Welcome to Hogwarts School :: A Harry Potter RPG! It's 1958!

Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.


Topics - Pearce Märchen

Pages: [1]
1
Archived Applications / Pearce Matthew Märchen
« on: 31/12/2016 at 18:08 »

Application for Hogwarts School




→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.

Name: Pearce Matthew Märchen

Birthday: 14th May 1934

Hometown: Port Talbot, Wales

Bloodline: Halfblood

Magical Strength (pick one): Conjuring & Summoning

Magical Weakness (pick one): Divination

Year (pick two): 5th.  (Second choice is 6th.)

Biography: —mostly copied from his first application because i’m lazy

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, rogue though his limbs became.  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 rubbed into 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.

Oh, but he was not so, and that ruined everything.

That afternoon he was baked under a crooked sun, hung from skies that were just a shade off.  He took refuge in the freshly-dusted shelves of Crimbleton and Co. Booksellers, and ignored the panic that touched his shoulders and toes (because the world felt a little more Wrong today, and he could not fathom a way to fix it).  Despite the disorderly nature of the shop— though all shops, in Pearce’s opinion, were disorderly— the old books soothed him, and the old woman who owned the place was, in his opinion, quite a neat little lady.  Far more respectable than, say, his own Grandmother Alice, who seemed to speak only in fables of chaos and misinformed babblings.  He suspected that she did it just to bother him.

He was looking for a book: One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore.  (Since it appeared that his allergies would continue to be a problem in caring for his own garden, he would settle for research.)  Pearce crouched before a shelf, and thought nothing of it.  Thought only of the dullness of the day— the hues that irked him and the sounds that scratched the air— and of the book that he sought.  Oh, how he wished he’d gone without the book.  Oh, how he wished he’d stayed home.

There was noise— a gasp, a few words, then finally a shout.  He turned his head, sharply, gracefully, back bent and eyes wide, and caught the flash of color, before it faded to ruin.  (His ruin.)  There was a rescuer, blonde, and Pearce jumped.  He barely had time to breathe before—

              Fire.                White.               Blue.              Green.
                                                                                                              Red.                 
He shattered and stung        before the world         turned                                   Black.

And a shimmery reminder of Kinsinger carved to his back.  A scar from mid-spine to his collar, and splayed, fingers stretched across pale skin— it clawed the final remains of perfection from his shell, and stared him in the face.  White like an ashen tree, fluid like the salt of his mouth, and permanent.  More permanent, even, than life that clung to his body.  More permanent than the earth itself.

He’d never be whole again.  And it is that belief, in the end, that ruined him.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.
Note: This section is optional, and is up to you to complete.

House Request: Ravenclaw, please.

Personality: The textbook definition of a perfectionist, Pearce’s entire existence has been devoted to making everything Just Right.  Not only must the books on the shelf be straightened, but they must also be lined up in alphabetical and height order, as well as color coordinated— which is incredibly frustrating for Pearce, considering it’s very much impossible to satisfy all three requirements at once.  Pearce’s demeanor is split ways between frantic and angelic, like a heavenly being in a rush to appease the Prince of Peace.  Insomnia pulls the skin from under his eyes, a carpet beneath his feet, and he is sprawled on the floor.  In the end, he is condemned to huddled research and observation; just looking couldn’t be bad, could it?  Just looking had never hurt him before.  But he was wrong in this verdict, because just looking had been the cause of his darkest burn.

Appearance: Like a statue in a Greek garden, a cherub in a painting, a carefully crafted puppet on a string.  Pearce has milky white skin and rosy cheeks— his eyes are a faded cerulean, hair a tarnished bronze, and back as straight as a pin.  His flaws are not so much in his skin, but in the cruel, platinum whispers that his brain calls Truth.  His sins are in his own eccentric and scattered mind.  (That is, aside from the parsley-shaped scar* that follows his spine and pokes just above his collar, a Hexenreich’s doing.  It still burns like lightning on some nights, when the clouds call their cruel thunder, and the moon forbids him rest.  He never did like storms.)

Pea steps will misguided purpose— he seeks after perfection and finds it, in the crisp pages of his books or in the pearly white steps of forbidden angels.  Everyone knows that curiosity killed the cat.  But nobody talks about the boy it killed first.

*Approved by admins.

→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.
Please reply to one of the Sample Roleplays below.

Pearce had mixed feelings about all plants.  Flowers were pretty to look at— about as perfect as an object could be— but the pollen disagreed with his nose, and even now Pearce could feel the mucus threatening to expose itself.  He frowned, glanced around to see if anyone was looking, and blew his nose into a clean kerchief.  Pearce kept at least one on hand at all times.  Just in case.

"You blasted rat!  Where are you?"

His eyes widened at the exclamation, surprised that he had not been thorough enough in his brief search for company.  He determined that, next time, he would scan the area twice before allowing his allergies to interfere.  Quickly, he folded the handkerchief and tucked it away.  (Though, peeved by his recent failure, he took extra care to pack it neatly, with crisp lines and absolutely no mistakes.  He even smoothed his trousers twice before he was satisfied, as to assure that the handkerchief would not become wrinkled.)

A boy’s head popped out of the bushes— they appeared to be amaryllis flowers, though it had been a while since Cinders had allowed Pearce in their gardens at all.  The boy was probably around his age, which was worse because what if the boy told everyone in their year that Pearce was a disgusting slob, or what if he told everyone that Pearce was ignorant about all things plants, or wh a t   i   f...  Pearce ran out of what-ifs, but it was idea that mattered.

And then, the boy sneezed.

Now, this wasn’t to say that Pearce was shocked— he was familiar with the sound and sensation, and had come to view sneezes as inevitable in the Outside.  (He hardly left the Inside anymore these days, if he could help it.  He found books to be far less hazardous, and quite abundant at the castle.)  But it was a very loud sneeze, and very explosive, and Pearce absolutely loathed the presence of thick, liquidy snot on his skin.

Couldn’t the boy have warned him first?

"Can I help you with something?  It is not polite to stare."

Pearce frowned, and barely registered the comment.  He fumbled in his trouser pockets, fingers itching to mend the mess that this boy had made on Pearce’s clothes, and finally withdrew a second (and a third!) handkerchief.  Unused.

"Here," he said, and handed the boy one of them, a grimace pulling at the corners of his mouth.  He wasn’t sure he wanted the boy touching his handkerchiefs with his dirty fingers, but it was better than letting him just sit there, covered in grime, and not do anything to solve the problem.  He used the third handkerchief on his arms and trousers, folding it over neatly for each swipe.  Absolutely disgusting.  "Next time— do be careful.  You’ll get me sick."

→ ABOUT YOU.

Please list any characters you have on the site (current and previous): Ronnie Jay Beckham, Ivory Summers, Victoria Lisbeth, Évariste Altier, Andromeda Crowley

How did you find us?: Goooooooogle ^u^

2
Elsewhere Accepted / Pearce Märchen [Elsewhere Child]
« on: 31/05/2016 at 05:50 »
E L S E W H E R E   C H I L D

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character 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."

OTHER
How did you find us? Gooooooogle

Pages: [1]