Post by Dorian Zibowski on Jul 16, 2010 17:43:08 GMT -5
[/color][/font]GOOD DAY!
DORIAN “ZIB” ZIBOWSKI
present.
Without music life would be a mistake.
~Friedrich Nietzsche
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o u t o f c h a r a c t e r
[/font][/color]Hello, I am Meadowlark. I have been RPGing for 2ish years.
Othere characters that I play are N/A.
If you need to contact me, please PM me at dorianzibowski.
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i n c h a r a c t e r
name: Dorian Zibowski
nicknames:Zib
age:25
occupation: Head of the Lackadaisy Jazz band
t h e l o o k s
[/font][/center]hair: Dark blond to honey brown, chin length, worn loose or slicked back
eyes: Green
build: A little taller than average, skinny but not “spaghetti”
distinguishing features: N/A
face claim: Josh Holloway
t h e p e r s o n a l i t y
likes: Cigarettes; Jazz; Saxophone; The occasional scotch; A solid gig; A place where he can say what he thinks (not that it’s necessary for him to have one in order to voice his opinions); A shapely chassis; The color red; An audience (Whether for his music or for talking he prefers to have one); Sleeping in
dislikes: Withdrawals; Cops; Bad musicians; Prohibition; Crazy guys with guns; An empty pack of smokes; The “boy” style that’s so popular currently—he prefers a woman with curves; Being told, whether politely or not, to shut up; Working from gig to gig without knowing that another would be there; The use of his given name (Dorian)
strengths: Not afraid to say what he thinks; Good saxophone player; Able to lead, though he prefers not to let that extend beyond the band; Dry sense of humor; Kind, if you can get past that prickly shell of his
weaknesses: Cigarettes; Cowardly streak when it comes to guns; Tends to say what he’s thinking when he shouldn’t; Overly sarcastic; Sabotages his relationships in self-defense
overall personality:
Zib is a sarcastic, cynic who does everything he can to hide his true feelings. He speaks his mind, but only what he feels like disclosing. He is laid-back in many respects and feels that music is the only way to express emotion so he pours himself into his music. Deep under the layer of cynicism and the barbed wire fence of sarcasm Zib has a glimmer of the romantic in him. He would rather die than show it and is quick to push away a relationship due to this. The young band leader is exacting and a perfectionist when it comes to his music, but the rest of his life he allows to slide (if he could get away without a jacket and tie all the time he would). He does his best to avoid too much drink, though, as he has no intention of turning into his father (a washed up, useless, drunk).
The saxophonist is loyal to his friends, but if it comes down to it he probably wouldn’t risk his own neck for them. He’s got a self-preservation streak in him that demands that he save his own hide before worrying about anyone else. If there’s no way for him to keep his own skin intact then he will likely help save someone else’s. Although he is well spoken he gets tongue tied around most women, or extremely sarcastic (more than usual), this typically is enough to shut down any interaction with members of the fairer sex. If he wanted to he could probably be suave, but he has no desire to. His first inclination upon meeting someone is to distrust them and wait for them to prove themselves worthy of his respect. Once he has determined they deserve said respect he’ll defend them (verbally) through thick and thin.
t h e h i s t o r y
parents: Father: Nelek Zibowski; Mother: Celestyn Zibowski neé—Czarnecki (deceased)
siblings: Sisters: Anelie (elder), Biata (died in infancy); Brother: Casimir (younger)
other significant people: None really, though he holds some loyalty (perhaps a certain amount of affection) for his boss Miss Mitzi May
hometown: Born and raised in Chicago
history:
Nelek and Celestyn Zibowski immigrated with their only child Anelie, to America in 1899. They came seeking opportunities that even a man with Nelek’s education couldn’t find in their home country of Poland. What they found was Chicago. Nelek, a college educated immigrant, worked in the stockyards, suffering the harsh conditions to keep food on the table. Their second child, Dorian (named for a character in a story Nelek had read. His disillusionment had lead him to picture America much as the character was portrayed), was born in 1902.
Dorian grew up knowing he was just another mouth to feed until he was old enough to start finding work of his own. He was four when his younger sister, Biata was born. The little girl never saw her first birthday. Born prematurely she died within months. The young boy couldn’t grasp what had happened, and continued living life as he had been. His older sister, Annie (the Americanized nickname she had taken) was old enough to understand at least some of it and explained what she could to the little boy. Dorian was six and Annie ten when their youngest, and last, sibling was born. Casimir was born during the same hour in which his mother died.
Nelek was heartbroken, leaving Dorian and Annie to look after the baby as best they could. Their father grew more and more distant, disappearing into work during the day and the bottle during the night. There was no doubt in the oldest boy’s mind that their mother had abandoned them. Annie spent her time taking care of the baby and doing the laundry work she had once only helped her mother with. It was during this time that Dorian took up the job of Newsie, at least for a time, he hoped to get out of that job and into music someday (composing and playing just like the famous artists). Fabricating headlines and making some money for it was something he found he was adept at. It was at that time that he gained the name “Zib” from some of the boys he ran the streets with. Most had nicknames or called each other by their last names, but since their American tongues had some difficulty with his last name they shortened it.
Once Casimir was old enough to get into trouble his elder brother and sister found out that the meaning of his name (Keeping the Peace) was the worst lie they had ever heard. If he didn’t pick a fight then he was the one who had a fight picked with. Zib yanked his younger brother into hawking papers with him, but Cas started spiraling in a much darker direction. At the same time as Zib was trying to keep the peace with his younger brother their elder sister, Annie, married a young man who was on his way west to try his luck somewhere other than Chicago. Just as with their mother, Zib didn’t doubt in the least that his sister, his friend and support, had abandoned them.
The boys’ father drank himself deeper and deeper into debt until in 1918 Zib, 16 and fed up with dealing with the debts and his brother’s courtship of death (or at least the law), left, riding the rails and not looking back, until he reached the Mississippi. There was some part of him that considered pitching into the wild waters, but a street musician caught his ear and the young man turned aside to learn from him. Music had always been a love, an escape from the hell that was the Chicago apartment. He never had an instrument except his own voice (which he’d been told sounded like a dying cat), his whistle (which he stifled at home to avoid irritating his father’s hair trigger), and the notes which were always circling in his head. He saved his money and the musician helped him until Zib was able to get his hands on an old, in desperate need of repair, saxophone. The two of them started playing together and splitting the money until Zib felt it was time to move on. He ended up in St. Louis sometime around 1921 and began piecing together a band.
They were a wandering band for a while, gypsies some called them, but they made enough to eat and travel and keep their instruments in decent condition. Zib was finally able to replace his old saxophone, though for a time it felt like he’d lost his right arm, for a (still used) newer one. The band finally came to rest in the Lackadaisy speakeasy when Atlas May heard them and offered them a permanent gig. When Atlas was killed Zib lost a few members from the band, having to rebuild it, as they could see the storm that was blowing their direction. Zib refused to leave though. He’d gained respect for both Atlas and Mitzi and couldn’t leave her out to dry. Some part of his heart, buried deep enough that even he probably couldn’t find it, may belong to Atlas’ missus, but Zib’s not telling so there’s no knowing.
Sure money’s gonna be tight for a while but it isn’t any worse than what he’s been through before. He’s still there and plans to stay there for as long as Miss Mitzi May needs him.
a l i t t l e m o r e
member title: Meadowlark/Dorian Zibowski
where did you hear about us? Lackadaisy community on Livejournal
anything else? I like this idea, it’s a clever one.
password: Rocky Road
RPG sample:
The musician sat on the edge of the stage, his back against the side-wall, one leg draping over the edge, the other drawn up near his chest. His red fedora was tipped down over his eyes and he appeared to be asleep. Far from it, Zib’s green eyes were watching the few patrons that continued to come into the speakeasy. He and the band had finished what little warming up they did before the evening started and none of them were especially motivated to pick up their instruments for such a sparse crowd. But, if that was what Miss M wanted…
Zib tipped his hat back, striking a match on the bottom of his right shoe and lighting a cigarette. Shaking the match out he looked around, judging what sort of business they’d be able to get from the patrons. Looked like a few who would pay well, even for the swill they’d had to resort to recently. God, they needed income. The band was getting antsy, and frankly so was he. Steady pay was nice, and it looked like it wasn’t going to happen for a while. His gaze drifted toward the bar where he could see Miss Mitzi, a smile tweaked the corner of his lips. She was a lady of class. Didn’t matter what was said she was true class.
The young man extinguished his cigarette and stood, brushing off his trousers and stretching, hearing his back pop. He picked up his saxophone, placing the reed between his lips in place of the smoke to moisten it again. From the corner of his eye he could see the other musicians getting their instruments ready as well. The soft notes of the upright bass strings tuning and the air being blown softly through the trumpet to warm the metal again were familiar and reassuring. The band leader’s green eyes swept over the sparsely populated establishment as he attached the reed to his instrument and nodded to the band, giving them a quick count off and they began to play.
Zib tipped his hat back, striking a match on the bottom of his right shoe and lighting a cigarette. Shaking the match out he looked around, judging what sort of business they’d be able to get from the patrons. Looked like a few who would pay well, even for the swill they’d had to resort to recently. God, they needed income. The band was getting antsy, and frankly so was he. Steady pay was nice, and it looked like it wasn’t going to happen for a while. His gaze drifted toward the bar where he could see Miss Mitzi, a smile tweaked the corner of his lips. She was a lady of class. Didn’t matter what was said she was true class.
The young man extinguished his cigarette and stood, brushing off his trousers and stretching, hearing his back pop. He picked up his saxophone, placing the reed between his lips in place of the smoke to moisten it again. From the corner of his eye he could see the other musicians getting their instruments ready as well. The soft notes of the upright bass strings tuning and the air being blown softly through the trumpet to warm the metal again were familiar and reassuring. The band leader’s green eyes swept over the sparsely populated establishment as he attached the reed to his instrument and nodded to the band, giving them a quick count off and they began to play.
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