Post by Derek on Mar 1, 2008 20:56:40 GMT -5
___until i find something better___
{name __+ Donovan Grant
{nickname __+ n/a
{age __+ Twenty
{gender __+ Male
{date of birth __+ August 19th
{astrological sign__+ Leo
{astrological element & quality__+ Fire-Fixed
{ruling planet__+ the sun
{blood type __+ A-
{origins __+ Goldenrod City-Johto
{ethnicity __+ Irish
{sexual orientation __+ n/a
{relations __+ Unknown
{chosen ambition __+
_____Like many young men and women born into the world of Pok?mon, Donovan has the great dream of becoming a Gym Leader. To him, the Elite Four is just another place to dream about, but never fancy. All he plans to do is become a Gym Leader to his own self-serving purposes.
{personality__+
_____reserved: Donovan has always been one to ask about someone else, but never tell his own story in return. Some would argue that he was cold or distant, but the young man simply prefers to keep things to himself. In this respect, not many people know about his past or his family, given that he doesn't hold either in high prospects or necessity. Precious few know his true ambitions (other than becoming a gym leader) or dreams, and even less can tell what he is thinking at a given moment or how he feels.
_____reactive: To say that Donovan has a temper would be the largest understatement of the century. Bloodthirsty, or maniacally angry might serve as better terms, but either option is never good. Crossing Donovan Grant would be unwise, if only because he will hit whomever opposes him, especially if they manage to defeat his Pokémon. The inability to reign in his temper is a dangerous one, but it can also come in handy. Such a fierce passion for power and control has never been known to man until Donovan appeared on the face of the earth. Disregard to rules and authority has managed to land the young man in trouble before, but he always "repents," or for those who know him, lies to get out of it.
_____socially bold: Rash, it would seem, is the word to describe Donovan. The poor man never thinks before he acts, instead preferring to rush bull-headed at the problem and hope that his fists and Pokémon can take care of it without him having to actually think. Surprisingly enough, he can work out problems with logic, and in his down time likes to partake in the solving of crossword puzzles, but only when he is alone. Of course, he would never let anyone see this side of him, unless they managed to get exceptionally close to him. When placed in a social situation, Donovan usually manages to focus everything on himself. His quick wit and dark sense of humor enable this, and he's quite glad for it. In accordance with his humor, Donovan is quite the prankster, and likes to play tricks on people. Mischievous!
_____dominant: Donovan is not the kind of man to sit back and let someone else do all the work. He likes to be in charge and hold all the power, and he likes to act with it. Basically, he likes to be the Alpha-Dog. In a relationship, too, he is very domineering. (Not to say that he can hold a relationship. He much prefers the freedom of one night stands, instead of the whole "Oh, I love you so much be with me forever!" deal.) Even in a situation where he doesn't hold power, Donovan will always slip easily into the leadership role. Unsurprisingly, he has always chosen to play with the more powerful Pok?mon, and Arcanine is one of his special favourites.
_____vigilant/tense: There are hardly ever any relaxed moments in Donovan's life. The man is always ready for something, even if he doesn't know what. Constantly alert, Donovan's lightning fast reaction time has given him the split-second advantage he needs in some cases of action, but there is always the off chance that he's so alert that he attacks something quite harmless. This, it would seem, leads back to the reactive trait of his personality. In a sense, the trainer never lets his guard down, sleeping with some item nearby that could help him in a fight. Constant vigilance is the code here.
_____self-reliant: Basically, he likes to think (or act) for himself. Never in his life has he willingly accepted something from someone else. If forced, however, he will grudgingly accept whatever is being given to him. Battling with another trainer is exceptionally against Donovan's personal morals, and if this strict code is ever broken, the man would most likely turn to switch his attacks on the trainer battling with him. In short, he doesn't like help bevy much, and accepting so much as a flower from someone else is torture for him.
{likes__+
_____<Powerful Pokémon
_____<Power in General
_____<Sex
_____<Alcohol
_____<Rain
_____<Blood
_____<Crossword Puzzles
_____<Fire
_____<Darkness
_____<Depression (in others)
{dislikes__+
_____>Salads
_____>Authority
_____>Rules
_____>Confinement
_____>Children
_____>Cooking
_____>Birthdays
_____>Medicines
_____>Doctors
_____>Depression (in himself)
{eyes__+
_____The first thing anyone would notice about Donovan would be his eyes. The emerald greens and chocolate browns of others cannot contest to the wondrous, clear blue eyes of one Donovan Grant.
But what is an eye? An eye is a device, a tool, used for sight. Donovan's eyes are just that. They're used for seeing things- the birds, the trees, the sky, the pretty women that walk by on the streets... anything and everything. His eyes aren't exceptionally beautiful or extraordinary, however. They're just... blue. A pretty blue, yes, but just blue. The twin orbs of this particular hue are almond shaped and heavily lidded with long, luscious eye-lashes to hood them; his eyebrows can do nothing but accent their dark mystery. The dark-brown arches are smooth and comforting, set just above his eyes, curving down only slightly to frame what could possibly make a very pretty picture of his eyes.
But then,The eye of a human being is much more than just an instrument-- a tool --for seeing others. The eye is like a portal into the soul. Donovan's eyes are the same deep blue of the Atlantic ocean. Millions of miles deep, with monsters hiding beneath the beautiful exterior. Monsters of the deep are hiding in everyone's eyes. Secrets, that's what they're called. Lurking beneath those radiant blue eyes, just waiting to be discovered, just waiting to be let free. These particular blue eyes were a shallow shade of "sky blue" with tiny ringlets of navy inside, like a tsunami wave: beautiful, yet deadly.
{hair color __+
_____Dark hair falls carelessly across these eyes, spilling across an unblemished face.
The exact color of Donovan's hair is hard to place. A light dirty brown would seem appropriate, but then it seems to brown to be considered that, and suddenly it looks red in the sunlight, and its impossible to tell. In the sun, as stated, his hair looks like a red-brown, but on other occasions it can be seen as a blond, or even just a regular brown.
{clothing__+
_____Clothing has never been a particular worry for Donovan, but given that if he took to walking around in his birthday suit he would be arrested, he chooses to at least be somewhat particular about his clothing. Thick, sturdy black boots cover his feet as protection from heavy objects. It seems that Donovan does not have a particular "style" of dress, but he does like camouflage, and is more comfortable in tight wife-beater tank-tops and vests than a smart suit or other black-tie attire. A given is that he will always be wearing a belt, usually some form of leather, on which to clip his Pokémon. Another constant is the leather band around his left wrist, and the thin silver chain that hangs from his neck, a cross dangling from it. The last of his accessories are an assortment of rings across his long, placid, perfect-for-playing-piano fingers. From silver and gold bands to jewel studded loops, almost all of the man's fingers hold a ring or two, sometimes more.
{height __+
_____Six feet.
{weight __+
_____180 lbs, give or take.
{build __+
_____A weight machine commercial would undoubtedly say that Donovan has a "toned, sexy core." However, he sees himself as just normal. His body muscle is toned, but he doesn't work out or strive for perfect health. A bit heavy-set, Donovan's shoulders are broad and his arms wired with long sinews of sleek muscle. Given his height of six feet, he pulls off the look well.
Standing around six feet, zero inches in height, Donovan cuts a powerful figure. The air of power radiating around him practically pulses out electric thunder which screams a demand to anyone who passes by: listen to me and obey.
His physique is intensified by the sheer amount of tattoos and scars dotting his body. Donovan will never tell you where he got all of his scars (there are probably too many to list anyway), but will gladly show you his three favourite tattoos that are spread across the sea of demons and dragons and other macabre illustrations: a rose, a butterfly, and a single leaf falling from a tree. Now, he would never explain just why these are his favourites, but he keeps their meanings in his mind, and reveals their qualities to those close to him: The rose because one can always find beauty where none seems possible, the butterfly because butterflies are seen as the personification of one's soul, whether clean or unclean, dead or alive, and the single leaf because everyone must fall at some point into ruin and despair and ultimately death.
But of course, he would never tell anyone this, because who in their right mind would take him seriously after sentiments like those?
However, if one took time to ask his least favourite tattoo, he would immediately hold out his left hand, where five small x's are branded along the skin between his thumb and pointer finger. No explanation is given, and he tries not to think about it, unlike with his favourite tattoos.
{history __+
_____Not much is known about his history, other than that he was born to a family (obviously) in Goldenrod of Johto. From bits and pieces discovered over the years, it would seem that the man had two brothers, one elder one younger, and a younger sister, thus making him one of two middle children. Of his parents, nothing is known.
As much as Donovan will tell you is this: he lived in Johto for most of his life, first coming to Soaeniin when he was twenty. He is now twenty-one, and has thus spent one year in the new region. Of his family, he will not say. The most anyone would be able to get about this subject is that they stopped speaking long ago, and if you press further, the man will stop talking all together, and most likely whip out his Pokémon and demand a battle. If you win, maybe he'll tell you something.
If you decided not to press, however, he will go on to tell you that his life was spent in travel and discovery. As much as anyone will believe, he is curious about the workings of Pok?mon, and wonders frequently why some Pokémon evolve, and why others don't, why different types of Pokémon exist, or if there is just one type and many different forms of attack. Intelligence, it would seem, is something he inherited from his mother and/or father.
Known to only a few select people is the fact that Donovan didn't spend his whole life up until the age of twenty in Johto. In fact, at the age of seventeen, he took a ship to the land of Hoenn, where he met a certain young man he chooses not to discuss. This young man was called Sebastian Casey, and it was this man that Donovan still harbors feelings for. These feelings, it would seem, joggle backwards and forwards from anger to love, for it seems that Donovan did indeed have a softened, almost delightful attitude toward Sebastian, which, in his case, could be considered love. However, Donovan's cold exterior stood in the way once more when the two men had a row, complete with physical harm and raised voices and everything. Donovan sharply remembers Sebastian calling him a "fuckhole," and saying that he was leaving, to which the elder man replied, "Alright. See ya." This, to no doubt, only enflamed Sebastian's rage, and the younger male screamed, "You were supposed to try and make me stay!" while slapping Donovan forcefully across the face. Unwilling to have someone-- even his lover --tell him what to do and when, Donovan left. He hasn't seen Sebastian since, and hopes not to in fear that his feelings will be renewed and doubled. Sebastian left to pursue his facade that life is good, since the younger man could never cope with unhappy people like Donovan. The elder man planned to continue his quest to become a gym leader, and hopes fervently that life isn't good in Soaeniin, for that would ultimately lead to the two men crossing paths again, something which Donovan is unwilling to have happen at all costs.
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:
His people were lycanthropes. Werewolves, as most people called them.
They were stories made to scare young children, but... They weren't supposed to be real.
Don Wilson's people were legends, and that was why they hid themselves in the slums of South Carolina, hiding in the shadows and swallowing their pride. They had been run out of Maryland, and New York before that. and Maine even before that. It was time to head South.
In legends, it is said that werewolves are large, hulking monsters. They're said to stand on to legs: a bi-pod. This is more untrue than not. Don Wilson's pack was more lupine than human, really. Larger than the average wolf, and holding the ability to run on two legs, the Long Lake pack was not what legends were made of. They weren't what humans envisioned them as.
They weren't... monsters.
The pack had run for two-score nights and days to get from Maryland to South Carolina. It had been a hard run, but now that they were here it was the good life. For the first year or so, the whole pack had slept in one house, all piled upon one another. Tensions had run high, and it wasn't fun, but gradually the pack got stable jobs and moved out. Finally, the only people left in the original house were the original owners, as it should have been from the beginning.
Don had been one of the last to go. Managing his night-life as a wolf and his day-life as a nearing middle-aged man had always been difficult. The strain of finding a new job in a new town just made it worse.
The man had finally located himself in a bar downtown as the bartender, serving drinks to muscular men and flirting with the dirty dancers.
It wasn't glamorous, and it wasn't fun, but it was enough to bring in some money and pay off the bills for his tiny house on the edge of town. Ah, the town. It was small and large, all at the same time. Near the fringes of the town, you had your houses and apartments and the like. Moving in closer you found large business buildings and shops and monuments and everything you would want.
One of Don's favourite places in town was the wishing well.
The thirty-three year old man could stay there for hours, just sitting on the rim of the fountain and tossing in a penny every once and awhile. Just sitting there, doing nothing. He was content.
It didn't take much to please a lycan.
Now, what was a lycan exactly? A direct quote from wikipedia tells us "A werewolf (also lycanthrope or wolfman) in folklore is a person who shapeshifts into a wolf or wolflike creature, either purposely, by using magic, or after being placed under a curse." In this, they are partly right. Don's pack could most certainly shapeshift into a wolflike creature, though not by magic or a curse.
The pack thought of it as a blessing. Bestowed upon them by the Moon Goddess, they were granted the best of two lives: a life to hunt with the pack, and a life to mingle with homo-sapiens.
But their life was a cursed life. To fall in love with a human was certain death. Many of the pack had been hunted down and killed by humans, because someone found out what they were. The pack had been moved multiple times from such incidents, burned out by fire and driven out by guns. They could never settle in one place long, and they always picked up loners wherever they went. Wolves naturally wanted a pack, and a pack they had.
In popular legend, a werewolf can only be killed by a silver bullet.
This, in short, is complete bullshit. A werewolf isn't invincible. If one of the pack was to fall off a twelve story building, they would die. If their head was hacked off by an ax, they would die. Even if someone just ran them through with a knife, they would die. Fire or ice can do it, too. Though if let live, a lycanthrope would essentially live forever.
Another story proved false is that a werewolf can only change on the full moon. A true member of the pack could change any fuckin' time they wanted to. The pack was very touchy about this fact. Sure, they were forced to meet in secret once a month at the full moon to run with the pack because they had to, but the full moon was the only time they were truly made to change. A lycan could also change part-way if they so desired. Many wolves who fall in love with humans tend to change part-way during lovemaking, as if sharing a part of their secret life with their love, though no wolf can bear or sire children with a human. Cubs are born from two wolf parents. To a human, a werewolf is sterile.
Another fact about werewolves: if they spill blood as a human, you can see the wolf inside of them for just a brief second. Many humans find out about their colleagues or friends in just this fashion. A slip of a knife, or even just a paper-cut, and the werewolf is running through the woods, lavishing in the pure joy of the hunt, the run. A second later and it's gone, but someone usually always sees the glimpse of wildness in their eyes.
Some lycans are more wild than others. Some thrive for the hunt and the kill.
Don... didn't. He lived and thrived for the change and the run, not the hunt. He didn't care to have the hot taste of blood flow into his mouth and around his sharp, canine teeth. He didn't enjoy watching the life drain from the eyes of his victim, and he didn't enjoy watching his pack-brothers and -sisters rip and tear their kill, spilling blood across the soft forest floor. It wasn't something he chose to take part in, though he was forced by pack law to join the hunt, even if he chose not to kill.
Once a month the pack piled into their cars and drove out to the country, the forests, and ran together in the hunt.
It is said that a man or woman can become wolf-kind of bitten. This again is a lie. No human can ever become wolf except by birth. None of the legends will work. Tying wolfskin around your waist, drinking from the paw-print of a werewolf or other wolf-kind... nothing. By birth and by birth alone is the only way to ever be part of the pack. Or any pack, for that matter. There were four packs in the United States of America, and many more in other parts of the world.
Don's pack had run just last night, and he was exhausted. Chasing their quarry through the forest was tiring, and yet he still had to get up to work. All he wanted to do was lay in his small, comfortable bed and sleep for a week.
...he called in sick.
After a hard run with the pack, the young man could be found curled up in a tight ball, sleeping hard, his hands and feet twitching as he chased a rabbit through the forest in his dreams. Finally, after a full twelve hours of sleep, the creature of the night arose. All in all... he didn't look like some evil, man eating, monster wolf. He just kinda looked sleepy, really. The tousled hair, loose pajama pants and lack of shirt just made him look like anybody else who woke up after a long night. That, and the horrible bad breath.
Pushing his long, supple fingers through his hair, Don stared around his tiny house. It was dirty, and could probably stand to be cleaned. He didn't care, however. It's not like anybody but the occasional member of the pack ever stopped in, and even then it was only for a brief span of time. Nobody stuck around Don's place long enough to see the mess.
By pack law, Don was old enough to take a mate. Most female wolves in the area tried to court him, to prove that they could hook the wolf who denied love. He pushed them all away. This wolf would die alone. It wasn't like wolves mated for life. Not werewolves, anyways. The pack leader changed mates every two or three years, depending on how pretty or feisty the new girls coming of age were. "Of age" was seventeen for a female wolf, and nineteen for a male.
By this time, lost in his thoughts, Don was in the shower.
Scrubbing his body with unscented soap, the werewolf took a few extra minutes to wash his short brown hair.
The pack.. it was a very tight, close group. Of course, how could it not be, with the werewolves and lycanthropes of modern age being hunted by humans who come bearing guns and fire? Break the law of the pack and expose yourself, and chances were that the pack leader, the alpha male, would sentence you to death. And then, instead of some criminal bailed out of jail, the pack would hunt you, and you would lose. The pack leader would bind your hands in silver chains, rendering you unable to change, unable to fight back.
You break the pack law and you die.
Don was out of the shower now. His teeth were brushed, and he was dressed in a tight wife-beater tank-top and jeans. Throwing a light jacket over his shoulders, the wolf-man exited his house.
Picking up a light trot, he headed into town, planning to hit his favourite haunts.
First was the hamburger joint some of the pack owned. The delicious scent of cooking meat reached his nose blocks before he got to the store. "Haaay, Tony! Hook me up with somethin' good!" Don called to his pack-brother. Seconds later a wrapped hamburger was tossed into his hands with a shouted "It's on the house, brother!" Don moved on.
His last stop on the list was the wishing well. Truly, the wishing "well" was more of a fountain that people tossed pennies into, with a great stature of an angel at the center and large columns that rose up along the back. This was where Don chose to sit. His back was to the column, and his feet rested on the base of the fountain. Unwrapping his hamburger, the man sighed. What a wonderful day to be alive! The sky was blue, the weather was warm, and he was a happy man.
"What a beautiful day."
Don's voice was midrange for a man's, and a little bit hesitant. Almost like melted chocolate, really, but not that thick. More like a steaming mug of hot cocoa, honestly, with a dash of peppermint and vodka added into the mix. The man grinned, sinking his teeth into his first bite of food that day. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, and it felt good to finally put something in his stomach.
Some called Don a dreamer, but he called himself a revolutionist.
Still grinning happily, he finished off his meal and settled back to relax a bit. Today was just one of those lazy days...
Turning his stormy gray eyes to the sky, Don Wilson took a deep breath. The pack would be in full swing tonight, partying at the local club, which also just happened to be owned by a pack brother. Little did the town know, they were slowly, silently being overrun by the wolf kind. Don grinned, his eyes closing in peaceful bliss. The poor little humans did not know that their lawyers and doctors were living a double-life of the werewolf variety, and that they liked their meat raw and bleeding after a long run through the muddy leaves and branches of the forest.
In a way, Don felt kind of bad for the towns they came to and left. They came, became main members in the community, getting themselves good jobs... and then they just up and left with no fair warning. The towns were left sans doctors and business owners, and then where were they? Stuck in the gutter, that's where they were. They were stuck in the goddamn gutter with week-old rainwater and mangy cats and cur dogs, much like the werewolves themselves had been before.
Don had been there, stuck in the slums of big cities, trying to scrounge a meal from the trash of a restaurant. The whole pack had been there, shooed away by a broom and a forceful hand. All they wanted was to eat!
And yet they couldn't.
Their kind was shoved away by all humans. Feared by all humans. Even the most open-minded human would flee if they saw one of the wolves transform, their jaws elongating, their teeth sharpening... the harsh crack as bone twisted and reshaped itself. And the rustling of fur as it sprouted across their body...
No human could see that and be "open-minded." Any human would flee and call the police.
And then they came with guns to burn them out. It was always the same.
Don sighed, his thoughts being pulled back to reality has a breeze blew by, ruffling his hair. A wind was like a dance, much in the way a hunt was. Both were beautiful. The man's gray eyes looked earthbound again, and closed for a second time. Today was a nice day for a nap, not for these thoughts of murder. They were too good at hiding. But then again... the pack had been here in this sleepy little town for a year and a half now.
How long until someone found out?
--------------------------------------------------
ooc": On another note, I'd like to transfer this character in. Unfortunately, he was never on another site, only in a roleplay. I have the board he's on, though, so if this is possible I can show you. <3
