Post by wood on Jul 1, 2011 1:07:22 GMT -5
OLIVER
[/b] · CALEAN · WOOD[/font][/size]
[/center]Full Name: Oliver Calean Wood
Nicknames: Wood, Oliver
Age: 25 / October 25 1975
Gender: Male
Preferred House: former gryffindor
Occupation: Keeper - Puddlemere United
Canon: Yes
Bloodline: Pureblood
Allegiances: Order
Wand: Cherry Wood 12", Dragon Heartstring
Special Possessions: Firebolt
Play-By: David Williams
Eyes: Dark, rounded, he's never taken much notice of them.
Hair: Brown, shaggy, not something he fiddles with much.
Height: 183 cm
Weight: 93 kg
Body Type: Muscular/athletic
Voice: deep, thick scottish accent
Personal Style: athletic/whatever's clean
General Description: Oliver is described as big and burly. Standing at about six-foot-two-inches, his presence is almost physically overpowering, and it generally gives him an air that demands respect. At twenty, he has a very manly appearance, his face having a decent amount of scruff and a bit of a beard. While Oliver's thick, dark hair is almost always unruly, it's only because he cares more about training than appearance. His dark eyes can shoot a very frightening glare, but most of the time they're set in a determined way, or softened with exhaustion.
Love Me: quidditch, scotch, sunshine, gobstones
Hate Me: laziness, wine, chinese food, shoes
See Some Good About Me: determined, clever, innovative
... Or Some Bad: tunnel vision, emotionally inept.
Patronus: penguin, memory of getting a spot on the puddlemere team
Boggart Shape: large tidal wave/water in general (Oliver can't swim)
Goals: Do well this season, eventually become captain of Puddlemere
Amortentia: Vanilla, cinnamon
But Who Am I Really? Despite his fervour about Quidditch, Oliver cares little for romance and for school work. In fact, he is oblivious to the advances of women until they are – literally – on top of him. While he is a genuinely nice boy, Oliver lacks tact. Throughout his time at Hogwarts, he was scolded time and time again for his drive, and the way he demanded nothing less than perfection from his teammates. He sometimes speaks without thinking, he sometimes says things that are misconstrued as rudeness. But in reality, Oliver wouldn’t hurt a fly, he wouldn’t hurt anything or anyone on purpose.
Oliver is also the typical big brother. Because he doesn’t understand romance, he refuses to allow boys anywhere near his younger sister. He is overprotective and determined to find her the perfect (quidditch-playing) man. He does, however, hope that this man will be a player on Puddlemere, but that’s just his team pride talking. (I play Oliver with a younger sister. if this is a problem I can change it)
Papa: Robert Wood, 50, pureblood
Mum: Samantha Wood, 49, pureblood
Siblings: younger sister, Michelle, 20
Significant Relations: Dating Katie Bell
Pet: Dog, Golden Retriever named Scout
Home: Hogsmeade (he travels to Dorset for practice via portkey)
Birthplace: Glasgow
History: It was a cold, autumn morning when she went into labour. It took seventeen hours, in the small farm house where they lived, for Samantha Wood to give birth to her first and only son, Oliver Wood. Robert Wood was ecstatic to have a boy. Of course, he would have been just as happy to have a daughter, but a son was the ideal for the man. Robert had every intention of making his son's life the best he could.
He didn't disappoint. Oliver grew up in northern Scotland, working with his father on the farm and absorbing every bit of physical labour that he could. When Oliver turned ten, his father bought him his first real broom – a Cleansweep – and that was where it began. Oliver threw his entire being into flying and Quidditch. He would do anything to learn that one last move, to figure out that one perfect play.
When he started at Hogwarts a year later, he was sorted into Gryffindor because of his loyalty, his determination, and his courage. He didn't make the Gryffindor team in that first year, because first years didn't make teams, for the most part, but in his second year, he shone at tryouts, instantly earning the position of Keeper. He played under the talented captain Charlie Weasley until his fifth year. With his newly assigned position of captain, Oliver has taken to spending long hours bent over his trusty playbook, which he keeps with him at all times. The book contains his everything. It is his journal, his Quidditch manual, and occasionally where he writes his class notes – when he writes them at all.
Shortly after graduation he was drafted to the Puddlemere United reserves. He played there for two years before getting promoted to the first string, and now plays as the keeper and is next in line to be captain.
OOC: Andy
Rping experience: 2 years
How you found us: PB support.
Contact: pm
Other characters: n/a
RP Sample:
Oliver moved into the small pub with a sort of sense of trepidation. It wasn't as though he didn't enjoy a good drink now and then; he was just not at all fond of the hustle and bustle of the city. There were too many people, too many prying eyes. In true form, when he walked in eyes followed Oliver from the door to the bar, and then from the bar to the table he'd chosen near the back. When he sat down, he let out a sigh of relief, feeling more comfortable now that his every move wasn't being watched.
He put his glass of single malt whiskey down in front of him, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He had been in his brand new study all day working on his playbook, which was coming along nicely. He had taken some of the plays he'd used at Hogwarts and revamped them, made them more difficult to block. But now he found he had a crick in his neck and a lot on his mind. That was the real reason he'd made the trek down to Diagon Alley on that Saturday night. A stiff drink and a little bit of forgetting. He didn't intend to get overly drunk, just a little happy.
He'd even changed out of his sweats to head down, instead putting on a collared shirt and a v-neck knit to keep out some of the cold. His jeans were well worn and his leather shoes hadn’t quite been worn in yet, but this was as presentable as he could be, as far as Oliver was concerned.
Lifting his glass again, Oliver swirled the liquid around in the tumbler, then took a long drink as he looked around the bar. He didn't recognize anyone, but then... he didn't know many people. His liquid courage was encouraging him to talk to someone... but whom? The thing was that he didn’t have much luck with meeting new people – partly because women were intimidated by his sheer size and men were intimidated by his profession. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be different. Oliver hoped so, since his solitary existence was getting to be rather tiresome.
Not only tiresome, but full of nagging. His mother had taken to owling twice a week, usually asking when she was getting grandkids, as well as when he would be coming home – and bringing a nice girl home with him. The letters were piled up on his bedside table, waiting to be replied to. He had every intention of ignoring them for as long as possible.
His drink was getting low, and so Oliver made his way back to the bar, less shy this time, and ordered another.
He put his glass of single malt whiskey down in front of him, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He had been in his brand new study all day working on his playbook, which was coming along nicely. He had taken some of the plays he'd used at Hogwarts and revamped them, made them more difficult to block. But now he found he had a crick in his neck and a lot on his mind. That was the real reason he'd made the trek down to Diagon Alley on that Saturday night. A stiff drink and a little bit of forgetting. He didn't intend to get overly drunk, just a little happy.
He'd even changed out of his sweats to head down, instead putting on a collared shirt and a v-neck knit to keep out some of the cold. His jeans were well worn and his leather shoes hadn’t quite been worn in yet, but this was as presentable as he could be, as far as Oliver was concerned.
Lifting his glass again, Oliver swirled the liquid around in the tumbler, then took a long drink as he looked around the bar. He didn't recognize anyone, but then... he didn't know many people. His liquid courage was encouraging him to talk to someone... but whom? The thing was that he didn’t have much luck with meeting new people – partly because women were intimidated by his sheer size and men were intimidated by his profession. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be different. Oliver hoped so, since his solitary existence was getting to be rather tiresome.
Not only tiresome, but full of nagging. His mother had taken to owling twice a week, usually asking when she was getting grandkids, as well as when he would be coming home – and bringing a nice girl home with him. The letters were piled up on his bedside table, waiting to be replied to. He had every intention of ignoring them for as long as possible.
His drink was getting low, and so Oliver made his way back to the bar, less shy this time, and ordered another.
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