Post by metronome on Jan 7, 2014 22:31:44 GMT -5
Name: Ella Hughes
Nickname(s)/Alias(es): Lean, Ellie
Age: 20
Gender: Lady-like
Pokemorph?: “Huh?” (That means no)
Appearance:
Even from a distance you can tell this one’s an artsy sort. Long, copper-blonde hair is tied into almost purposefully messy braids that vary in style, placement, and number; tight to the crown of her head or a messy plait; ornamental, symmetrical French twins split like swampert’s head-fins, or a complex combination of multiple weaves. Depending on how it rests, you may or may not see that she has three ear piercings on one ear and two on the other (though she never wears more than four earrings); you may or may not catch sight of the upper-most lines of a tattoo on her back that peek up towards the base of her neck.
Her eyes are a deep, earthy brown, making it difficult to read them at a glance at times. Their cast is dreamy, heavy-lidded, and drifts like a slowpoke’s sometimes, like she couldn’t be bothered to leave whatever reverie she’s wandered into, or that she’s thinking about something wickedly clever that’s too complex to put to words, or maybe just nothing at all. (She is often rather clueless.) When focused and intent on something, she seems almost a different person. Her eyes dart and fix and seem almost magnetic, taking in what’s going on around her to undergo some wild artistic dissection inside that mysterious mind of hers.
She wears clothes with deliberateness, even though they look intentionally scruffy or odd. She’s fond of large wool sweaters, and will balance them out with tight cigarette-leg pants or a tight skirt with matching leggings, and trendy slip-ons to match. A white shirt with a wide collar that exposes one shoulder and not the other, along with a drippy-ended, minimalistic fabric vest and (of course) leggings. Two tank-tops that overlap just-so and a flapping zip-down hoodie and jeans. And so on.
Look closely, and you’ll see that the nails on her middle fingers are ridged—she chews them—she has a large birth-mark on the side of her neck, her nose reddens easily in the cold (and holds the color long), and she wears her pokeballs split three per hip. Charcoal and graphite smudges mark her blades of her hands and she often has ink on her fingers and forearms. …And her cheeks and forehead. Really, she shmutzes her art supplies all over herself without realizing it.
Lastly, the three legendary birds are tattooed on her back, and span from “behind” her shoulders along the backs of her forearms, and halfway down her back. Articuno in the center, zapdos on her left-hand side, and moltres the right. If you ask who did it, she’d tell you she did, and then pause and correct herself to explain she didn’t tattoo it, it was actually this one guy, who she thinks was named Leon or Leo or something, and shrug. Yep. Just like that.
Personality:
Emmaline is as cool as a cucumber. She plods through life unruffled and content, her imagination painting such magnificent pictures (or so distracted admiring what she’s painted on her shoes) that she walks head-long into things. Not surprisingly, she sees the best in people (for who knows better than an artist how to see what you want to see) and romanticizes things, being hopelessly optimistic in most circumstances.
She drifts through life being breezy and affable to just about everyone she meets. Her quickness to smile and compliment come readily, in all walks of life. She’s quietly compassionate. As such she’s used to being treated well in return, and doesn’t know how to handle insults or challenges well. Her self-sheltered tendencies also make her strangely upfront; perhaps out of the protected bubble of her constant dream-like state, or perhaps from the wisdom of being content and fulfilled, she’ll ask unexpected questions or address the elephant room directly, surprisingly candid and sharp in those moments for someone suspected of being rather simple and two-dimensional.
Skills honed in a particular area in life, she isn’t one to challenge herself overmuch or get worked up about much of anything. She takes life in small, incremental steps, with lots of metaphoric and literal naps and wanderings in-between. Give her a Mario game and she’ll perfect the first three levels and then only play the Yoshi ones, contentedly at that, dabbling here and there and soon moving on without defeating Bowser because, at the end of the day, “Who cares?” He’s probably not such a bad monster blastoise once you got to know him. And nothing beats roaming around with Yoshi, anyway. Duh.
If bullied or bothered, Ella surprises people with her sudden loudness—that boomed “STOP IT YOU PERVY BUTT-GRABBER” and such that catches people off-guard. The effectiveness of that move made Ella into a fan of whismur, a pokemon that she enjoys sketching and doodling. A long-time friend (fromance?) gave her a stuffed one once; though he went off to another college, she still keeps it around. Currently it’s resting on Ella’s dormitory bed pillow.
When it comes to pokemon, Ella gravitates towards those that she likes the look of, or those that are quirky, endearing, and steadfast. She doesn’t really care much what they are or can do; she is probably the least demanding trainer out there, as she doesn’t bother to compete. That whole ‘everyone’s special’ mindset. Ambitious, independent pokemon are good matches for her, as well as ones that like to cuddle or laze about to excess.
History:
Ella was born in Azalea town in Johto, but moved to Celadon City in Kanto with her family by the time she was 5. Her only memory of that time was painting with her mother; otherwise she would muse over and study old photographs of the family’s dinky abode and small yard, the forest and the annual apricorn art fair. Figurines and small sculptures from those yearly festivals would travel with her family to Kanto, decorating breakfronts and acting as bookends, displaced trinkets of rustic charm in the cramped studio apartment in Cerulean City, which would be the Hughes’s homestead up until the present.
City life was bustling and invigorating for the young Ella, who shyly enjoyed the endless supply of prime people-watching candidates. Artistic from a young age, her early escapades in life included coloring in an expensive old encyclopedia at the library (innocently at first, and then it became a mission to complete it)… dipping her mother’s eevee in blue paint to bring a vaporeon to show-and-tell, wearing a knitted cap with bells from her grandmother until it fell apart, and pioneering the trend of attaching pokeballs to hairties and wearing them.
Ella enjoys books a great deal, but doesn’t usually finish them. She and her closest friend growing up would switch off reading a book aloud until it was finished, sometimes skipping parts because they were on different chapters, and invented story and plot to fill in the gaps. Eventually, skipping out on finishing the ends of the books was much more exciting and entertaining, until the two spent more time imagining stories than reading them. …Particularly because Ella absolutely chose her books based on their cover—if the art wasn’t any good, she couldn’t be bothered to buy it. Some, even, she purchased just for the cover, creating a sort of shelf-gallery full of untold stories Ella daydreamed about on occasion, and never felt the need to know.
Photography, drawing, and doodling took up much of Ella’s attention and time. She was lazy in school and did average work; in class her attentions were devoted to the margins of her notebooks, where she decorated them with growing skill like some sort of modern-stuck monk embellishing the fringes of some sacred text out of complete and utter wish-I-weren’t-here desperation. She excelled in the arts, of course. She can play the saxophone very well, knows her way around a dark room, and can paint very well.
Boys and whatever, sure. Ella dated, shopped and amassed loads of clothing and such. Her companion torkoal was ever at her side, quirkier than her in many regards despite his stoic appearance. She applied to an art college in Johto and was accepted on scholarship; there she stayed through her sophomore year, finding herself, making friends, and dabbling in pokemon training to mingle further (also, her father required it; Ella had nearly gotten herself killed a half-dozen times wandering in the tall grass under the assumption all the warnings had just been to scare little kids into behaving).
An exchange program flyer caught her eye one day. She wheeled back around to take a look, and penned the details down on the back of her hand. Decona Region. Rustic. Free semester. It would count for a pesky pre-requisite and international studies credit, and would provide an opportunity for a grant if she could “Render the Pokemorph Culture” in a captivating work for the college. Whatever that meant.
A few weeks later, she was ready to go: a bag with a few changes of clothes, three notebooks, her pencil kit, watercolor kit, a planner, a smaller bag, some money, a travel guide book, a book she wouldn’t end up reading, and someone else’s scrunchie (how had that gotten in there?).
RP Sample:
Ella wiped the sleep dust from the inner corners of her eyes and rubbed the tip of her nose against her sweater’s ample shuckle-neck collar. Her hair was braided up today, exposing her face by keeping her long bangs out of her eyes and, perhaps, tied tight to help keep her awake. The connecting flights had been long, with a storm-caused layover before the final leg of the trip. As such Ella wasn’t quite sure what time it was back in Celadon versus Decona, and whether the time zones changed much at all, even. She’d forgotten her phone (and owed Joe $20 for that reason) and had no watch; until she got to a computer she was out of touch.
Cross-legged, Ella sat with a sketchbook on her lap opposite the small luggage turnstile, waiting for her canvas-cloth bag to appear. She’d jotted down notes on the upper-left corner of the page.
Lab. Free pokemon??? 1st floor only
She gnawed on her middle finger’s nail, watching people stroll by and really, really confused at all of the complex cosplay outfits.
Nickname(s)/Alias(es): Lean, Ellie
Age: 20
Gender: Lady-like
Pokemorph?: “Huh?” (That means no)
Appearance:
Even from a distance you can tell this one’s an artsy sort. Long, copper-blonde hair is tied into almost purposefully messy braids that vary in style, placement, and number; tight to the crown of her head or a messy plait; ornamental, symmetrical French twins split like swampert’s head-fins, or a complex combination of multiple weaves. Depending on how it rests, you may or may not see that she has three ear piercings on one ear and two on the other (though she never wears more than four earrings); you may or may not catch sight of the upper-most lines of a tattoo on her back that peek up towards the base of her neck.
Her eyes are a deep, earthy brown, making it difficult to read them at a glance at times. Their cast is dreamy, heavy-lidded, and drifts like a slowpoke’s sometimes, like she couldn’t be bothered to leave whatever reverie she’s wandered into, or that she’s thinking about something wickedly clever that’s too complex to put to words, or maybe just nothing at all. (She is often rather clueless.) When focused and intent on something, she seems almost a different person. Her eyes dart and fix and seem almost magnetic, taking in what’s going on around her to undergo some wild artistic dissection inside that mysterious mind of hers.
She wears clothes with deliberateness, even though they look intentionally scruffy or odd. She’s fond of large wool sweaters, and will balance them out with tight cigarette-leg pants or a tight skirt with matching leggings, and trendy slip-ons to match. A white shirt with a wide collar that exposes one shoulder and not the other, along with a drippy-ended, minimalistic fabric vest and (of course) leggings. Two tank-tops that overlap just-so and a flapping zip-down hoodie and jeans. And so on.
Look closely, and you’ll see that the nails on her middle fingers are ridged—she chews them—she has a large birth-mark on the side of her neck, her nose reddens easily in the cold (and holds the color long), and she wears her pokeballs split three per hip. Charcoal and graphite smudges mark her blades of her hands and she often has ink on her fingers and forearms. …And her cheeks and forehead. Really, she shmutzes her art supplies all over herself without realizing it.
Lastly, the three legendary birds are tattooed on her back, and span from “behind” her shoulders along the backs of her forearms, and halfway down her back. Articuno in the center, zapdos on her left-hand side, and moltres the right. If you ask who did it, she’d tell you she did, and then pause and correct herself to explain she didn’t tattoo it, it was actually this one guy, who she thinks was named Leon or Leo or something, and shrug. Yep. Just like that.
Personality:
Emmaline is as cool as a cucumber. She plods through life unruffled and content, her imagination painting such magnificent pictures (or so distracted admiring what she’s painted on her shoes) that she walks head-long into things. Not surprisingly, she sees the best in people (for who knows better than an artist how to see what you want to see) and romanticizes things, being hopelessly optimistic in most circumstances.
She drifts through life being breezy and affable to just about everyone she meets. Her quickness to smile and compliment come readily, in all walks of life. She’s quietly compassionate. As such she’s used to being treated well in return, and doesn’t know how to handle insults or challenges well. Her self-sheltered tendencies also make her strangely upfront; perhaps out of the protected bubble of her constant dream-like state, or perhaps from the wisdom of being content and fulfilled, she’ll ask unexpected questions or address the elephant room directly, surprisingly candid and sharp in those moments for someone suspected of being rather simple and two-dimensional.
Skills honed in a particular area in life, she isn’t one to challenge herself overmuch or get worked up about much of anything. She takes life in small, incremental steps, with lots of metaphoric and literal naps and wanderings in-between. Give her a Mario game and she’ll perfect the first three levels and then only play the Yoshi ones, contentedly at that, dabbling here and there and soon moving on without defeating Bowser because, at the end of the day, “Who cares?” He’s probably not such a bad monster blastoise once you got to know him. And nothing beats roaming around with Yoshi, anyway. Duh.
If bullied or bothered, Ella surprises people with her sudden loudness—that boomed “STOP IT YOU PERVY BUTT-GRABBER” and such that catches people off-guard. The effectiveness of that move made Ella into a fan of whismur, a pokemon that she enjoys sketching and doodling. A long-time friend (fromance?) gave her a stuffed one once; though he went off to another college, she still keeps it around. Currently it’s resting on Ella’s dormitory bed pillow.
When it comes to pokemon, Ella gravitates towards those that she likes the look of, or those that are quirky, endearing, and steadfast. She doesn’t really care much what they are or can do; she is probably the least demanding trainer out there, as she doesn’t bother to compete. That whole ‘everyone’s special’ mindset. Ambitious, independent pokemon are good matches for her, as well as ones that like to cuddle or laze about to excess.
History:
Ella was born in Azalea town in Johto, but moved to Celadon City in Kanto with her family by the time she was 5. Her only memory of that time was painting with her mother; otherwise she would muse over and study old photographs of the family’s dinky abode and small yard, the forest and the annual apricorn art fair. Figurines and small sculptures from those yearly festivals would travel with her family to Kanto, decorating breakfronts and acting as bookends, displaced trinkets of rustic charm in the cramped studio apartment in Cerulean City, which would be the Hughes’s homestead up until the present.
City life was bustling and invigorating for the young Ella, who shyly enjoyed the endless supply of prime people-watching candidates. Artistic from a young age, her early escapades in life included coloring in an expensive old encyclopedia at the library (innocently at first, and then it became a mission to complete it)… dipping her mother’s eevee in blue paint to bring a vaporeon to show-and-tell, wearing a knitted cap with bells from her grandmother until it fell apart, and pioneering the trend of attaching pokeballs to hairties and wearing them.
Ella enjoys books a great deal, but doesn’t usually finish them. She and her closest friend growing up would switch off reading a book aloud until it was finished, sometimes skipping parts because they were on different chapters, and invented story and plot to fill in the gaps. Eventually, skipping out on finishing the ends of the books was much more exciting and entertaining, until the two spent more time imagining stories than reading them. …Particularly because Ella absolutely chose her books based on their cover—if the art wasn’t any good, she couldn’t be bothered to buy it. Some, even, she purchased just for the cover, creating a sort of shelf-gallery full of untold stories Ella daydreamed about on occasion, and never felt the need to know.
Photography, drawing, and doodling took up much of Ella’s attention and time. She was lazy in school and did average work; in class her attentions were devoted to the margins of her notebooks, where she decorated them with growing skill like some sort of modern-stuck monk embellishing the fringes of some sacred text out of complete and utter wish-I-weren’t-here desperation. She excelled in the arts, of course. She can play the saxophone very well, knows her way around a dark room, and can paint very well.
Boys and whatever, sure. Ella dated, shopped and amassed loads of clothing and such. Her companion torkoal was ever at her side, quirkier than her in many regards despite his stoic appearance. She applied to an art college in Johto and was accepted on scholarship; there she stayed through her sophomore year, finding herself, making friends, and dabbling in pokemon training to mingle further (also, her father required it; Ella had nearly gotten herself killed a half-dozen times wandering in the tall grass under the assumption all the warnings had just been to scare little kids into behaving).
An exchange program flyer caught her eye one day. She wheeled back around to take a look, and penned the details down on the back of her hand. Decona Region. Rustic. Free semester. It would count for a pesky pre-requisite and international studies credit, and would provide an opportunity for a grant if she could “Render the Pokemorph Culture” in a captivating work for the college. Whatever that meant.
A few weeks later, she was ready to go: a bag with a few changes of clothes, three notebooks, her pencil kit, watercolor kit, a planner, a smaller bag, some money, a travel guide book, a book she wouldn’t end up reading, and someone else’s scrunchie (how had that gotten in there?).
RP Sample:
Ella wiped the sleep dust from the inner corners of her eyes and rubbed the tip of her nose against her sweater’s ample shuckle-neck collar. Her hair was braided up today, exposing her face by keeping her long bangs out of her eyes and, perhaps, tied tight to help keep her awake. The connecting flights had been long, with a storm-caused layover before the final leg of the trip. As such Ella wasn’t quite sure what time it was back in Celadon versus Decona, and whether the time zones changed much at all, even. She’d forgotten her phone (and owed Joe $20 for that reason) and had no watch; until she got to a computer she was out of touch.
Cross-legged, Ella sat with a sketchbook on her lap opposite the small luggage turnstile, waiting for her canvas-cloth bag to appear. She’d jotted down notes on the upper-left corner of the page.
Lab. Free pokemon??? 1st floor only
She gnawed on her middle finger’s nail, watching people stroll by and really, really confused at all of the complex cosplay outfits.
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