→ 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 lazyOnce 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."
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