Post by silas on Nov 10, 2014 8:36:37 GMT
Opening file...
▶ BASIC INFORMATION.
Positive Traits:
Negative Traits:
Likes:
Dislikes:
▶ silas, kopec
▶ NAME:
silas peyton fenwick
▶ AGE:
twenty-five
▶ GENDER:
male
▶ HOMETOWN:
KALOS, cyllage city.
▶ AFFILIATION:
kopec
▶ JOB/OCCUPATION:
author, experimental fiction writer
▶ IN-DEPTH INFORMATION.
▶ PERSONALITY:
Positive Traits:
- Perceptive
- Intelligent
- Loyal
- Creative
- Levelheaded
Negative Traits:
- Reclusive
- Apathetic
- Dishonest
- Tactless
- Unsettling
Likes:
- Writing
- Being alone
- Ghost-type pokemon
- Being in and around water
- Night-time
Dislikes:
- Noisy people
- Social norms
- Cities
- Attention
- Warm climates
▶ HISTORY:
One murky night long before the war, a cyclist of Cyllage City spotted, upon the beach, the soaked and wretched form of a ten-year-old boy, the waves falling just shy of his feet. Taken in and given food and a warm blanket at the Pokemon Center, the boy would confess only a name: Silas Fenwick. Blaming trauma for sealing his lips, the authorities went to search for the boy's parents, assuming a larger lineage of Fenwicks to be behind the name. Meticulously tracked down and phoned and interrogated, however, all available Fenwicks, Fentons, and Fennels denied knowing the boy - and surely they would know, for they did not have so many close relatives as to start losing track. Unable to pry more identifying information from the strange boy, the Cyllage City authorities had no choice but to place him in foster care.
Certainly a child as cute as Silas Fenwick, and with such an exciting and curious past, would be quick to find a permanent family, a new and logical last name with a proper constellation of attached relatives. Yet time and time again, something about the fixedness of his gaze or his unconventional choice of words gave young Silas, quiet but benevolent in demeanor, a knack for disquieting. This child without a past, puked into being by an ill sea, was more suited for a ghost story than for cheerful domesticity.
Bereft of most interpersonal ties, Silas drifted mostly unperturbed through adolescence, finding his solace first in swimming - for he was nothing if not doting towards his mother, the sea - and, later, in words. He participated dutifully in his literature classes (though the teachers often found themselves hesitant to acknowledge his raised hand), and tore holes through the thin pages of his thrift shop salvaged dictionary with the vigor of his annotations. "Inchoate," "benthic," and "susurrus" were his teenage romances, their names scrawled in glossy ink on index cards and tattered college-rule sheets and slathered onto his bedroom walls in lieu of images of busty actresses or simpering boy bands.
This affection for language almost compensated for the alien tone of his college application essays, and, a scholarship student, he found himself studying creative writing at the Lumiose Academy for the Arts, an institution of former prestige whose name now elicited little more than raised eyebrows. His professors - though still reluctant to meet his eye - were intrigued by his unusual writing, and even some fellow students came to appreciate his company. It was here that Silas, at long last, flourished. By the time of his graduation, he had even produced a single slender book, a volume of vivid and fragmented short stories intermixed with pages of cryptic linguistic bricolage that could be considered poetry.
Much to his dismay, the book - Hands on Bloodless Throat - was not only read but, in some cases, written about. Silas Fenwick, the only thing he had brought with him into this life, became a name to toss around (albeit mostly followed by a snooty "you've probably never heard of him") in certain cafes and museums.
As tensions became riots became wars, Silas retreated from Lumiose -which he had hated anyway, the way he hated the cold technology and sensory overload of every city - into a small apartment in Vaniville Town. His reputation, however, was not so polite as to follow his example. A small group of scholars debated the political affiliations coded into those unsettling and shattered constellations of words, whether bright young talent Silas Peyton Fenwick would fall among the old guard of Zemina or the ranks of Boure.
Devising a way to make complete neutrality possible proved fruitless when, to Silas' dismay, one of his friends - who in their scarcity were all the more valuable to him - brought up the issue of Kopec. Those beautiful words of his could be put to a better purpose, the friend had cried, one that promotes an end to all this chaos - just what you want! Discussions festered into arguments, soft-voiced statements soured into shouts and screams, but Silas had never been one to stand up for too long to a friend. His pen was now a political weapon, to be used for the Kopec cause. He demanded an alias, to shield himself from publicity - as if the distinctive writing style behind 'Nereus' would not be pinned to him while its ink was still wet from the press. His new identity had grown from the name that had drifted onto the shore fourteen years ago; now, it would even be political.
tl;dr: kid washed up on beach at cyllage city, wouldn't say where he came from, spent time in foster care, got into writing, went to college, became writer of weird, creepy books. got mild praise, tried to hide from the war, but got coerced into doing kopec propaganda.
Certainly a child as cute as Silas Fenwick, and with such an exciting and curious past, would be quick to find a permanent family, a new and logical last name with a proper constellation of attached relatives. Yet time and time again, something about the fixedness of his gaze or his unconventional choice of words gave young Silas, quiet but benevolent in demeanor, a knack for disquieting. This child without a past, puked into being by an ill sea, was more suited for a ghost story than for cheerful domesticity.
Bereft of most interpersonal ties, Silas drifted mostly unperturbed through adolescence, finding his solace first in swimming - for he was nothing if not doting towards his mother, the sea - and, later, in words. He participated dutifully in his literature classes (though the teachers often found themselves hesitant to acknowledge his raised hand), and tore holes through the thin pages of his thrift shop salvaged dictionary with the vigor of his annotations. "Inchoate," "benthic," and "susurrus" were his teenage romances, their names scrawled in glossy ink on index cards and tattered college-rule sheets and slathered onto his bedroom walls in lieu of images of busty actresses or simpering boy bands.
This affection for language almost compensated for the alien tone of his college application essays, and, a scholarship student, he found himself studying creative writing at the Lumiose Academy for the Arts, an institution of former prestige whose name now elicited little more than raised eyebrows. His professors - though still reluctant to meet his eye - were intrigued by his unusual writing, and even some fellow students came to appreciate his company. It was here that Silas, at long last, flourished. By the time of his graduation, he had even produced a single slender book, a volume of vivid and fragmented short stories intermixed with pages of cryptic linguistic bricolage that could be considered poetry.
Much to his dismay, the book - Hands on Bloodless Throat - was not only read but, in some cases, written about. Silas Fenwick, the only thing he had brought with him into this life, became a name to toss around (albeit mostly followed by a snooty "you've probably never heard of him") in certain cafes and museums.
As tensions became riots became wars, Silas retreated from Lumiose -which he had hated anyway, the way he hated the cold technology and sensory overload of every city - into a small apartment in Vaniville Town. His reputation, however, was not so polite as to follow his example. A small group of scholars debated the political affiliations coded into those unsettling and shattered constellations of words, whether bright young talent Silas Peyton Fenwick would fall among the old guard of Zemina or the ranks of Boure.
Devising a way to make complete neutrality possible proved fruitless when, to Silas' dismay, one of his friends - who in their scarcity were all the more valuable to him - brought up the issue of Kopec. Those beautiful words of his could be put to a better purpose, the friend had cried, one that promotes an end to all this chaos - just what you want! Discussions festered into arguments, soft-voiced statements soured into shouts and screams, but Silas had never been one to stand up for too long to a friend. His pen was now a political weapon, to be used for the Kopec cause. He demanded an alias, to shield himself from publicity - as if the distinctive writing style behind 'Nereus' would not be pinned to him while its ink was still wet from the press. His new identity had grown from the name that had drifted onto the shore fourteen years ago; now, it would even be political.
tl;dr: kid washed up on beach at cyllage city, wouldn't say where he came from, spent time in foster care, got into writing, went to college, became writer of weird, creepy books. got mild praise, tried to hide from the war, but got coerced into doing kopec propaganda.
▶ KNOWN POKEMON:
characters are allowed eight pokemon - six in their team, two in the pc - with four moves, one of which may be a tm/hm/tutor/egg move. three of the eight pokemon may be rares.
 borges. ♂. prankster.
|  danielewski. ♀. flash fire.
|
 nabokov. ♀. infiltrator.
|  eliot. ♂. aftermath.
|
 joyce. ♂. levitate.
|  kafka. ♀. poison point.
|
 calvino. wonder guard.
|  burroughs. levitate.
|
▶ WRITER INFORMATION.
▶ PLAYER:
banter, or EE
▶ EXPERIENCE:
too much. nine years. including original PRE.
▶ CHARACTERS:
nobody yet
▶ FACE CLAIM:
GUY CECIL from TALES OF THE ABYSS
NETTE OF IS
