Post by Pistol on Aug 13, 2006 11:52:21 GMT -5
Username:
Name: Gabriel "Pistol" Ramses
Age: 11
Gender: Male
Appearance:
The boy is a pretty creature, made so perhaps by his gentle smiles that constantly pull at his lips, and the utter good will he radiates, but his figure his mildly malnourished and runty. Hardly the stature one might expect of a desirable man of the future. But he is young, and it is fine to have rounded limbs still soft and fragile with baby fat, in several more years all of that will fade away to time and effort in training and toiling that would bring muscle to anyone's figure and scars that would be made apparent to the world, ones he wouldn't need to hide beneath thick shirts and scarves. Rather, those scars might be stories of his past that he might one day be even proud of.
The child’s face is heart shaped, his high cheek bones hidden for now under that persistent baby fat that are constantly blushing pink, for he is quite the healthy creature despite his poor diet. The eyes that rest in said head are wide, bright, intelligent, and so focused on every detail of the world that it might seem that those pale blue pools want to lap everything up, remember every gorgeous detail so that he might always be happy, for nothing in the world he has ever set his gaze upon could be considered less. Sadly, his eyes are not often seen by others, his bangs of pale yellow often fall in the way. But he's happy with that, finding it oddly amusing when people attempt to swipe it out of his face, though something so rude as that only happens on occasion. The rest of his hair falls in long waves, just past the curving slope of his jaw bone in a slightly bowl-like cut, curling lightly as it reaches its ends. Such pretty hair, likely to be tainted by darker hues once he ages a tad bit more.
Clothes-wise the child always dresses himself as if were winter. Even in summer weather a darkly hued jacket would be found wrapped around him, and a scarf covering his lengthy neck and lower face. It confuses many people, but it seems the boys natural body temperature is just low, though he does adore snow.
Personality : There is... perhaps... something a little wrong with the boy. Not something one might pick up on right away, for he does adore feeding the world his sugary laughter and smiles, offering them always pretty flowers and innocent chatter. And true, the child is innocent, naive and gullible, easily drawn astray by the wicked and liars. He is, after all, merely a boy unready for the world but determined enough to stride out to meet it anyway, head on, loving it despite the corruption and always turning a merciful, amending gaze upon it. He believes whole heartedly that the world, even in its blackest shadows, is a good, loving place and that the people who exist in it are the same- if only given the chance.
His love is constant, unbroken and unwary. The love one may only receive from a heart that has not beated in his fragile chest long enough to be broken. It is not even guarded. Suspicion and paranoia he does not know, and he fears not the Boogey Man, having rather felt sympathetic, thinking it terrible that he was confined to closets and beneath beds. If only he asked, he would have shared the mattress with him happily, and there is another pillow in the other room that he could rest his head upon if he so wished. No, he fears none of the creatures that traverse the earth, so confident is he in their good will and purity.
But that is he in his brightest light. In the confines of silence the child breaks, for intelligence has told him many wicked things, whispered hateful words into his ears. He was told by his intelligence, perhaps mildly greater than average, that he was to die. Perhaps not soon, but eventually. He would not be remembered a decade after his death, and it would be as if he never existed. And what is to say that the life he lives in now is real at all? He could be in the midst of a dream, and maybe it wasn't even his own. Maybe he was not even in a dream, and he was only kidding himself, and he simply wasn't anywhere, and no one was thinking of him because he had never been born. And the very thought tore at the child's soul, and from those thoughts came his obsession with the undead, and ghost Pokemon in particular. They were immortal, but did not give off that appeal. Instead of somber wisdom, they display trickster traits that could make him smile in public and scream in his heart for how could they play games when they were dead? When they harbored a secret he longed to know, yet they blatantly refused to tell him? And he constantly questioned, as blood trailed down in pretty streaks from the open wounds he'd slice along the collar bone, why didn't they move on? Was there something terrible there? How did they come to death, yet continue to exist in the realm of the living? It ripped his mind apart to think about it, and he constantly gave into cutting, hoping that perhaps the pain meant that yes, he was real, real real real. How he needed to know he was real and alive, and that death had not come for him yet.
History :
He was born into a small family. Just he and his mother and father, both whom worked. But he was a responsible child, taught the basic things on how to care for himself for a few hours, and he was so often alone. And as the years pressed forth, this continued, the hours lengthening, and he gave into thought all the more. It became a hobby, this thinking, while other children may go outside and play. He thought while he made himself simple meals, while he fed the family meowth, while he gardened for his pleasure, while he lay in his bath, which turned pink, for that was always the consequence when he began to think. But his body is young, easily healed, the scars never last. And it isn't as if those little slices are common occurrence, it is rather rare indeed, actually! Only happening when the sorrow builds in him and he feels he can no longer contain it. And no child ever should. But how often is it said that the children of the world are maturing too fast? Learning and growing too fast? So it isn't as if it's so odd.
On a lighter note, one might question how the boy got his alias, which he so happily enjoys going by. It is rather simple- he enjoys entering contests, unique to his hometown, where one would load a pistol looking contraption, though instead of shooting bullets it shoots thread nests. Flying Pokemon are released into the air, and the person able to catch the most without missing is declared winner. Often does he win in his age division, and it has gained him the name he finds rather cute. Despite it also being the name of a death dealing weapon.
He has chosen to leave home, not because he feels he can handle the task of becoming a master of Pokemon, but rather because he feels that if he allows too much time to pass he would not be able to learn the secrets that the ghost Pokemon harbor. And he does feel that perhaps the task of getting an answer to his miserable problem might take a long while, and he does not wish to waste his time with petty play and things so unneeded as a childhood to remember as he lay weeping on his death bed, waiting for the black angel to reap his soul.
Roleplay Sample :
{I forgot his name, but I use to play the god of death on some site...}
Ah, if only he had been zoned in enough on reality to watch her restless movements, her evasive acts that might draw her away from his unpleasent memory that rightfully upset her. It would have been viewed as a nearly happy curiosity, something to humorous to perk an eyebrow at... yet, as it was typical as his child's mind dictated, he always missed the best of things. Which was really just bull.
Her fury, while properly disguised as society demanded, was made bare by that damned knowing every deity must have, and it was certainly no fun even at the climax of its usefullness. It ruined the surprise of nearly every event whether happy or sad, killing most of the zest for life. But, of course, their were always those few exceptions that either pleased or made you hate. But I digress. This knowing had for once it managed to ease him. So, his prize was unhappy as well. It would mean that, while they might feel foul towards one another, they at least had each other's company to stew in their displeasure, though perhaps it was only he who thought of it this way. But it hardly mattered, it lessened the inner, childish sulking that continued on about his lost prize presented so easily to him here in one of the darker corridors of his mind, attempting to be a subconcious hurt though thus far it had failed. Things were becoming harder and harder to repress as he aged, though in fact he had been around for so long it was hard to imagine that it was just now starting to take effect.
As if for the sheer pleasure of ticking her off, he had questioned with the innocence of an incredibly ignorant child, "Why would I know?" It was a way to avoid the question, because to be quite frank he didn't feel quite like switching names. And, of course, he knew her title, knew her kingdom, knew her culture. Which is why it might seem fairly stupid that he continued on, insulting her as he did, whether playfully or with harm's intent on his mind. Not that there was much of a diffrence between the two, they had long since mixed together in his own way of thinking.
Party Pokemon :
Items :
PC :
Name: Gabriel "Pistol" Ramses
Age: 11
Gender: Male
Appearance:
The boy is a pretty creature, made so perhaps by his gentle smiles that constantly pull at his lips, and the utter good will he radiates, but his figure his mildly malnourished and runty. Hardly the stature one might expect of a desirable man of the future. But he is young, and it is fine to have rounded limbs still soft and fragile with baby fat, in several more years all of that will fade away to time and effort in training and toiling that would bring muscle to anyone's figure and scars that would be made apparent to the world, ones he wouldn't need to hide beneath thick shirts and scarves. Rather, those scars might be stories of his past that he might one day be even proud of.
The child’s face is heart shaped, his high cheek bones hidden for now under that persistent baby fat that are constantly blushing pink, for he is quite the healthy creature despite his poor diet. The eyes that rest in said head are wide, bright, intelligent, and so focused on every detail of the world that it might seem that those pale blue pools want to lap everything up, remember every gorgeous detail so that he might always be happy, for nothing in the world he has ever set his gaze upon could be considered less. Sadly, his eyes are not often seen by others, his bangs of pale yellow often fall in the way. But he's happy with that, finding it oddly amusing when people attempt to swipe it out of his face, though something so rude as that only happens on occasion. The rest of his hair falls in long waves, just past the curving slope of his jaw bone in a slightly bowl-like cut, curling lightly as it reaches its ends. Such pretty hair, likely to be tainted by darker hues once he ages a tad bit more.
Clothes-wise the child always dresses himself as if were winter. Even in summer weather a darkly hued jacket would be found wrapped around him, and a scarf covering his lengthy neck and lower face. It confuses many people, but it seems the boys natural body temperature is just low, though he does adore snow.
Personality : There is... perhaps... something a little wrong with the boy. Not something one might pick up on right away, for he does adore feeding the world his sugary laughter and smiles, offering them always pretty flowers and innocent chatter. And true, the child is innocent, naive and gullible, easily drawn astray by the wicked and liars. He is, after all, merely a boy unready for the world but determined enough to stride out to meet it anyway, head on, loving it despite the corruption and always turning a merciful, amending gaze upon it. He believes whole heartedly that the world, even in its blackest shadows, is a good, loving place and that the people who exist in it are the same- if only given the chance.
His love is constant, unbroken and unwary. The love one may only receive from a heart that has not beated in his fragile chest long enough to be broken. It is not even guarded. Suspicion and paranoia he does not know, and he fears not the Boogey Man, having rather felt sympathetic, thinking it terrible that he was confined to closets and beneath beds. If only he asked, he would have shared the mattress with him happily, and there is another pillow in the other room that he could rest his head upon if he so wished. No, he fears none of the creatures that traverse the earth, so confident is he in their good will and purity.
But that is he in his brightest light. In the confines of silence the child breaks, for intelligence has told him many wicked things, whispered hateful words into his ears. He was told by his intelligence, perhaps mildly greater than average, that he was to die. Perhaps not soon, but eventually. He would not be remembered a decade after his death, and it would be as if he never existed. And what is to say that the life he lives in now is real at all? He could be in the midst of a dream, and maybe it wasn't even his own. Maybe he was not even in a dream, and he was only kidding himself, and he simply wasn't anywhere, and no one was thinking of him because he had never been born. And the very thought tore at the child's soul, and from those thoughts came his obsession with the undead, and ghost Pokemon in particular. They were immortal, but did not give off that appeal. Instead of somber wisdom, they display trickster traits that could make him smile in public and scream in his heart for how could they play games when they were dead? When they harbored a secret he longed to know, yet they blatantly refused to tell him? And he constantly questioned, as blood trailed down in pretty streaks from the open wounds he'd slice along the collar bone, why didn't they move on? Was there something terrible there? How did they come to death, yet continue to exist in the realm of the living? It ripped his mind apart to think about it, and he constantly gave into cutting, hoping that perhaps the pain meant that yes, he was real, real real real. How he needed to know he was real and alive, and that death had not come for him yet.
History :
He was born into a small family. Just he and his mother and father, both whom worked. But he was a responsible child, taught the basic things on how to care for himself for a few hours, and he was so often alone. And as the years pressed forth, this continued, the hours lengthening, and he gave into thought all the more. It became a hobby, this thinking, while other children may go outside and play. He thought while he made himself simple meals, while he fed the family meowth, while he gardened for his pleasure, while he lay in his bath, which turned pink, for that was always the consequence when he began to think. But his body is young, easily healed, the scars never last. And it isn't as if those little slices are common occurrence, it is rather rare indeed, actually! Only happening when the sorrow builds in him and he feels he can no longer contain it. And no child ever should. But how often is it said that the children of the world are maturing too fast? Learning and growing too fast? So it isn't as if it's so odd.
On a lighter note, one might question how the boy got his alias, which he so happily enjoys going by. It is rather simple- he enjoys entering contests, unique to his hometown, where one would load a pistol looking contraption, though instead of shooting bullets it shoots thread nests. Flying Pokemon are released into the air, and the person able to catch the most without missing is declared winner. Often does he win in his age division, and it has gained him the name he finds rather cute. Despite it also being the name of a death dealing weapon.
He has chosen to leave home, not because he feels he can handle the task of becoming a master of Pokemon, but rather because he feels that if he allows too much time to pass he would not be able to learn the secrets that the ghost Pokemon harbor. And he does feel that perhaps the task of getting an answer to his miserable problem might take a long while, and he does not wish to waste his time with petty play and things so unneeded as a childhood to remember as he lay weeping on his death bed, waiting for the black angel to reap his soul.
Roleplay Sample :
{I forgot his name, but I use to play the god of death on some site...}
Ah, if only he had been zoned in enough on reality to watch her restless movements, her evasive acts that might draw her away from his unpleasent memory that rightfully upset her. It would have been viewed as a nearly happy curiosity, something to humorous to perk an eyebrow at... yet, as it was typical as his child's mind dictated, he always missed the best of things. Which was really just bull.
Her fury, while properly disguised as society demanded, was made bare by that damned knowing every deity must have, and it was certainly no fun even at the climax of its usefullness. It ruined the surprise of nearly every event whether happy or sad, killing most of the zest for life. But, of course, their were always those few exceptions that either pleased or made you hate. But I digress. This knowing had for once it managed to ease him. So, his prize was unhappy as well. It would mean that, while they might feel foul towards one another, they at least had each other's company to stew in their displeasure, though perhaps it was only he who thought of it this way. But it hardly mattered, it lessened the inner, childish sulking that continued on about his lost prize presented so easily to him here in one of the darker corridors of his mind, attempting to be a subconcious hurt though thus far it had failed. Things were becoming harder and harder to repress as he aged, though in fact he had been around for so long it was hard to imagine that it was just now starting to take effect.
As if for the sheer pleasure of ticking her off, he had questioned with the innocence of an incredibly ignorant child, "Why would I know?" It was a way to avoid the question, because to be quite frank he didn't feel quite like switching names. And, of course, he knew her title, knew her kingdom, knew her culture. Which is why it might seem fairly stupid that he continued on, insulting her as he did, whether playfully or with harm's intent on his mind. Not that there was much of a diffrence between the two, they had long since mixed together in his own way of thinking.
Party Pokemon :
Items :
PC :
