Faolan von Schwarze-Wolfe

The Player:

OOC Account: Rathums.
Age: 20; yeah, I'm old.
Activity Level: Eh, it varies. Real life always kicks my butt when it comes to these things, but I'm trying, guys.
Other Characters: Just Rayquaza, I don't think I could handle anybody else.

Basic Character Information:

Name: Faolan von Schwarze-Wolfe.
Alias: None. His mind's calmed some during these past few months, and he no longer finds his real name abhorring.
Gender: Male.
Age: 19.
Alleigance: Eternally Pravus.
Position: Private; he's working on that, though.
Species: Human.
Sexuality: He care much for sentiments like love, affection and all that, so really, he has no preference. Plus, he's a virgin nothing's really happened to make him partial to either gender. He finds pros and cons with either and simply isn't interested.


Hobbies:

• Memorizing people's names and the faces that match for future reference. Once he's met you, he'll remember you for life.
  
• Trying to determine a person's psyche and their demeanour via observation.
  
• People's reactions to any number of things; he's found that some people react differently to a situation than others, and this fascinates him more than anything.
  

Likes:

• Ketchup ketchup ketchup. Most of his meals are ketchup with a side of whatever he's drowning in it. He's been known to consume odd combinations of food, like turkey sausage drizzled in butter pecan syrup and dipped in ketchup. [Yes I have tried that before and I found it quite tasty]
  
• Noise. He's partial to anything loud that disrupts the peace.
  
• Smiles, willing or not. From his superiors it gives him a sense of satisfaction, a high that rivals no other; though from those he deems beneath him it fills him with a sense of dominance, especially if they are forced.
  
• Winning. [Who doesn't?] -- but not an easy win. Give him a challenge though right now it'll probably be too easy to overcome him, battle-wise
  

Dislikes:

• The quiet. From time to time it bothers him if it's been still for prolonged hours, but usually Arioche serves well enough as a clicking metronome to distract him from his tumultuous thoughts.
  
• Having nothing to do. He will almost always find some task or other to occupy his hands and his mind should this occur.
  
• Most people's personalities. He finds that the majority of those he comes across seem to have terribly droll and mundane mannerisms.
  
• Losing in a boring, inane manner. If he's gotten the fight of his life he doesn't much care, but if he lost super-easy, super fast that doesn't suit his fancy.
  

Physical Appearance
Information:

Hair Color: Platinum blonde, although in dim light it's said to resemble a sort of silver.
Eye Color: Rust-colored, darkish brown.
Height: 6'1
Build: Faolan has the build of a perfectly normal teenage boy. He's not a complete introvert, so thinking he's just skin and bones isn't exactly right. He tends to go on long, spontaneous walks [sometimes right in the middle of a conversation] and will relocate to rocky terrain best suited for hiking or just around the city for hours on end. While a mite slim, it's nothing completely outrageous and there is the hint of muscles along the planes of his chest and his arms and legs to suggest a relatively active lifestyle.

Other Appearance Information:
His clothes are of the form-fitting nature, and he wears enough silver to make a werewolf shiver. Usually he sports about four piercings in his ear, one along each side [silver loops, a ball stud, a fang and maybe a clamp] and a few onyx lined pieces on his fingers. It's not all for show really; more often than not these serve as mediums to distract himself and helps him concentrate a bit harder on his hands when he works. It's the sensation of the thing, not the appearance.

His years of being in Pravus have left him with a sense of belonging, the sensation of being home, and a confidence boost that's completely changed him around. He's not a completely brainwashed Pravus cheerleader waving around pom-poms, but on the off days while he's at headquarters he'll be found sporting the crisply ironed and perfectly prim navy and white uniform of his organization. When he walks it's straight-backed, easygoing and aloof; he could be in enemy territory and he still wouldn't back down. Usually the air about him is impetuous and haughty, with a muffled smugness that lies just beneath the surface and a condescending sparkle to his eyes -- just like a self-proclaimed prince, spoiled rotten.

Personal Related
Information:

Personality:
Although many aspects of his personality have changed over the years, there are still a few traits of him that remain stubbornly rooted in his psyche and that won't be going away any time soon. Blunt and to the point, Faolan rarely [if any] minces words around those that he's around. If he thinks you look utterly ridiculous or you look like a cow, he won't hold back if you ask for his opinion. It's best just not to. His superiors have to earn his respect, but more often than not it's not a terribly hard feat to do. There are a few things he admires openly in people [strength, dedication to their causes], but that doesn't mean he'll let that get in the way of his own mission. If anything, he finds these traits and qualities "cute".

The boy has a terrible way of getting bored 95% of the time he's left by himself, and when that does happen he can usually be found tormenting an individual [or several, depending on his mood] with concoctions of perverse games just for his amusement. There's really no winning or losing when he gets this way; so long as he's entertained, he's perfectly happy with the outcome. This could be taken to mean he's extremely competitive and belligerent-- this is partly true. Actually it's all true, since he can be found stalking the alleys at night in search of a good fight.

His sense of humor is dry, twisted and utterly macabre-- but isn't that normal for Pravus? -- and it's really hard to tell if the dark fantasies he details are wishes of his or just playful teasing. It doesn't help in most of these situations he merely smiles and goes off on another subject altogether when his thoughts are inquired into. He's been described as a bully but that's not entirely accurate. Faolan doesn't seek to torment the weak, he seeks to defeat the strong.

It could be said that Faolan upholds a strict code of honor with details that are, at best, known to only himself. If one took the time to properly assess it, though, they would find that this also is something to keep him from being utterly bored. He will not attack a weak opponent willingly, preferring to go for the strong first and eliminate all before turning his eyes on to the underlings [albeit, really, he's an underling himself]. The thrill, the rush of adrenaline he gets from a good battle is a high that gets him like no other and is a sensation he would, quite literally, kill for.

Is he a murderer? There's no evidence to point to that outcome, but again there's also no one who could attest to that fact.

Despite all this, Faolan is not a terribly social creature. Although he does enjoy when he runs into a person and will carry on a conversation for as long as he's able to in order to get them to play into his games, he doesn't really have anybody he could call a friend and is perfectly content with that. On the rare instances he finds himself alone he can be seen merely staring out into space with his trusted spinarak perched on his shoulder lulling him into a sense of security with a clicking metronome designed to keep the bad thoughts away. Not a very impressive thing, but not many people know of his fear for silence and usually just believe he's being an oddball again.

In actuality, his character is not as simple as one might believe. What you see on the outside is not necessarily a match up for the internal workings of Faolan's mind. Yes, he does enjoy Pravus, but not necessarily for the reasons one might think. While it does provide him with an endless source of amusement and fun, the fact of the matter is that Pravus gave him a home. He's not apt to abandon them anytime soon, especially since Pravus came first before everything else. The fact that he received Arioche a few months after his arrival only solidified his loyalty, and no amount of money, persuading or good samaritan preaching can sway this decision.

History:
Faolan was a boy born into a relatively well-to-do family. While not excessively rich, they had accumulated enough stores of wealth to ensure a proper and well-furnished life for themselves. His mother was a stay at home wife and mostly spent her days tending to the laundry or the Pokemon that roamed the house. When his father came home from managing the small business he owned, she would cook dinner for the three of them and they would talk over the things that had happened throughout the day. Faolan would participate with occasional nods, low murmurs of consent and the like, all with an extremely pained look of boredom on his face. This day to day life did not suit him at all.

From time to time he would hear word of conflict escalating steadily further between the two rival factions over in the region of Remoor; some group named Pravus and another called Mewtwo. At the time he'd decided that it wasn't any of his business and merely kept to his schoolwork and studies, though he did keep tabs on the battle as it started worsening around the countryside. He was struck with a morbid fascination in concerns to the group. Never before had he encountered such a power-hungry presence before in his life. The idea of eliminating one's foes and fighting to control the region made him wonder at his own mundane existence. He eventually found himself longing for a different path in life and would harbor secret urges to run away from home.

While he was away at school his home was broken into and ravaged by a neighboring band of thieves. The strong pokemon they'd been keeping around the house were stolen while the weaker ones were left behind or done away with. His parents were given a far more gruesome end, one that he ended up witnessing firsthand when he'd come home later in the day.

The culprits had just finished their work and were fixing to leave when he stepped in, but when they saw him they froze. His gaze roamed to what he could see of his parents' bodies and the cold hand of fear coursed through him, vibrant and enough to make his whole body tremble with it. His things fell with a muted thud to the floor and he just stared and stared and stared at the dark stains on the floor. The fear was growing and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. He knew they were still there, the robbers would, no doubt, kill him for seeing their faces. One of them advanced on him to do just that.

Acting more out of fear than anything, Faolan's fingers immediately flew to the typewriter on the table beside him. He slammed the thing down with a sickening crunch on his approacher and watched in stunned silence as the man fell to the ground.

It was as though a floodgate had opened and all his emotions came gushing out at once. The impact of what he'd done hit him hard and a weak smile spread slowly across his face, his eyes wide and unbelieving. He'd killed a man. With his own two hands, he'd ... eliminated his foes. When he saw that the man wouldn't move he gave a nervous little chuckle-- which soon escalated into a chortle of sorts and then to full-out laughter. His gaze was frenzied, the grin on his face maniacal and hungry. He beckoned to the rest of them, the typewriter soon joined by one of the butcher knives he'd found left on the kitchen counter next to a whole ham. The tone in his eyes was jovial, eyes glistening with a feral vigour as cries of "let's play, I want to be the robber this time!" rang throughout the house.

The neighbors who arrived on the scene would later comment to authorities that the screams were short with peals of laughter in between the silence.

Not soon after this Faolan showed up at the Pravus HQ with a suitcase of his inheritance and a serene smile on his face. When asked for his name he appeared to give the matter some thought and finally settled with "Feng", if only because it sounds a lot like "fang" except not as gay [he happened to be wearing the fang-like earrings at the time]. They took him in and he was assimilated into his new duties fairly quickly and with a lot more ease than others.

The minor conflicts all around him had escalated to a full-blown war that devastated much of the country, and Faolan spent most of his days simply roaming around the ruins of the city while yearning for another conflict of interests to start up so that he may hop in and actually do something. But the times, it seemed, were peaceful, and there was nothing for him to jump in on quite yet aside from petty little bar-brawls and the like.

Still, a boy could dream, right..?


Characters Pokemon:


Name: Arioche
Species: Spinarak
Age: 6 months
Level: 11
Personality: Despite her youth she's extremely patient. Though some have come to underestimate her when a simple boot seems all that's necessary to get rid of her, most will find it rather difficult to writhe out of a Spinarak's sticky webbing. It doesn't help that Arioche is overbearingly persistent; oftentimes when she sees her prey escape from entanglements she'll spray on another layer and watch them wriggle with it anew. She seems to have taken after her master in that department and in many other areas; one of her hobbies is to plop down on the head of bug-fearing people and scare the living daylights out of them. There's no end to the amusement she garners from these activities and it's not a far stretch to see her scuttling about the walls with a perpetual smiley face on her back.

Attacks:

• Poison Sting
  
• String Shot
  
• Constrict
  
• Scary Face
  
• Dig
  

Role Playing
Sample:

The flickering of police sirens danced over him as they whirred on by, turning down the street from whence he came. No doubt they had found the body by now, Ilya mused, ambling on at a steady gait with his guitar case slung over his back. Already the heavy plastic container was starting to rub raw at his shoulder-bone but he made no move to shift it, choosing instead to keep his eyes focused on the world around him.

A rather nice looking dark car whizzed by, one that he took time to admire and identify if only because it seemed so out of place. Definitely not a Japan-made car; the steering wheel was on the wrong side. The bits that blurred by his vision that he managed to catch suggested a BMW model, the make and shape indicative of a Coupe? From here it was hard to tell, and the car was already long gone. He dismissed it and focused back on the matter at hand.

Even at this hour there were still plenty passerbys taking up the streets. It was all he could do to avoid running into them, usually a process that involved him twisting this way and that to avoid incident. Good thing the majority of Japan were slender, delicate folk; Ilya's shoulders were broad, his torso lean and imposing due to the Russian traits bred into his bloodline over the years. If he had been back home in Siberia, doubtless he would be ramming into people every five seconds, albeit the impact would be made significantly less painful since everyone usually walked around in heavy coats and scarves to stave off the harsh winters. While his blonde hair stuck out like a sore thumb it wasn't as outrageous as most of the other colors he'd seen on the streets of Tokyo. He'd only been here a few hours and he could swear he'd seen every color of the rainbow on people's heads. He did get the occasional odd look or two due to the hue of his eyes, but gaijins in Shibuya were to be expected every now and again, right?

Which was why the first club he decided to visit was one famous for being a popular foreigner spot and an area for gaijin hunters to pick out American prospects. Club Pure might not be the best-sounding name in the world, but if he wanted to get this search off to a good start it was the best place to begin his investigation. At least there he would be welcomed and aided [or so he hoped]. He hadn't bothered on brushing up on his Japanese at all, a mistake which he would have to rectify in the near future. Sure, he knew a few choice phrases, but nothing past "Where am I?" or "Are you okay?". It was his hope that there wouldn't be too much of a language gap, though one could never be too sure...

It was not long before he came upon a building that looked bright enough to light up the sky. Really, he could barely see any stars glistening overhead. There was a line that looked to be wrapped around the side of the building and back, well-dressed Japanese chatting and laughing with one another while the building thrummed with a muffled techno beat. It was this line that Ilya walked beside, slowly, purposefully catching the eyes of the women closest to the door-- and then, miraculously enough, he spotted the same doe-eyed girl from a few minutes earlier. She glanced his way, jumped slightly, and quickly looked away.

"Konnichiwa."

What an atrocious accent. The unfortunate Japanese who were forced to listen to him butcher their language began to giggle and whisper among themselves. Ilya ignored them and turned his attentions to the girl, leaning over the rope to whisper into her ear. She blushed, gave a nod, and he stepped over the rope to stand beside her. She was still walking around with her gaggle of friends. They whiled the time away with small talk, getting those annoying chit-chat questions out of the way. "Where are you from", "what brings you to Tokyo", "do you have a girlfriend", things like that. He answered each in as smooth a tone as he could muster, somewhat glad they had studied enough English to understand him even with his slight Russian accent permeating his dialect.

There were several suspicious looks thrown his way when he went on through and he couldn't blame them. Blonde haired, blue eyed man plus seven young Japanese women? For all they knew he could have been pimping them out. After paying to be let inside he was forced to undergo further scrutiny. The guitar case was examined, miraculously enough not confiscated thanks to the intervention of the doe-eyed female, and he was let inside.

Flashing lights strong and vibrant enough to induce seizures greeted his vision, lighting up the moving mass of dancers writhing about on the dance floor, stairways, stage, everywhere. The floor beneath him thumped and boomed with the heavy bass instilled into the very frame of the building itself, practically drowning out any and all outside noise. People pushed and pressed up against him to get through to other places and he was eventually shoved away from his hostess and to other parts of the building.

Ilya felt some remorse for leaving her. She had appeared genuinely interested and if it had been any other situation he would have gladly indulged and sated her curiosity. But this was a business trip and he had no time to be fooling around--

That is, until he saw the bar.

Thinking that a bottle of Grey Goose wouldn't hurt, he weaved his way through the crowds to satiate his thirst.