E L S E W H E R E C H I L D
CHARACTER INFORMATIONCharacter Name: Pearce Matthew Märchen
Gender: Male
Age: 14
Bloodline:Halfblood
Parents/Guardians (Are they currently played characters?): Midas Märchen [npc] and Ella Märchen [deceased]; raised by Alice Märchen [npc]
Residence: Port Talbot, Wales
Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (for example: the daycare)?Nahhh..
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason? ...Uh..
Please list any other characters you already have at the site:Ronnie Jay Beckham, Ivory “Baby” Summers, Victoria Lisbeth
Biography: (100 words minimum.)Once upon a time, at the threshold of a pretty house with windows that shone like the moon’s jewel’s, and on a night that shook the nursery tower and drowned the garden, Midas and Ella Märchen brought home an angel. He was small and gentle, with skin like pale raindrops and eyes that shifted and sparkled, bright cerulean suns. He was, in all aspects, perfect.
Pearce Matthew Märchen grew up in endless woven skies of perfection. The neighbors fawned over his delicate palms and graceful step, his parents worshipped him like a golden god descended from the ashen heavens, and his elder sister kissed his cheek with the delicacy of a dutiful subject. Flawless crowns of baby’s breath and queen anne’s lace decorated his perfect head, and rays of sun touched his blonde locks with dainty fingers; even nature refused to damage its prince.
But the faultless years passed.
When he was five years old, Pearce Matthew Märchen discovered in himself his first flaw. The night glittered with silver rain, fallen stars that pricked at the window and created pools of wonder in his sisters’ eyes. He stared bright-eyed at the nimbose sky, and traced the scattered trails with impeccable pink fingers until the droplets gathered at the windowpane and fell to the flowers sitting pretty in their soil. He gaped in a child’s timid amazement, until the trickles became streams, and the streams became rivers, and suddenly the house shook with a terrific
boom of thunder. Pearce bolted back, and for the first time, his flawless fairy features squinted up and he— no, he didn’t cry. He
wailed.The storm crashed and tore at his precious ears, and he crushed delicate palms to the sides of his head. Rocking in all the dimmed light of a sinful angel, Pearce cried and Pearce despised. He despised the storm, the thunder, the harmless shower that tip-tap-tapped on the rooftop. He despised the kindly hands that picked him up and patted his blonde locks, that dried his sea-tinted eyes and whispered words in his aching ears.
Above all, he despised himself. He was
perfect. That was his duty, his responsibility. His job! Father was perfect, Mother was perfect, Cinders was perfect— he, too, must be perfect. He made a promise in that moment, tears raking down ethereal cheeks, dainty hands pressed to fragile ears, that he would never falter again. He would be perfect, and he would seek perfection, until the end.
And he held to that promise.
And at age six, Pearce’s want for perfection overtook him. The garden was never just right, the parsley melded into the rosemary plants, the food was always too salty or too sweet or the fruit too ripe. Pearce drowned in his search for flawlessness, caught between restlessness and peace— he never slept, hardly ate, and flit about on gossamer wings. He clawed at his own chest, smiling gracefully as he ripped fault from his limbs and tongue. When the sun fell and the insomnia and night terrors claimed him, he bit his lip and pressed the heels of his palms to tear-soaked eyes, while the hiccupy mantra forever fell from his lips: ‘perfect, you will be
perfect.’
The years fell at his feet, but he never grew out of his childhood beauty. As if a sign of his despair and fruitless efforts to come, the regal boy's hair faded to a darker gold, like bits of dirt had been shoved in his perfect locks.
Soon after, Mother fell to illness. Father succumbed to his despair, and Cinders became pale and tired, but Pearce stood firm and impeccable at the threshold of their new home. His strength was frail and ersatz, buried frantically under obsessive habits and sleepless nights, but his efforts were never half-baked. He threw his all into managing the family, to being the perfect king and guardian. He had to be his father now.
No matter the cost, he had to be...
perfect.Roleplay:Reply as your character to the following:Godric Park.
Overhead, the sky was a crisp blue, for once clear of the ever-pervasive spongy clouds and rain. The sun was a lemony-yellow presence, high in the Eastern sky, and in front of it zipped three broomsticks in a straight line, or something very like one. One... two..... three... the boys passed, their shouts of excitement echoing as they chased the snitch, a tiny shimmer reflecting the sunlight.
Far below was another, much smaller broomstick.
It trudged along the ground, hugging close to it like a sluggish choo choo train and occasionally shuttering in protest. This was because said stick was currently being occupied by a very small girl who was tugging upward on the front of it with all her might, trying to coax it into doing what it had been expressly designed NOT to do.
"John, I said
wait up!" The tiny girl squealed, giving the broomstick another tug.
Begrudgingly, it drifted upward a foot, and then sank, depositing the troublesome girl safely on the ground. Janey Hurst was not pleased. In a huff, she hopped off the toy safety broom, grabbing it firmly and thrusting it handle first into the turf.
Her brother was such a beast. He NEVER let her play! She folded her arms, seething blue eyes fixing on another figure nearby. "You!" She barked, much more sharply than she meant to.
"...Do you want to play?"
Roleplay Response:Pearce pulled at his clothes habitually, straightening them and smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt. His hair flickered from a precious gold to an industrial bronze in the light of the clear day, his smile held its usual grace, and his steps were pristine and careful. Some days, he wished to run and fly and sleep like other boys, but then he remembered his responsibility— his
promise— and he quickly forgot such useless dreams.
Playing would bring his family no closer to their former state of glory. His father was counting on him, his sisters were depending on him, and there was no test of grace or valor that he would fail. Of this he would make certain, and no ill-fitting flaw would stand in his way. (Fault was all his own doing; he was born perfect, he was raised perfectly, only
he could be responsible for his error.)
The boy crouched regally at the base of a tree, where a few dandelions grew stubborn against the clattering feet of children and their screechy shouts. (Pearce had nothing against children individually—
his little Goose was made immaculate by her imperfections— but a fallen prince had no place in their presence; he felt torn and exposed, a traitor king amongst rebels.) His fingers felt around the little weed-flowers, tilting their stems to place them in an arrangement more idyllic.
He looked at them. He pursed his perfect lips, tilted his perfect head, and plucked them from the ground. They were weeds. They didn’t belong there anyway.
“You!”With a delicacy that had been instilled in the boy since birth, Pearce rose to his feet, brushed off already-spotless clothes, and turned to face the small child. He moved as a swan through water, or a dove through golden-blue skies.
"...Do you want to play?"For a moment, his eyes grew tired and he remembered that it had been exactly 47 hours and 23 minutes since he’d last slept (the measurements never left his mind; his calculations had to be perfect, even if they pounded at his head like a impeccably-crafted sledgehammer). Children were not his strongpoint. But then, he smiled slightly, falsified royalty woven into an elegant mouth, and his tongue carved words that shone and bounced just right— like a melody clinging to the wind.
"Lead the way."
OTHERHow did you find us?
Gooooooogle
