Lars Obstfelder /ACTPD/

ACCEPTED


Name: Lars Obstfelder
Age: 22
Birthplace: Oslo, Norway
Power: Stitches
Height: 5’9
Weight: 139 lbs.
Division: Head of Norwegian Division

Appearance:
He has the kind of ethereal handsomeness carved by perpetual sickness, flaxen-haired and lithe, almost effeminate, his features sharply defined like the fjords of his homeland. The sea has beaten into him the resilient strength and patience so required of sailors, just as illness has made his voice a controlled cadence. Rarely do his indigo-dyed eyes light up - though he seems to be of the intensely contemplative sort, if you asked him what he was thinking he’d say he was thinking of nothing at all.

Smiles from him are as rare as the flicker of life behind his eyes. Like the monotonous inflection in his words, his movements are carefully chosen and executed. Lars hates to present himself other than immaculate and fully in control - the latter, perhaps, a delusion, but one that he likes to indulge in.

Personality:
Lars would like to inform you that, despite popular belief, he is not quite dead inside, only emotionally self-suppressed. He would also like to inform you that yes, good work but how fortunate for the police to have a warrant for you, and no, I’m booked for the next two weeks. Please take a number from my secretary because I’ll need the time to fund my reconstructive eye surgery after looking at your face. Oh, and Mr. Køhler? Kindly do not let the door hit you on your way out, you'll ruin the finish.

Brutal honesty and subtle wit are the ice that make up his subzero air. Reclusive by choice and cynical because of all the atrocities he’s seen and had to commit, Lars would prefer to stay in Norway than to go out and recruit all over the world. Few are the people who can truly rile him - chief among them his self-proclaimed best friend, Mathias, and his dearly cherished younger brother, Eivindur.

History:
22 years ago a wisp of a boy was born to a hardy sailor and a devoted slip of a nurse. He who gives can take away, and his father chose to give.

19 years ago, Lars ran his fingers over a paper cut on his father’s hand, smoothing it over instantly. His father realized he can‘t stay in Norway anymore, not with the Division reemerging.

18 years ago, his father sailed out and never came back. Today Lars thinks that when all is said and done, he‘ll go there, too.

17 years ago the most important person of Lars’s life was born. He won’t meet Eivindur for another five years, but that doesn’t stop the pull he feels when he stares out at the ocean from whitewashed windows.

12 years ago, his mother, desperate to curb her son’s ever-constant decline in health, let him be examined by the doctors offering trials for an experimental drug. She allowed him to be taken to their hospital, unknowingly sealing his future with the Division.

Lars met a five-year-old child with whom he formed an immediate bond; they become a lifeline to each other, in and out of the hospital. They’re not quite sure what all the injections and pills are for, or why they’re always asked to do those weird things with their hands, but after Lars started healing Eivindur’s scrapes and bruises with just a wave of his hand and Eivindur started winning every game of hide-and-seek, they figured it was just part of what they needed to get better.

10 years ago Lars’s health improved amiably. He took a passion for sailing and nature, ever solitary and ever pensive, satisfying the itch to be doing things under his own power and without help.

6 years ago, after being denied the medication that granted his independence and going through the most hellish, crippling episode of withdrawal in his life, Lars was presented with a choice. He who gives can take away, and he is quite aware of the irony, thank you very much.

5 and a half years ago was his first kill. He who gives can take away, and Lars saw immediately what those miraculous hands of his can do. The setups are long and he’s really not the type of guy to get touchy-feely with his so-called clients, but it sure is faster to break them by healing them, ripping out their guts and bringing them back right from the brink at the very last moment. Funny what near-death experiences do to people - and they really do start looking the same after the fifth or sixth face.

A year ago he was promoted to head of his country’s Division. He doesn’t mind the crates of paperwork or the meddlesome bureaucratic rituals he has to go through everyday. He does, however, mind the increasing number of times he’s being called out of Norway. Can’t these lousy operatives stop getting skewered with a two-by-four or breaking every bone in their body? People these days…

As much as Lars believes in the ideals of the Division, he’s too intelligent to not realize that he’s running in a downward spiral. He doesn’t know how to stop it - he wonders if he even can - and all he can do is make sure his brother doesn’t suffer the same mistakes.

He who gives can take away, and Lars wants to take away from this the strength to own his life, without having to rely on the drugs to keep his body ticking.

RP Sample:
It took minutes to realize from the rocking that he was not back in the fickle, majestic waters of the North Atlantic as he wanted, but that he had fallen asleep in the cabin of the junk tethered to a rotting pier in Kowloon Bay. He exhaled a long sigh and rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes. Slowly he got to his feet and shuffled over to the porthole, carefully combing his hair and clipping it back with a barrette fashioned in the shape of the Nordic cross. The dim ray of light in the cabin and the unusual heaviness of the air told him a storm was coming.

Lars had heard especially how bad the rain got in Hong Kong - mudslides and sinkholes as plentiful as the shanties that littered the mainland. And just his luck he was assigned long enough here to experience the dreaded typhoon season!

He hated how disgusting it was here, the buildings infinitely vertical and claustrophobic, those ridiculous lantern and laundry and power lines crisscrossing the sky so that he felt he was in a fishing net. Too many people around him and too many things and the people always muttering under their breath about the foreign devil among them and the dirty looks he always got, the way they spat all the time and spoke to him in that horrific raping of the ears they called pidgin.

Was it too much to ask to be a permanent home agent? Head or not, surely there were more qualified agents for this operation. Lars wanted nothing more than to be back in clean waters and breathe unspoiled air. He wanted to go fishing - he had promised Eivindur, hadn’t he? - and help his brother build the sauna he sometimes liked to talk about.

With another long, exasperated sigh he checked his watch. It was a quarter ’til 5. Absently he ambled towards the makeshift bed and pulled out a leather briefcase from underneath. He’d catch the ferry to the Island, just south of the Bay, and meet up with his associate for the operation. He didn’t look back as he stepped out into the light drizzle, pulling his overcoat higher over his shoulders. The junk had been a meeting boardroom yesterday, a bed today, a pleasure boat tonight, and someone’s deathbed tomorrow. Capricious and effervescent, just like he needed to make himself for his task.

Other:
Like his younger brother, Eivindur, Lars is a firm believer of the supernatural, and even seems to have some creatures accompanying him.

As a result of the drugs administered to him, Lars will occasionally suffer from incredibly violent mood swings and become self-destructive during his withdrawals.

( BLAHBLAHBLAH IDK WHAT ELSE TO ADD )