has seen, lake weed. Oh, and he's rather good at it, the staring. When a person looks at another, they will either look away, or blush in any prolonged look. Ridley in fact, will stare and continue staring until the other looks away. He's been compared to a wolf many times, and the description only works further when one notices his soft smirk, or the way he might not even deign to smile at all. There's a rumour going around that Ridley used too smile, but it's been decided that he has not since he became mayor six years ago, or maybe even before then. Maybe that's why his wife divorced him.

As it has been said before, it can't because of his looks, because Ridley Rohan has aged very well, like a fine wine. Those Raven locks may be graying at the edges, but they are otherwise just as dark as before. Salt and pepper almost, but he refuses to do anything about it. For all his looks, Ridley is not a vain man. Like anyone, he will put effort into his looks, but he will not worry over them. A man should pay no heed to his looks. He should possess only strength and valor. Gentleman or highwayman, his beauty lies in his power. The black hair is cut to a respectable length, and is always slicked back when he comes into work. By evening, after running his hand through his hair a couple times it might be in a disarray. He shaves every morning with a blade, doesn't go for a razor, they don't make as good a weapon. Every now and then, he might grow a short beard, but it would only be because he was too busy to shave.

He carries himself rather easily, but still elegant. Ridley Rohan never really gave up training for being a career, and still works out to this day. He stands with his weight resting on his feet, hands loosely in pockets, and back slightly curved. He does not fidget. Almost everything about Ridley Rohan screams predator. The man carries many scars upon his body, but nothing too drastic, but for that of the one on his arm. He's one of those types that you can punch hard in the stomach, and he'll barely even flinch. Because he knows how to stay still. Or maybe the fact that he still has abdominal muscles, and pecks. He's never lost that with age.

Escorting Ridley most places is a small male cat. He's no kitten, and has been with his master for over ten years. If one were to inquire about his appearance, it could be said that he was either white with black spots, or black with white spots. If one knew what a Mickey Mouse was, they might point out the mickey mouse head shaped spot on the cat. Intelligent golden eyes sit below a 'V' of dark fur. A little pink tongue sometimes sticks out when the cat forgets to pull it in all the way. He moves like the cat he is, but will come when called like a dog. His name is Murphy, and he does not go for cat treats, preferring dog treats instead. He also has a bit of a thing for attacking feet. In most cases, Ridley won't be seen without a black and white cat trailing behind him.

PERSONALITY .

“MY BODY TELLS ME NO, BUT I WON'T QUIT”
Cause I want more, I want more.

A long, spindly finger traced the top of the piece, as if caressing a dear friend, but the movement was slow enough to look almost menacing. It could be likened to the way an eagle circles it's prey from high above, but what made it worse was the fact that Ridley Rohan was a hell of a lot closer than that to his own tasty morsel. "So tell me again....Mr. Wind, how did you know it was Miss Pin?" His voice cut through silence like a hot knife through butter. It wouldn't have even mattered if they had been in a very loud room, because it would have cut just as deftly, and just the same. The man across from him, seemed to be in deep thought over his own pieces, completely unaware that Ridley had calculated the best possible outcome as soon as he had gestured for the other man to sit down. He was simply waiting for the other man to move his rook over to check Ridley's king, so that Ridley in turn could check mate him.

"With all respec', You know I can't talk to you about that Mr. Rohan. Strictly Peacekeepin' business." Yes, yes, he knew that well. The Peacekeepers did not belong to the Districts, they belonged to the capitol. Although Mr. Wind was new, and he would learn that when it came to himself, that wasn't always a rule. In fact, it seemed that when it came to District Two's force, Ridley's claws were carefully pinching the necks of every member. He waved a hand idly, meaning that he would forget it. Of course, Ridley never forgot things, it wasn't in his nature to simply forget about things. He was cursed with the ability to notice things that most others could not, and remember things that no one wanted to remember. Some people called it a photographic mind, where he could file away images and instances, just to pull them easily back up. He slipped the white pawn between his fingers, treating his enemy's fallen soldier like nothing more than a coin. Pawns were the most important players. expendable, and in numerous amounts, but still the most important simply because they were usually the first to be played.

He hadn't played with the white army in the longest time. Not since he was a young boy and he had first gotten hooked on the game. He used to think that white was honourable, and it was a quality to strive to be. He still believed that, but he preferred to play with the black army nowadays. They carry no mercy, and knock down their opponents. And it is expected of them because they are 'evil', because they are are creatures wreathed in the shadowy dressing of darkness. Could they be simply misunderstood? No one double crosses a black piece, pawn or King. There are those that would argue the King is most important, because with his death it's the end of the game. Which is a dirty lie, nothing like real life. In reality, after a King's death, there is even more chaos as the next heir to the craziness is found. It should be remembered that a pawn can easily kill a King if the opponent is weak enough. Maybe a pawn could even kill a dictator.

"Yes, but, did you factor in the idea that Miss Pin might have been protecting the real culprit? Especially since the Lady is blind as a bat?" The Peacekeeper finally placed his rook in the allotted space that Ridley had chosen for it. Instead of smiling with triumph, however, he merely sighed at the incompetence of the man. He made no move to touch his own pieces, intent on the discussion that he was trying to worm them into. He liked things in his District to be kept orderly, and it wouldn't work too well if a murderous fiend was wandering the streets still. If Miss Pin was wandering the streets, they would be quite a bit safer, unless you counted the marks left by her cane. The fact that the Peacekeepers were taking in Miss Pin to be avoxed simply because it was an easy way out, succeeded in annoying him only further. Sometimes it was so difficult being surrounded by people who didn't work as hard, or were never as focused as him.

Ridley felt that everything had a certain order, and things should be kept that way. For example, he had an idea of where most people lived in the district, and he didn't like it when they moved around. Or the fact that his things were always kept carefully polished and in the right place. If everything has it's place, and everyone stays in their places, things can run smoothly, which is always the best possible choice. Why settle for second best when it came to the second District. In fact, Ridley had promised himself long ago that he would never settle for anything less than first again. It was obvious to Ridley, after years of careful planning that District Two was becoming a large power of Panem, and he intended for that to continue happening. He most certainly was not going to let some big man with a small imagination ruin it.

The man sniffed slightly, and tapped his fingers upon the small table that the chess board rested on. He looked nervous, Ridley noted as he responded with a gruff, "We got the right criminal, okay? All signs point to her." Ridley's eyes narrowed as he placed the white pawn carefully back down on the table, putting it in the graveyard with the rest of the Peacekeeper's army. Needless to say, the man would make a poxy war general. Steepling his fingers together, ironic really, Ridley was never a religious man, he stared blankly at the man sitting across from him in silence for a few moments, before murmuring, "is that so?" It was Ridley's move, and with it he would checkmate his opponent. But he wasn't as interested in the game, so much as beating the man into submission. He stared at Wind, blinking slowly, but not often, as the man tried to stare right back.

Honestly, it wasn't going quite well for the poor man. Ridley was already a rather intense man, and the firelight reflecting off of his bright green orbs only seemed to add to the affect. Besides the fact that the eyes seemed empty, like something had been drained long ago. Maybe a person cannot blink if they have lost all of their soul, in the process of bettering themselves. As the wood in the fireplace dried out with the lick of flames, it popped loudly, making the Peacekeeper jump with a curse. "Alright," he conceded after a moment, "I'd agree that it doesn't make sense, but everyone says the woman ain't right in the head!" Allowing himself to smirk lightly, Ridley leaned back in his chair. "The last time I checked, it is not a crime to be 'not right in the head.' Therefore, I request you re-evaluate the case." Reaching across the board, he carefully moved his bishop and then knocked the man's king over. "Inconsequently, checkmate."

The table moved with a jolt when the other man stood up, knocking over his one remaining piece, the foot soldier, the pawn. "Listen here, Mr. Mayor. I'll check things out, but only because I want to, not because you told me too." Ridley kept his eye on the fallen pawn, wondering what it was like to have one's life ended that quickly. Wondering if he just toppled over, where he would be put, if people might mourn him. More likely to be tied with chains and found in the bottom of the ocean than in a grave. The Peacekeeper left, rather stormed out, but Ridley didn't pay much mind. His brow was wrinkled in concentration as he stared first at the pawn, then at the flames dying down with the lack of wood placed inside, simply to be consumed. The one purpose job of that particular wood. As the Mayor sat there, he picked up the white king and tossed it into the flames, the paint shriveling and melting, the wood going black. Standing up in a weary stretch of limbs, he opened a drawer under the table, and pulled out a new King, placing it carefully in it's favoured position.

Let the chaos ensue.

HISTORY .

“OH, IT'S MY ROAD, IT'S MY ROAD, IT'S MY ROAD.”
And, it's my war, it's my war, it's my war.

I could bore you with tales of the 'good old days.'

If one were to ask Ridley's past however, it might sputter for a bit and then possibly hide in fear. Ridley never knew what a good old day was, really. By the time he turned five, his father was training him to become a career. He would get really drunk and creep around his house with a family tribute knife. When he came to a closet, the man would stick the knife in, instead of looking in. Ridley learned not to hide in closets. When an old man tells you that he walked up a hill both ways, he's not exaggerating. Ridley had to run up the hill, down and up, up and down until his father was satisfied. Every day consisted of some type of new training,and there was so much of it that Ridley never really made friends.

When Ridley did something wrong, his father would beat him. When Ridley would do something right, his father would beat him. The first thing that Ridley really learned about, was how to hate. Love took a vacation, and when it came back, Hate was so dominant that it was like there was barely any room for it. But Ridley never acted on this hate. He simply read when he needed somewhere to go. Everything he could get his hands on, math texts, English texts, and he understood it all. Hemingway and Socrates, anything tossed at him, he knew. by the time he was eight years old, he was decided a genius. So his father beat him for reading too much, and not paying enough time to his training.

He grew up with no education but for the one he gave himself. Because of this, he was never forced to socialize with anyone outside of his father and mother. His favourite conversations would be the ones where his father was so covered in his own puke and so drunk that Ridley would have to clean him up and then put him to bed. But that meant that he and his mother could have a quiet evening together. If there was any room for love in Ridley's young life, it was for his mother. She'd often suffer bruises and maybe even something broken to stop Ridley's father. The first goal Ridley ever made was to protect his mother right back.

When Ridley became of reaping age, his father bought him tesserae. And every time Ridley was not reaped, he was beaten. Didn't really matter much to him, seeing as he was always beaten. When Ridley was fourteen and not reaped, his father came at him with a kitchen knife, giving him the scar on his arm. Which was the beginning of the end for Ridley's father. For three, careful years more, he took each beating with silence and no reaction like he always had. On the day of his seventeenth birthday, also the day of the yearly reaping, Ridley got his photo taken. His father was sure this year, that Ridley would be reaped, he wanted a photo to proudly show around to anyone who would listen that his boy was reaped.

He wasn't reaped. Never actually ended up going into the games, ironically. When his family somberly went home that night, even as other families celebrated, Ridley's father got drunk. Drunker than he ever had before. He went at Ridley's mother first, stuttering something out about how she had given birth to a useless son. He hit her over the head, knocked her out, and Ridley saw red. He came at his father, scratching and biting, almost mauling him with the fork he had been eating with, until his father was simply a man with barely any skin. He took his time with it, enjoying the screaming. Methodically, he pulled, sitting on the man, ignoring the weak blows of his fist. It looked as if someone had come along and simply ripped him to shreds.

His father died slowly, moaning, asking Ridley to end it for him, reaching with muscles and nerves, and organs pumping away. It didn't take long for him to lose all his blood, but it took long enough. The son was satisfied. As his father's mutilated body flopped weakly on the floor like a fish taken out of water, his mother awoke. Seeing what had been done, she went into shock, and never really come out of it. Some say she went crazy and killed her husband, and never came out of being crazy. Others say that she went crazy after seeing the body. Whatever happened that night, Ridley's father was never seen again. Although it's been said that Old Man Ridley's ghost likes to walk up and down the street his house was on, and yell for his son to come out. In all actuality, it's just the wind pushing through an old bottle.

After his father's death, Ridley never stopped training. His mother now too off her rocker to work, Ridley took over the family business of tailoring. His mother still liked to sew, it was probably the only thing she did like anymore. So Ridley would spend quiet evening, sewing with her, only broken by her constant mumbling, and the way she would sometimes look at her son like she didn't know him. Ridlley tried not to let it bother him, her constant mumblings of, "Ripped, ripper, rip." Sometimes she would hold him close to her and coo, "My Ripper..." into his ear and he didn't know if she loved him for it or was afraid of him.

When Ridley was twenty-three, he met a girl and six months later married her. He forgot to tell her about his crazy mother who would be living with them however, so he never really did. When she heard the sounds of his mother moving about, he simply said it was the old house settling. He built a fake wall over the door to the attic, and furnished the attic with a fireplace and any comfort his mother could ask for. She was content, and better taken care of than if she'd been in an asylum. Ridley and his wife ran the tailoring shop together, and grew so busy that they forgot to have a kid. Ridley didn't want one though. He was afraid he would turn into his father.

So by the time he was thirty-eight, he applied for mayor. He never made it into office until he turned fourty-two however. With that, he and his wife moved to the new house. By this time, Ridley's mother was turning sixty-five, and had taken to being a bit louder. As he moved his dear old mother into the new house, his wife who should have been at the Tailor shop found out. Upset about the years of lying, she divorced him. Ridley and his cat were left alone after that. He has stayed in office since becoming mayor. Because although he is known to be stiff and unforgiving, with him in office, things have gotten a lot better around the District. People trust him, and his wife is payed a heavy amount to keep her mouth shut, along with the fact that in the divorce, he gave her the Ridley Tailoring shop.

ANYTHING ELSE ?

He doesn't kill people anymore. That is his least favourite thing to do. He just gets someone else to kill for him.

OUT OF CHARACTER .

FACE CLAIM .
CHRISTIAN BALE • RIDLEY "RIPPER" ROHAN

OTHER CHARACTERS ?

click me.

I, ELEGANT .
am rather busy this year, what with prancing around like a giant cat and all, so yeah. I go to seek a great perhaps and all those things. Love life. Contact me by pm if you want to chat at me, or I have oovoo if you want to get all ~*personal*~

CODEWORD . Odair

Dude I'd be afraid he would turn into his mother. O.O Spooky!