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 William A. Thatcher

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Join date : 2011-05-21

PostSubject: William A. Thatcher   Thu May 26, 2011 9:49 pm

How will people know you in this world?

Name: William Amadeus Thatcher
Age: 159; visual age 32
Gender: Male

Image is everything...Isnt it?

Height and weight:194 cm tall, weight at 89 kg.
Hair and eye color: Hair is dark brown, almost black, and unkempt. His eyes are dark, though the left one seems to shift restlessly.
William goes by, calls himself, and is known by, the alias of The Hanged Man. Due to unfortunate circumstances, he has a rather grotesque edge to his appearance. He is taller than average and rather wiry. His arms and legs are long, bony, and with the protruding bones, it gives a rather gnarly look. To an onlooker, his body language gives off a rather unnatural feel; he has very few of the soft, fluid movements that come naturally to most humans. Instead, he appears still and unmoving, lacking the normal gestures and shifts in weight. When he moves, it is with sudden, abrupt twitches. The most eye catching feature of his, however, is most certainly his neck.

Due to unfortunate circumstances, his neck is red, swollen and crooked. His head, in stark contrast to his body, wobbles a bit as he walks, and is hardly ever straight. Instead, it leans (note: not tilts) in some direction, and it's movements almost seem to be out of his own control. It is as if it's only following the body because it happens to be connected there. Disregarding some signs of malnutrition, his contoured face is handsome, yet much like a face in a filthy mirror, it is destroyed by the rest of his appearance. An occasional flight of fancy can make him attempt to shave, but for the most part, his chin is covered in stubble. His voice, as one might expect, has suffered as well from the state of his neck. When his head happens to be in a decent position, he has a deep, albeit croaking voice, though it is far more likely it comes out as a coughing, hacking gurgle. He also has a hard-avoided habit of grabbing hold of people when he's talking to them.
Since he cares rather little for his appearance, it is a rare sight to see him in clean clothing. Black leggings and an old, dirty and worn coat of dark leather cover most of his appearance. Beneath the open coat, he wears a shirt that has been ripped far more times than it has been mended, and a vest that probably wasn’t black when he got it. More often than not, he carries an old cane made from gnarled, solid wood.

How strong is your resolve?


Hanged Man is a once-optimistic man turned cynical and crude by a lifetime of pain. Within, he still retains some shreds of a young man with poetic ambitions, though his attempts at prose usually end up more bitter than he intended; such is unavoidable considering the times he has lived and died through. Indeed, compared to before his death, his thoughts are tainted by a single thought; a mindset that haunts his every action and trail of mind.
“You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”
With this single thought as premise for all his actions, he lives through his miserable, painful existence because he’s too caught up in his ways to try to change them. According to him, only the ones who know suffering knows what it is to truly live. Only in pain do you truly come to realize what could have been. Thus, in his own way, he seeks to better mankind, kicking people into the metaphorical dirt of their lives so that they might crawl to their feet again. So that they might learn to rise and brush it off. Only then, he believes, are they whole and true human beings. Only then are they apprieciating their lives.
Socially, he has not much capacity to speak of. He is quiet, brooding and moody, and mostly glares at people in his surroundings. Even so, he is quite unpredictable, and can break his usual patient demeanor only to suddenly flare up about some issue only he thinks is important. The sense of humor he once had is buried between layer after layer with cynicism, and the last time he laughed, his throat made him silently promise never to do it again. Even so, he can retain his sense of beauty and amazement in the most odd of situations, and publicly declare his astonishment towards the (to him) awe-inspiring surroundings.


  • He has a strong sense of integrity. While some might call him stubborn, it is a fact that he holds true to his thoughts, ideals and loyalties until the very end.
  • Though a tad willowy built, Hanged Man is a stoic man who possesses a great deal of strength and fortitude in his body. His strength of arm and tolerance are quite reliable when push comes to shove.
  • Hanged Man has an indomitable will to survive , and is not bound by any codes of honor or conduct when it comes to achieving his goals. Results are all that matters.
  • He is very observant; there is very little that escapes his watching glares.


  • Steadfast is another word for slow for some, and that is very true for this sorry excuse of a man. While his movements and swings may be quick, no one would imagine putting him together with the words “nimble” or “agile”.
  • The view he has of the world is very cynical. He expects nothing if not the worst, and is bitter and untrusting of any good-natured events. At least then, he’ll never be disappointed.
  • His thoughts and ways are very hard to predict. More often than not, his demeanor and outbursts surprises those around him.
  • He has obvious problems controlling his head. Even in the best of conditions, it will continue to wobble unnaturally as if he was a poorly put-together doll.

With every past there is a future

Born in the year 1852 in victorian-era England, William Amadeus Thatcher was the son of a grand household of declining wealth. Being the third son out of four children, he had the luxury of having older siblings being future heirs. While this of course meant a minimal amount of power and wealth for himself in the future, it also meant that his elder brothers were the ones being schooled for the future lordship. As such, he was free to pursue more interesting fields from a young age. He quickly took an interest in literature, starting with simple bedtime stories from one of the matrons, but quickly growing up to explore Shakespeare, then Jonathan Swift and Richard Lovelace.

His mother, lacking opportunity to enjoy time with her elder sons, enjoyed fueling the interests of the younger children. As such, even with the declining wealth and uncertain future of the family, he continued to recieve whatever books he wished for. Upon growing of age, he left home and took, despite his parents wishes, work as a scribe, working his way up through the literary world from the very bottom. He grew began reading the works of Dickens, and grew intruiged by his portrayal of the underbelly of society. Interest turned to charm, which grew to an obsession. He spent every moment of his daytime talking to, and in his own way, studying, the poor. Specifically, he was astounded by those individuals who had grown into strong individuals by overcoming their hardships. He thought, surely that very spirit must be the essence of mankind.

With that thought in mind, he became more focused on the human mind, and sought out new books on the subject. This way, he encountered the works of the late Edgar Allan Poe, who seemed a master of the psyche. A man who had seen every nook and cranny of the human mind, and was forever changed since. Intruiged by his works and his life, he decided to journey across the Atlantic in an effort to find the places he had lived, and venture a guess at what experiences had shaped such a man.

He went there, however, only to meet his fate. Still not all too fond of the metal monstrosities that were cars, he journeyed across the land in a carriage. As they were travelling the long way to Baltimore, in the darkness of a rainy night, a sudden blast of lightning scared the horses. The coachman struggled to regain control of the wagon, but could not, and with the bad footing provided by the mud, they plunged down a cliff. The carriage was smashed to splinters, bit by bit, on it's way down. The coachman and his horses left the mortal world instantly, but fate had another plan for William.

He was knocked unconcious, his body still within the remains of the coach as it was hanging on a few protruding rocks above the bottom of the canyon. For William, he was pushed outside his own body, with a mysterious chain connecting him to the coach (and his body within). He was unfortunate, though; this same chain snared around his neck as he fell out, and he was left hanging by his neck from the coach. No matter how he struggled, he could barely breathe, and trying to wriggle out with the strength he possessed was far beyond possible. And even then, for some reason he could at that moment not divulge, he did not die.

No, he was left hanging, for a day, two, and then the strain on his mind was too large to care to count. Until, finally, the chain that anchored him above suddenly snapped, or let go, and he fell down, at last free of torment. His mind, however, was broken. This was a suffering unlike any other, and by it he was forever changed. Standing face-to-face with his destiny, a lesser man would have panicked. Any man would have panicked. Willaim Amadeus Thatcher, however, was no longer a man, and compared to the pain and specters that had haunted his last few days, this beast was naught. In that moment, William was no more. There was only the Hanged Man.

In the years since, he travelled the world, seeking to change others as he was, that they may no longer fear the dangers of the world. The greater the terror you were faced with, the more pitiful seemed the matters of the world. The more small torments you could live through. The true mark of a strong human.

Written sample:
Quote :
The crimson shapes along the floor were irregular. Chaotic. A few hours back, she would have cared. Now, she held no such thoughts. She didn’t care about the smell, about the bugs scurrying forth after food, about the blood forming dried-up clots across the floor. No, she did not care. Not about the pain, not about the distaste, not about the remnants of her fingers. She would not care for a very long time. No, she would only hate. Hate her fate, hate her captor, hate him, hate him, hate, hate, hate.
Hours had passed. She could tell by the scratches on the door. Before she came, it had held no bloody nails embedded in the wood. The rotting carcass that once was her friend once danced playfully in her mind, blaming, crying, teasing. Knowing. Her feet was still tied down, but that didn’t matter. She would hate him. She would get him. She would take him, hurt him, rip him, tear, slash, kill him. There was no doubt, no hesitation. It was the only thing she had left.

The sound of keys rang true through the door. Her eyes widened, her teeth bared. The door creaked as it opened slowly, and revealed the dark shape of a man. Him. If she had nothing left, she would sink her teeth into his throat. If one could call that a throat. She stared at him. He stared back. Even though his face was engulfed in the dark, she knew. He stared back. Her mouth fell open, producing a hollow, croaking yell.

“I’ll rip your fucking spine out, you hear me!? As long as you live, I’ll hunt you. I’ll find you.”

It was the strangest sensation. The monster, the man, the object of her hatred, did something she had never seen before. Perhaps the darkness was playing tricks on her. She stared up in cold confusion, shaken to the core, as the man turned and made his way up the stairs, leaving the door open. He couldn’t have. Not now. If not during all that before, then not now.

He had smiled.
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PostSubject: Re: William A. Thatcher   Fri May 27, 2011 11:18 am

Ah so this is what you meant, a soul who still retained the physical injuries from his death. Well it seem's perfect to me. I liked the history a lot, so much in fact I read it twice. In any case I dub thee...

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