Post by england on Jun 22, 2010 8:20:09 GMT 2
Character information
Country: The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (that’ll be on the test!)/England
Gender: Male
Starter pokémon: Male Squirtle (Name: Squirtle. Not everyone approves of witty nicknames.)
Appearance:
Arthur Kirkland, head to toe, is not entirely unattractive. He’s of a peculiar shape, that odd shape of a body just out of gangly adolescence but not quite built into the solidity of middle age. It doesn’t help that there have been quite a few times over his long history when he’s had to go without food. Mostly in those important, young, formative years. But he fits his suits – or rather, his suits fit him.
He has sandy blond hair (nowhere near as golden as America’s, and nowhere near as light as the Nordics’) that he keeps in a rather shaggy style, sweeping down over his forehead and the nape of his neck. Shaggy, but not in an unseemly way. His hair is on the finer side, which makes it harder to do anything different with, but easier to manage and keep in gentlemanly order.
His eyes...where to begin with his eyes? Perhaps above them, then, with his definitive gentleman’s eyebrows. Each the size of one of his counties, they’re easily the most distinguishable feature of his face. Situated under them, however, are the second most: his eyes. A vivid green that can flash like acid or reflect the grassy hills of his beautiful land, the colour is fantastic – and only brought out all the more when he takes offense to something and his cheeks colour a deep red.
Personality:
England once ruled so much of the world that his empire was called that which the sun never sets upon. England once ruled the seas with an iron fist, made France and Spain kneel and kiss his boots. He has his pride, of course, which flashes through when he feels as if he is being undermined. Which, nowadays, seems to be a vast majority of the time. He drinks like a pirate still (or perhaps a fish). But unlike the past, when burning rum brought out a vicious bloodlust that made his eyes flash and his face split into a toothy grin, the bitter tang of whiskey brings out a softer, sadder, more despondent and negative side to his personality. He sometimes cries (but only when he thinks of America’s ungratefulness).
At the same time, England is sensitive and a bit of a romantic, deep down, but like a hedgehog you have todunk him in water get past the prickly part if you want him to share that part with you. He’s generally a bit pessimistic (it’s all that London smog clouding his disposition), and even after he trusts you it seems like he’s just waiting for you to screw up somehow. This is particularly true of people who abused him when he was small and helpless (Denmark, France...*glare*) and who he’s beaten into submission now.
He’s...not exactly a typical tsundere type. He has a temper, and he’s prickly and brusque, and he can seem grudgingly kind, and he does tend to try to hide his own feelings. A lot. But his dere isn’t girly. His “Dere” is a calm, reserved gentleman, with almost Edwardian manners and a politeness that’s about as delicate as an eggshell. He pretends to be a prude, but he’s got a few surprises up his sleeve. And he is definitely not a weepy little UKe. To anyone. Anyone.
Thrust into a world with small companion monsters and provided with means to capture and train them, ripped from his land and rendered, essentially, a human with a Nation’s name, there will be more human aspects to his personality that will spring free. In this almost survivalist scenario, his pragmatic side will win out over all. He has no desire to go about capturing each and every “Pokémon” in the world. He’s profoundly uninterested in most, actually. But some do pique his interest: the Legendaries. Some people don’t even believe that they exist, as there’s only one of each. Naturally, England wants to find them – if only to see them, never to capture. If he decides to take the gym challenge, it will only be as a way to become stronger, to obtain a fraction of the strength that he had as a Nation. Expect him to have a well thought out, well-balanced team of intensely strong Pokémon, but not more than he can carry with him at once.
~~~~~~~
OOC information
Name: Ri
Age: 19
Time zone: EST
~~~~~~~
Sample Post
England awoke next to a small lake. He felt lighter, but his head throbbed and his entire body reeled, as though the lightness that he felt was from having a ten-ton stone lifted off of him. It took his mind a minute, trapped pounding for escape from the inside of his skull, to realise what had happened. And only then, it was because he pushed himself upright, discovered a bruise on his left knee, and had no idea where, or what, had happened.
He had no land connected to his body. He had been cut off from his green hills, his rivers, his little piece of his island. All of it was gone. Gone. He...wasn’t England anymore. He wasn’t anything. So what kind of anyone did that leave? Over a thousand years, and he had always been defined as England. Over a thousand years, and – for a split second, England was terrified that those thousand years were going to crash into him, render him ancient and decrepit and dead.
Hands trembling with pain and exhaustion and adrenaline touched his face, pressed into cheeks rounded with the elasticity of youth, and when wrinkles (and death) didn’t suddenly fall upon him, he breathed a sigh of relief. He curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and trying to shut out this new and scary world where he had no idea where he was or what he was or who he was.
A three-fingered, blue little hand, cold-blooded and smooth to the touch, reached out and touched his arm. He looked up, and his eyes widened and he fell back in surprise at the little creature looking back at him. It was like a turtle, but half a metre high, with a blue body and a friendly smile that lit up its orchid-coloured eyes.
“What on earth—” England started, releasing his knees and, letting his curiosity take the better of him, reaching out to see if the turtle would let him touch it.
“Squirtle?” the creature inquired, and stepped closer. England’s fingers found the shell, which was actually almost soft and spongy to the touch.
“Come again?” England asked, fingers dancing along the smooth, cool, wet skin of the creature itself.
“Squii!” it squealed, and then shrank back into its shell. England picked up the shell and peered inside, meeting those orchid eyes.
“Come on out, little one,” he coaxed. “I don’t know what you are, but I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Squirt…le?” The head poked out first.
“Is that your name, then?” England asked. “’Squirtle’?” It grinned at him again, and then pursed its lips and blew a few bubbles. They popped like faerie kisses all over England’s face. He smiled, despite himself. “Were I more prone to cliché, I would remark that this could be the beginning of some beautiful friendship,” he mused. “But as it stands, I’ll leave that for you to decide. Though I have the feeling that I’ll need as many friends as I can get now.” He sat the little turtle down on the ground, and got to his feet. It peeped out of its shell and looked up at him curiously.
“Squirtle!” it exclaimed.
“I suppose I ought to go find the others and see what’s become of them. Come along, little one, if you’d like.” The Squirtle (or whatever it was) grinned widely, and fell into confident step behind him.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late for an old sea dog like England to learn a few new tricks.
Country: The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (that’ll be on the test!)/England
Gender: Male
Starter pokémon: Male Squirtle (Name: Squirtle. Not everyone approves of witty nicknames.)
Appearance:
Arthur Kirkland, head to toe, is not entirely unattractive. He’s of a peculiar shape, that odd shape of a body just out of gangly adolescence but not quite built into the solidity of middle age. It doesn’t help that there have been quite a few times over his long history when he’s had to go without food. Mostly in those important, young, formative years. But he fits his suits – or rather, his suits fit him.
He has sandy blond hair (nowhere near as golden as America’s, and nowhere near as light as the Nordics’) that he keeps in a rather shaggy style, sweeping down over his forehead and the nape of his neck. Shaggy, but not in an unseemly way. His hair is on the finer side, which makes it harder to do anything different with, but easier to manage and keep in gentlemanly order.
His eyes...where to begin with his eyes? Perhaps above them, then, with his definitive gentleman’s eyebrows. Each the size of one of his counties, they’re easily the most distinguishable feature of his face. Situated under them, however, are the second most: his eyes. A vivid green that can flash like acid or reflect the grassy hills of his beautiful land, the colour is fantastic – and only brought out all the more when he takes offense to something and his cheeks colour a deep red.
Personality:
England once ruled so much of the world that his empire was called that which the sun never sets upon. England once ruled the seas with an iron fist, made France and Spain kneel and kiss his boots. He has his pride, of course, which flashes through when he feels as if he is being undermined. Which, nowadays, seems to be a vast majority of the time. He drinks like a pirate still (or perhaps a fish). But unlike the past, when burning rum brought out a vicious bloodlust that made his eyes flash and his face split into a toothy grin, the bitter tang of whiskey brings out a softer, sadder, more despondent and negative side to his personality. He sometimes cries (but only when he thinks of America’s ungratefulness).
At the same time, England is sensitive and a bit of a romantic, deep down, but like a hedgehog you have to
He’s...not exactly a typical tsundere type. He has a temper, and he’s prickly and brusque, and he can seem grudgingly kind, and he does tend to try to hide his own feelings. A lot. But his dere isn’t girly. His “Dere” is a calm, reserved gentleman, with almost Edwardian manners and a politeness that’s about as delicate as an eggshell. He pretends to be a prude, but he’s got a few surprises up his sleeve. And he is definitely not a weepy little UKe. To anyone. Anyone.
Thrust into a world with small companion monsters and provided with means to capture and train them, ripped from his land and rendered, essentially, a human with a Nation’s name, there will be more human aspects to his personality that will spring free. In this almost survivalist scenario, his pragmatic side will win out over all. He has no desire to go about capturing each and every “Pokémon” in the world. He’s profoundly uninterested in most, actually. But some do pique his interest: the Legendaries. Some people don’t even believe that they exist, as there’s only one of each. Naturally, England wants to find them – if only to see them, never to capture. If he decides to take the gym challenge, it will only be as a way to become stronger, to obtain a fraction of the strength that he had as a Nation. Expect him to have a well thought out, well-balanced team of intensely strong Pokémon, but not more than he can carry with him at once.
~~~~~~~
OOC information
Name: Ri
Age: 19
Time zone: EST
~~~~~~~
Sample Post
England awoke next to a small lake. He felt lighter, but his head throbbed and his entire body reeled, as though the lightness that he felt was from having a ten-ton stone lifted off of him. It took his mind a minute, trapped pounding for escape from the inside of his skull, to realise what had happened. And only then, it was because he pushed himself upright, discovered a bruise on his left knee, and had no idea where, or what, had happened.
He had no land connected to his body. He had been cut off from his green hills, his rivers, his little piece of his island. All of it was gone. Gone. He...wasn’t England anymore. He wasn’t anything. So what kind of anyone did that leave? Over a thousand years, and he had always been defined as England. Over a thousand years, and – for a split second, England was terrified that those thousand years were going to crash into him, render him ancient and decrepit and dead.
Hands trembling with pain and exhaustion and adrenaline touched his face, pressed into cheeks rounded with the elasticity of youth, and when wrinkles (and death) didn’t suddenly fall upon him, he breathed a sigh of relief. He curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and trying to shut out this new and scary world where he had no idea where he was or what he was or who he was.
A three-fingered, blue little hand, cold-blooded and smooth to the touch, reached out and touched his arm. He looked up, and his eyes widened and he fell back in surprise at the little creature looking back at him. It was like a turtle, but half a metre high, with a blue body and a friendly smile that lit up its orchid-coloured eyes.
“What on earth—” England started, releasing his knees and, letting his curiosity take the better of him, reaching out to see if the turtle would let him touch it.
“Squirtle?” the creature inquired, and stepped closer. England’s fingers found the shell, which was actually almost soft and spongy to the touch.
“Come again?” England asked, fingers dancing along the smooth, cool, wet skin of the creature itself.
“Squii!” it squealed, and then shrank back into its shell. England picked up the shell and peered inside, meeting those orchid eyes.
“Come on out, little one,” he coaxed. “I don’t know what you are, but I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Squirt…le?” The head poked out first.
“Is that your name, then?” England asked. “’Squirtle’?” It grinned at him again, and then pursed its lips and blew a few bubbles. They popped like faerie kisses all over England’s face. He smiled, despite himself. “Were I more prone to cliché, I would remark that this could be the beginning of some beautiful friendship,” he mused. “But as it stands, I’ll leave that for you to decide. Though I have the feeling that I’ll need as many friends as I can get now.” He sat the little turtle down on the ground, and got to his feet. It peeped out of its shell and looked up at him curiously.
“Squirtle!” it exclaimed.
“I suppose I ought to go find the others and see what’s become of them. Come along, little one, if you’d like.” The Squirtle (or whatever it was) grinned widely, and fell into confident step behind him.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late for an old sea dog like England to learn a few new tricks.