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Player Information
Name: Sera
Age: 24
Timezone: CST
Contact: You know it.
Character Information
Name: Poe
Age: 13
Gender: M
PB: Kirinoha from Zoku Natsume Yuujinchou
Appearance:
There was always… something in the way of seeing the boy clearly. A blurriness, a softness of the lines, a rounding of the edges. The way everything looks upon the break of sleep. Such was the energy which seemed to envelope Poe. Cotton billowed gently about his slim, awkward frame. Too long in the arms and legs was he, and unaware of it to boot. So he shrunk, or tried to, at least. Legs together, shoulders back, arms to his body. Smooth, calculated, gliding. Just like mother in those old recordings he had uncovered one day, back in the attic. It had been long since she stopped dancing. He had tried, though stage fright proved unsuitable. Some wore it with grace. Poe suffocated.
Regardless, years of discipline remained etched in his posture, providing perhaps the only rigidity in his overall presence. Everything else remained soft. From the way green tendrils splayed themselves across his petit shoulders to the wisps of hair which cradled his pale, gentle face. One would be considered lucky to catch him with his entire face uncovered, in fact, for no matter how often he pulled his hands through his hair or tucked it behind his ears, it would always somehow slip forward - secluding half of that tentative gaze. Oh how cautious… how timid, how slippery that gaze was. As green as spring. Dancing, dancing… but never quite meeting.
Archetype:
Shy and silent child; the Mystery Kid; thinks about a lot of things before saying them but then forgets he didn’t even say anything in the first place. Keeps to himself but in a satisfied way. He’d be a prince type character if he were more extroverted.
Personality and Background:
There are people who talk to themselves out loud, and then there’s Poe. One becomes acquainted with one’s own company with overworked parents. Doctors, the both of them, having moved to Blackbell due to an opening at the city’s major hospital, were mainly nocturnal figures who came and went, their affection brief and in passing. When there’s no one to talk to, internal monologues become… a thing. You compliment the kettle for the morning’s tea while going over multiplication problem sets at the breakfast table. You encourage the succulents on the windowsill to grow strong and well, offering them their morning drink. You crack an egg into the frying pan, smiling warmly, stirring it into the crisp, seasoned bacon – just like how they do it on the cooking channel. A mint green plate, the smear of egg in yellow and white, the charred fleshy bacon glistening of oil. Beautiful.
Poe has learned to be his own friend, and moreover, has learned to enjoy it. Solitude is a welcome companion. Within his mind resides a survival guide if you will; it is a catalogue of plans, recipes, color palettes, book titles, dining mannerisms, to-do lists, paper folding patterns, early morning cartoons, laundry instructions, the Perfect Cocoa Recipe, and perhaps most importantly, everything anyone would ever need to know on the topic of Pokepuffs and how to make them.
A calm, temperate soul, there is not much that can sway the boy in one direction or another. Never having needed to lie, he is honest, though he does hold a strong sense of morals for his age. Watching his parents and their work has led him to be more conscious of the difficulties of life, though they attempt to shelter him from this as best as they can. Their love is about as rich as it can be for a family who shares perhaps a third of the day together. In turn, Poe tries his best with regards to most things, whether it be housekeeping, making sure there is dinner on the table (he has a penchant for cooking and while most of the meals he produces are simple and what one might expect a 13-year-old to prepare at best, he is mostly successful), or keeping his grades up to the highest standards. Having moved to Blackbell recently and transferred as a student, he doesn’t know much of anyone, but hasn’t quite reached out yet either. Of flexible and versatile interests, he maintains a plethora of hobbies as he attempts to discover himself with as much competence as a thirteen year-old can muster. Quiet, although not cold; inquisitive, although not nosy; introverted, though with plenty to talk about, Poe can be amicable with a drive fueled mainly by his persistent curiosity. Meticulous and detail oriented while remaining laid back and carefree, he is a bit of a mishmash of sharp edges and plush coziness.
Poe lives in an elegant albeit beat up villa with his mom, dad, Pokemon, and occasional ‘help’. He is an only child, born and raised in Sinjoh, though his parents moved over from Johto. His mother, aside from having been a proficient professional dancer, has also dabbled with Pokemon Contests. Poe always admired the artistry of both dance and contests, and has inherited a talent for movement from his mother. His father, originating from Ecruteak (where he consequently met his wife and Poe’s mother, a Kimono Girl dancer), is a bibliophile, and has established a rather impressive collection of books and records in their basement. A large portion of the texts focus on the mythos of Ecruteak, the Bell Tower, and the Legendary Beasts. Poe grew up listening to these stories and in time, became rather fascinated with the mythology surrounding Johto. He aspires to become a proficient enough trainer to travel and see Johto and Ecruteak for himself one day, and to visit the ruins the texts reference.
Pokemon:
Nickname: Imri
Personality: Bold, confident, grounded. The ground dweller carries himselfwith a striking albeit quiet sense of confidence and a sharp glint in his eyes. Never too far from Poe, he reaches up to tug at Poe’s sleeve for pats or to grab his attention. A foil to Poe’s softness perhaps, Imri is a guardian, a best friend, a confidante, and a lover of Poke Puffs. He will spend his afternoons in the small garden Poe manages to tend, stacking and arranging stones to make little paths, carving rocky formations into art of his own. Imri also has a fascination with marbles, and is the happiest Pokemon when Poe brings him new ones for his collection.
Met: A pokemon his father brought over from Johto, has always been a part of the family but ended up bonding strongly to Poe and is now considered his.
Starter Pokemon: Swablu, Female
Nickname: Mia
Personality: A shy, sweet, fearful little thing. Loves to perch on Poe’s head and fluff his hair. Loves to take ‘walks’ with Poe perched like this, will sometimes fly off to pick flowers or leaves off of trees and peck them into his hair. She will hide behind his shoulder if frightened, and coo Poe to sleep at night, will sleep by his pillow. She is peaceful and loving, a true little princess.
Met: A pokemon egg brought over by one of his mother’s breeder friends. Took to Poe instantly when hatched, is relatively young and still somewhat frightened of the world.
Other Pokemon:
Legendary reserve: Entei, a prominent figure in the stories Poe was told when he was growing up by his parents.
Field Reserve: Poochyena
Fishing Reserve: Horsea
Mountain Reserve: Skarmory
Other reserves: don’t think I want any yet, if I add any it’ll be when apps close and I’ll see what’s left that is available.
Sample: (a portion of some personal writing and waaaay more formal in tone than I plan to write here but, here you go):
Candlelight wrapped itself around his chest in ribbons - swirling into the depths of his collarbones, dripping down taught biceps. The pitch of his skin drank it in with an unyielding thirst.
Look at me.
It was as if someone had stitched in strips of silver with all of the dexterity and skill of a five year old child. If the silver were silver at all. Hacked and mangled. Some were smooth and reflective, akin to the dart of a quick swimming fish. Others less so. Cavernous, discolored, thick.
Look at my body.
The scar tissue flecked his front. It painted his sides and raced across ribs. It dragged against the curve of his spine. The most prominent, a diagonal slash running just at the edge of his lower belly, protruded in pinched puckers – right at the spots where the stitches had held.
Look.
Nostrils flaring, he breathed, feeling the heat run down his neck now as the tears refused to cease. Silent. Standing. A faint quiver running through his every inch. He could hear the movement. The tossle of skirts, the drag of a heel against the floor. Slow, meandering, but firm. She was in a dress, he had seen. A delight. For as much as he loved the shimmer of plate, he loved to see her move beneath cloth even more. It did not rival the image of her with axe in hand, painted in death, but after so long, it was a gift. He had come to see her. Silence.
There is a way in which light sometimes disperses, pulsing. When the sky, churning and black, pours a sliver of shock into the frothing sea, which, upon receiving it in one specific point, then illuminates outwardly in prominent, slithering rays. The way in which glass fractures at bullet point. Such was the effect of her touch, when the soft, malleable flesh of her palm met the damp surface of his cheek. He felt the ragged breath escape him, the pain release, as his eyes opened to meet hers but a simple sigh away. It was as if something had thawed. Her eyes, so clear, as if the rain had ceased and unclouded their surface, darted across his chest at first, then raised, to rest on his gaze. A generous mouth, now downturned and strained, parted as she, too, exhaled. A shiver ran through him. He felt her wrap a finger around a loose strand of the hair he had valiantly pinned back, her thumb adjusting as it reached to stroke the edge of his brow, ever so gently. A swallow. Taller than he, only by a handful of ilms, he watched the corners of her eyes crinkle as she shut them closed.
