Hopping back here just to give a proper notice and all that.
Alongside having gotten into a stable relationship, taking my art more seriously and getting into art school come August I haven’t really felt the inspiration to come back on here to write. I’ve gone through mental health aid for the first time last year since I was a teenager due to my engagement on here, something I have thankfully worked through a year later, and the desire to engage with roleplay has diminished greatly because of that. Not even to mention the time I feel I have in the day doesn’t exactly cater to it anymore.
I still love to write, I still have so many ideas for Damian and Hikari but I think I’ve ended up moving past the fandom and would rather focus on developing a personal story for the two in a different format. If that will happen now or in the future, I don’t know. But authorship has always been an aspiration of mine and hopefully that can come true one day. I finally feel like I at least have the bare bones of a story in mind now thanks to roleplaying these two for like four years.
All this is a bit of a ramble to say... Hey, it was alright while it lasted and while the itch to get back on here does tickle me sometimes, especially for the threads I had going on here and the stories left untold, I can’t really see myself roleplay again in the near future. So this blog will be put on a permanent hiatus or just... Well, it will be nothing more than my own little archive to look back at once I decide to actually write for myself again. To those who I kept around for this account - you are great and I hope y’all have a good summer! You made writing fun again and I hope to be able to enjoy it on my own soon. See you when I see you c:
Perhaps Damian has a bit of a unique experience when it comes to Charon. First, and perhaps foremost, he and the estranged scientist are related by blood. Something Damian had been made aware of in his youth through that of his 2nd cousin’s publically broadcasted ostracization and followed sentencing. The man had cursed and howled until his face had turned blue live on television, denying any wrongdoing despite admitting to conducting unlawful and unethical experiments on live animals for years. Something he’d deemed a great step forwards for science, and that the public were but sheep who did not yet see the potential within these ancient, powerful beasts.
His first impression of Charon was therefore perhaps not shown in the most charitable of lights – but it was also not something that he kept in mind as his own life moved on. After all, what was the difference between a cousin he’d never met and a stranger on the street?
It wasn’t until his own aspirations grew beyond the law that he was reminded of his distant relative.
Damian personally sought out Charon for his expertise and relied heavily on the senior’s expertise and hunger for knowledge to achieve his own goals. No matter how immoral, Charon simply wished to test the limits of the world as they knew it and if it was to further his young cousins delusions or not didn’t truly matter. Damian was simply pleased that it was an effort which bore fruit.
What he personally thinks of the old man, however… Well, it’s complicated. It’s no secret to anyone that’s met him that Charon is an unusually unpleasant person to be around. He’s vulgar, deranged and demeaning – especially if you’re a woman or girl. There are few in the world of which Charon cherishes, if even such a list exists. Though Damian didn’t spent a lot of time with the scientist, he knew more than perhaps most. Charon’s background, the life of which he could’ve led had it not been for the loss of his entire family – mother, father and little sister all at once. A child abused through the foster system, cast to fend for himself at the earliest opportunity… He wouldn’t ever excuse his cousins foul ways – despite making use of his experiments, Damian never found enjoyment in harming living creatures. Not like how Charon seemed to glee at the opportunity of hearing their agonizing cries.
But, he could understand that his cousin was molded by the life that he led. The situations of which he found himself within and the way of which the systems in place failed him. And it was but one other motivator in his ultimate goal – to assure that people like Charon no longer would have to exist.
@unchcsen writes: What is the character’s go-to drink order? (this one gets into how do they like to be publicly perceived, because there is always some level of theatricality to ordering drinks at a bar/restaurant)
Damian isn’t much of a drinker, but in his earlier years it was a decent part of his overall ’duties’.
The expectation to share a drink with potential clients.
Shareholders, investors, bankers or those fortunate enough to toss money wherever they pleased… Often these were older men thwarted to be meeting with a young whelp rather than the head of the company himself. A pup who was barely older than their own and with this often came the amusement of offering him more to drink than was perhaps standard. Power play, one of which Damian (or Cyrus, as was his name during these days) caught on to fairly quickly. A test to see his resolve, his priorities and everything in-between.
He tried to not disappoint.
As a rule, rarely did he drink more than his clients themselves did and more often than not - he drank what they offered. A short glass of scotch, a simple can of beer… His own preferred choice, when left on his own or when he was the one to host, was that of a small shot of pure, Sinnohan vodka. Nothing more, nothing less.
As he’s gotten older, Damian’s still rarely drinks. Though he does fancied himself a glass of wine during dinner on some weekends or a shot of vodka before bedtime - especially the older he gets. It keeps him in a ‘routine’, stable – or so he claims. “It helps me sleep better,” he’d say, and leave it at that.
He’s only gotten drunk an odd few times in his life.
So my problem with most ‘get to know your character’ questioneers is that they’re full of questions that just aren’t that important (what color eyes do they have) too hard to answer right away (what is their greatest fear) or are just impossible to answer (what is their favorite movie.) Like no one has one single favorite movie. And even if they do the answer changes.
If I’m doing this exercise, I want 7-10 questions to get the character feeling real in my head. So I thought I’d share the ones that get me (and my students) good results:
What is the character’s go-to drink order? (this one gets into how do they like to be publicly perceived, because there is always some level of theatricality to ordering drinks at a bar/resturant)
What is their grooming routine? (how do they treat themselves in private)
What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go? (Gets you thinking about socio-economic class, values, and how they spend their leisure time)
Do they have any scars or tattoos? (good way to get into literal backstory)
What was the last time they cried, and under what circumstances? (Good way to get some *emotional* backstory in.)
Are they an oldest, middle, youngest or only child? (This one might be a me thing, because I LOVE writing/reading about family dynamics, but knowing what kinds of things were ‘normal’ for them growing up is important.)
Describe the shoes they’re wearing. (This is a big catch all, gets into money, taste, practicality, level of wear, level of repair, literally what kind of shoes they require to live their life.)
Describe the place where they sleep. (ie what does their safe space look like. How much (or how little) care / decoration / personal touch goes into it.)
What is their favorite holiday? (How do they relate to their culture/outside world. Also fun is least favorite holiday.)
What objects do they always carry around with them? (What do they need for their normal, day-to-day routine? What does ‘normal’ even look like for them.)
In an ideal world, he wouldn’t even have to be here. In an ideal world, he could simply leave her to own devices, and he could keep to the world of violence that he belongs to. A man revered by a clan of rough, bloodthirsty men who place their pride over safety — and a woman who wants nothing to do with such a life. There is little in common between them, truly — little reason for Gavner to ever step foot within her sanctuary away from the world’s harshness.
( And in this bleak reality, he has come here guilty. )
The doorway supports the General’s heavy body, a clawed hand gripping the frame near his waist, his breaths falling from his chest harsher than usual. His fingers hold tight, and the sole of his shoe scrapes across the floor to press against the far side of the entryway.
( He’s just a bit nauseous, a bit lightheaded, a bit out of breath from flitting here. He’ll be fine, just give him a few minutes. )
He swallows, clears his throat, turns his head towards the opposite side of the frame he’s braced himself within, eyes trained on the corner above his head. A babe, he’s called. A babe. He’s far from an inexperienced little fledgling, Celine.
“You know, this babe’s been a General for the better half of a decade,” come the first words out of his mouth, adorned with that far-too-confident, almost unsettling grin of his as he flashes a brief glance in her direction.
“Now — I’m not here for anything to do with the clan,” and he’s completely dodging the first comment made towards him — sorry, Celine. He swears he wasn’t creeping, though! “Not here to check on you, or… micromanage you, nothing like that.” It’s almost a reassurance, a disclaimer, that you don’t have to drop everything right now. “But, to get straight to the point…” He clears his throat again, allows his eyes to wander around the room, up to the ceiling, as if he’s avoiding something.
( And he thinks of the little body so many miles away, within a grimy motel room, sleeping soundly with nothing but a duvet and a shaky lock to hide her away from the world’s dangers. He thinks of how quickly he’d rushed here, how he truly doesn’t want to leave her alone for a moment longer, how he can feel the room key weighing heavy in the pocket of his jeans. )
While he would love to make small-talk, he doesn’t have the time.
“I’m here about a…” Gavner’s brows furrowed in a moment of thought, how should he word this… “…personal matter.”
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A slight twitch to her thin lips was all the acknowledgement that Celine gave to Gavner’s cheeky response; half a decade, a couple of weeks… She hardly kept count of the clan’s imaginary titles or who earned themselves what. It was but a game for boys who never grew into men, a way to feel important when all you did was lodge around in a rotten mountain. She hadn’t known, regardless, that Gavner had taken to playing.
It isn’t what catches her interest, though. What does is his disheveled look. The craze in his eyes – she knew the men of the clan were as sophisticated as animals but Gavner, if she recalled, had grown up amongst humans not too many years ago. He was one of the few whom she’d gotten written orders from when trusted envoys were unavailable – a feat in and of itself given that more than half the clan was illiterate. No, this was more than the chance appearance of a ruffian whelp.
Her thin fingers grasp upon her lengthy wear as she stepped ever closer to the stray, an intense look to her pale blue eyes. She knew her girls were beginning to grow curious, there out in the fields and she could sense Mathilda’s gaze beyond the tall stained glass. She’d rather not have the man linger for longer than need be.
She laid a palm upon his broad shoulder and ushered him with the other. “… You best be honest and not play tricks, Mr. Purl. I’m not kind to those who waste my time.”
Rarely did anyone come to see her for matters not related to the clan’s rules. When she’d been given the proposition of ‘personal matters’ in the past it had inevitably come with request for mating – they truly were a fraternity of mutts – or favors which caused her stomach to roll.
Their footsteps echoed within the stone sanctuary. They bypassed the basin (though she ushered her company to wash his hands, she’d rather he not grime up the place) and turned left to where an old wooden door stood ajar. Beyond, a room opened up – a study hall which housed rows of bookcases, a couple of tables and chairs as well as a single, tall window looking out into the deep woods.
She stayed clear of the sunray beaming through.
“Now, the fact that you’re coming to me, of all people, for your ‘personal matters’ is disturbing enough. But I will offer you my ear.”
She leant her hip upon the edge of a table, her arms folding below her bust.
“If it’s feed that you desperately seek, then look elsewhere. General though you may be, these are not your lands nor are my girls your prey. Otherwise… Speak.”
Autumn had sprung upon Johto but a few weeks prior, replacing the relentless heat of summer for that of much colder and darker nights. Though it was nothing compared to the long winters found within Sinnoh – fall being perhaps nonexistent in the northern region, lost beneath winter’s snow long before the last verdures upon the trees had taken their leave – it was still a change grand enough for Damian to notice. The scar tissue of his left arm had caused him great pains one morning after he’d left the sliding door to his sleeping quarters ajar to allow his hound access to the yard; something he’d done many times before, but had ceased since.
However, Sinnohan blood ran through his veins nonetheless and much more would’ve been needed than a little bit of frost to deter him of his time spent outdoors. Geared with sweaters (the arm of his left side tied in a knot to assure the leftover fabric would not be a bother) Damian had continued his routines. Notably, during the morning, he’d seat himself outside upon the decking which spanned the broader perimeter of The Domen Minshuku. Houndoom, dutifully guarding at his side.
Sundays were his quiet days at the inn. Though a part of the family establishment’s staff, Sundays were his one assigned day of rest where he could do as he pleased; a day of which most often involved his obligations to the state in so far as documenting his ‘rehabilitation’ went. By noon he had to attend therapy where he did little else than recount his youth – normal, yet atypical all the same – as well as meetings with a representative of Sinnoh’s legal governing body to document his return into normal society. All rather simple tasks given the scale of his accused crimes… He wouldn’t complain, not truly, had it not been for one minor detail.
Due to his disability, he could not submit his own report.
Throughout his schooling, Damian had learned the language of runes. Simplistic letters whose only mark left within the world could be found etched upon old wood and stone. He’d studied Sinnohan, his mother tongue, alongside the dialects of Kanto and Johto and could converse, as well as write, in all of them. As he’d grown, he’d taken it upon himself to learn the languages of Unova, Hoenn and Kalos – to differing states of fluency, of course, yet at the age of 31… He could write no better than a 4 year old in any of them.
The lead tip of his pencil broke, leaving behind dark spot of smudges, streaks and defeat.
Frustrated, the staggered scribbles he’d managed to pen upon the lined paper stared back at him in the most mocking of manners. Damian wouldn’t ever have seen himself as high class, far from it, but he hadn’t been foolish enough to think he hadn’t held status many would’ve killed for in his early years. The son and heir to a lucrative corporation nesting within, as well as outside, Sinnoh’s vast boarders – he had to ask for nothing in so far as material goods were concerned. But with status, an ego easily forms.
The fine lined paper got ripped from its bindings, crumpled, and then tossed to the boards below. TO dance in the gentle autumn gusts until he felt enough was enough.
He began anew.
N̸e̶c̶h̷a̶y̵e̴v̸ ̷D̷a̸m̸i̵a̴n̸ ̵N̷o̷v̷e̴l̶o̴v̷i̸c̶h̷
N̸e̶c̶h̷a̶y̵e̴v̸ ̷ Nech̷a̶y̵e̴v N̸ e̶ c̶ h̷ a̶ y e v
D̷a̵m̴i̵a̴n̶ ̵N̷o̶v̵e̵l̵o̵v̴i̸c̴h̵ D̷amia̴n̶ ̵N̷o̶v̵e̵l̵o̵v̴ich̵
Frustration crawled up his spine, alongside the subtle sound of footsteps traveling down the inns vast decking. Guests were beginning to rise, it seemed, and Houndoom’s large head left his masters folded lap.
What he saw, his owner did not – but it mattered not.
Damian’s brows knit.
D̶a̸m̶i̶a̷n̵. D a m̶ i̶ a̷ n̵
Houndoom rose to be seated – as tall as Damian, now, and alert to the unprompted visitor. A simmer, deep within his breast and haze expelled from his muzzled maw.
For his last attempt, Damian wrote:
Celestic town. A settlement nestled against Sinnoh’s vast mountain range that separated the region – as well as people – in two. Fauve grew up with her father living on the other side of Mt. Coronet, a miner like so many other men. He worked tirelessly for the sake of his family, even though he couldn’t be them near, and whenever she got to see him; it was only for a short time, until the mines were ready again.
She was the sole daughter of a family that worked, and hoped, for more.
On the southern coast, a boy was raised by both mother, father and silver spoon. Noboru Akagi knew from a young age that he was meant for something greater – that in a name, there was power, and that his held much. The opportunities set before him were as rich and vast as the shores of his home metropolis; even beyond, should he be clever enough to see them.
But with opportunities, expectations follow. A weight too heavy for a young boy to bear alone.
They were two people who couldn’t have begun life any more differently, yet they would come together by chance and cause a ripple effect of adoration. But, as they would learn; ripples disappear and fade. Leaving nothing behind but cold, quiet waters.
Perhaps Damian has a bit of a unique experience when it comes to Charon. First, and perhaps foremost, he and the estranged scientist are related by blood. Something Damian had been made aware of in his youth through that of his 2nd cousin’s publically broadcasted ostracization and followed sentencing. The man had cursed and howled until his face had turned blue live on television, denying any wrongdoing despite admitting to conducting unlawful and unethical experiments on live animals for years. Something he’d deemed a great step forwards for science, and that the public were but sheep who did not yet see the potential within these ancient, powerful beasts.
His first impression of Charon was therefore perhaps not shown in the most charitable of lights – but it was also not something that he kept in mind as his own life moved on. After all, what was the difference between a cousin he’d never met and a stranger on the street?
It wasn’t until his own aspirations grew beyond the law that he was reminded of his distant relative.
Damian personally sought out Charon for his expertise and relied heavily on the senior’s expertise and hunger for knowledge to achieve his own goals. No matter how immoral, Charon simply wished to test the limits of the world as they knew it and if it was to further his young cousins delusions or not didn’t truly matter. Damian was simply pleased that it was an effort which bore fruit.
What he personally thinks of the old man, however… Well, it’s complicated. It’s no secret to anyone that’s met him that Charon is an unusually unpleasant person to be around. He’s vulgar, deranged and demeaning – especially if you’re a woman or girl. There are few in the world of which Charon cherishes, if even such a list exists. Though Damian didn’t spent a lot of time with the scientist, he knew more than perhaps most. Charon’s background, the life of which he could’ve led had it not been for the loss of his entire family – mother, father and little sister all at once. A child abused through the foster system, cast to fend for himself at the earliest opportunity… He wouldn’t ever excuse his cousins foul ways – despite making use of his experiments, Damian never found enjoyment in harming living creatures. Not like how Charon seemed to glee at the opportunity of hearing their agonizing cries.
But, he could understand that his cousin was molded by the life that he led. The situations of which he found himself within and the way of which the systems in place failed him. And it was but one other motivator in his ultimate goal – to assure that people like Charon no longer would have to exist.
Johanna could still remember how heavy the receiver had felt, the night that she’d gotten the call. The sun had already set, winters dark cast upon the region despite the fact that October had just begun. She’d arrived home from sharing a cup of coffee with a neighbor couple, a young man and his sweetheart who were expecting their first child come spring. She hadn’t even taken off her coat.
“Ma’am, we’ve got a young girl here at the station.”
The constable’s gruff voice had sounded distorted through the telephone line. Or perhaps it had been caused by the ringing in her ears.
“She says her name is Hikari Meloryevna Nakamura. Your daughter.”
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Johanna’s fingers weaved through her Hikari’s locks to rid them of grime and oil. She filled a small plastic tub with water from the shallow bath that they had drawn, framed her daughter’s hairline with her palm and then rinsed her hair twice before deeming that all the soap had gone.
If she was to be honest with herself, Johanna had thought it all to have been a sick joke. The call on that dark October night. Her hands had shook so terribly that short drive to the station that she’d feared veering off the road. She’d even almost talked herself out of seeing the girl who’d claimed her daughters identity, berating herself for still holding on to hope. After all, Hikari had been declared missing, then dead, three years prior. She’d already held the funeral.
“Hold your hair for me, sweet thing. There you go. Careful now.”
She’d thanked the Gods, old, just as well as new, when she’d held her little girl within her arms that night. Malnourished and frail, sickly in all the ways that one could be – but alive. With a beating heart and smile of which Johanna, to her despair, had thought she’d never get to see again.
Warm water poured down Hikari’s back. Over her shoulders, narrow and bony and blemished by awful bruises that never seemed to fade; down between her shoulder blades and spine, both of which stuck out under her skin. Like mountains and valleys, rolling hills and fields. Johanna took a wet rag and gently began to scrub.
Hikari sobbed.
“You know,” the mother soothed – once a girlchild herself who had had to grow up far too soon. “While you were in my belly, I used to bathe your father. Just like I bathe you now.” Johanna rinsed the rag, ushering her daughter to turn around and then slowly began to wash her front. Over her collarbones, the valley between her budding breasts and her ribs of which protruded under her skin. That Hikari wouldn’t look at her wasn’t anything new, but it never seemed to get easier to see her daughter’s eyes so distant. Lost in a world of which she would not let anyone share. If she’d looked away out of shame, then perhaps it would’ve been different. At least then it would’ve suggested that she was present, rather than gone. That she was there with her and not somewhere else.
Johanna continued. “He also sometimes found it hard to do it on his own, you see. When life became too much of a struggle and his thoughts just got far too jumbled… I swear, had I not been there with him then he would’ve forgotten to feed himself too.”
Hikari drew her knees up to her chest and tightly hugged them. She hid from view, shoulder trembling from cold and unsung tears and Johanna found it difficult to continue. So, she didn’t.
Hikari was a lot like her father, but she’d never thought it would come to this.
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“I want to die.”
Johanna had barely been older than their daughter, the day that Koh had said those words. She’d been sat upon the edge of the bathtub, in his apartment which she’d moved into but a few months prior after her parents angrily disowned her. For how dare their child, once so perfect in every way, get herself pregnant by an older man that she’d only known for a month? She’d thought them understanding, that they would love her no matter what and especially in a time where she herself felt so lost – she’d assumed they would be by her side and help her.
She hadn’t even been allowed to gather her belongings.
Quietly, Johanna stared at Koh. At his dark hair that was in need of a cut. His chestnut skin and the scars that traveled up his arms like the pale branches of a tree. In her hands she held a wet rag, drenched and smelling of birch.
“You don’t mean that,” she answered. “You love me, do you not?”
Koh, she learned, was a troubled man. Though perhaps it was something she’d known from the day they first met. He’d been unkempt, smelling of sweat and had looked about ready to pass out in his seat during her evening commute home. Yet perhaps that had been why she’d been drawn to him in the first place. Someone imperfect and broken and in need of help; and, best of all, he’d treated her as though she was more than just a little girl. He’d made her feel special.
Predatory, her mother would eventually call him. And in reality, that was what he had been.
Johanna reached for his hand and gently laid it to rest over her swollen stomach. In a months’ time, she was due, and they would know if they were to have a daughter or son. He had expressed the desire for son, but Johanna had said that it didn’t matter to her at all. So long as they were healthy and safe, she’d be happy.
Eventually, Koh’s dark eyes pried from the distance and settled upon where his large hand sat upon her belly. He pressed his cheek over her pregnant swell, drenching her dress with his wet hair.
“I want to die,” he whispered into her wear. “I can’t be a father. I can’t.”
“You need to be.” She answered, feeling tears well into the corners of her eyes. Her fingers combed through his dark locks. “We have a baby to look after. They need their daddy just as much as I do. So, please, don’t say such things anymore. It scares me.”
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Johanna reached to cradle her daughter’s cheek.
“… You’re a lot like your father, Hikari. Do you know that? In so many ways.”
From a troubled man came a troubled child, and perhaps Johanna wasn’t blameless either. She’d allowed Hikari to leave home at such an early age, to wander through a world that hadn’t had her best interest in mind. They’d said it was safe, that so many children were doing it all over the world – why shouldn’t Sinnoh youth experience adventure too?
If she were to be given the chance to go back in time – to that evening when she and Koh had first met, then Johanna knew that she wouldn’t have changed a thing. For even though she’d know that life would become far more difficult, even though she’d know that he eventually would leave them; the daughter that he gave her was worth more than anything. She’d already experienced what losing her was like and she never, ever wished to go through such heartache again.
She just wished that she’d never allowed her little girl to leave home.
“You’ve struggled,” she said, blinking away wet tears. “You’ve struggled more than you should in a world that was supposed to protect you. I don’t know what happened to you, you won’t tell me anything. Where you were, what people you met along the way. But you’re here with me now and I never, ever want to see you hurt. You hear me, sweet girl?”
Quiet fell and, through a shaky breath, Johanna concluded that nothing more would come of it. But just as she was about to get up and gather a warm towel, her little daughter spoke.
“Did it ever get easier? For dad, I mean. Did he get better?”
Johanna stared at her daughter, a turmoil of emotion raging inside her breast. But eventually, she reached to embrace her daughter. To cradle her against her chest and kissed atop the crown of her head.
“He did,” she lied, rocking the two of them back and forth. “He got better, and you will too.”
From where he sat, Damian glanced towards the crowd. Their proud proclaims of superiority, of power - their will of which they would set upon the world by whatever means necessary. By force. Intimidation. Trickery.
He supposed he couldn’t condemn the matter, not truly. He had not been any different from them after all. And if truth were to be told, he didn’t know if that part of him truly had gone. One usually do not feel that they are starving until ravenous. Perhaps he had yet to reach that point.
He turned back to his crosswords… Now, what seven letter word is another term for greed?
Even if you don't believe it. You are loved. You are not unlovable. I know you can't see it and you're starting to give up on letting your feelings be. But let them flow. Love and remember you are always loved too. ily ;)
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