Post by Deleted on Sept 2, 2015 20:25:49 GMT
rhys augusTus parker Hold yourself, howl and scream, finally feel everything joining underneath druid  Full Name: rhys augustus parker Nicknames: rhys Age: 17 Birthday: 08/08 Gender: male Sexuality: pansexual Face Claim: asa butterfield Appearance: standing at 5'11, with limbs too long and far too clumsy, rhys would usually slouch his shoulders, feet tending to drag across the floor. his hair is dark brown, mostly mistaken for black, wavy locks mostly getting into his eyes and trail right to the nape of his neck. his eyes are sharp, a shock of blue, in contrast to his pale skin. he wears cruddy converses and loose tops and the occasional hoodie, with preferences to wear over sized ones to make his thin, lanky frame seem larger. his eyes aren't really that bad, but he wears his thick-rimmed glasses more as a comfort than functionality. Personality: rhys has always leaned more towards the quiet side. it's not that he's not capable of speaking, or making his own friends. it's just that he know when to speak, and when not to. he's more of an observer, anyway: sharp eyes and keen mind and the occasional dry wit and bitter remarks and twisting words overlaid by sarcastic humor. being a druid--or whatever it is they call his clumsy pathetic stumbling into accidental explosions of magic and sparks that bleed into the back of his eyelids in bursts of color--rhys has learned to appreciate the little things in life. like how his eyes are sharp enough to read his mother's lies whenever she says i love you, with trembling fingers and wary eyes, like how he could spend more time on his reading now that he doesn't have his dead brother laughing and talking and prodding at him until unwanted laughter spills from his own chest into the otherwise quiet of his room in such a distracting way that his reading goes unattended for a long, long, while; and also like how the dull throbbing of unwanted power beneath his skin goes unheard, just for a little while, if he inhales enough coffee. he's a bad druid--if you can even call him that--what with the occasional bouts of destructive temper and selfish, reckless tendencies and all of the grace of an asphyxiated puffer fish, but rhys likes to at least think that he has some sort of a code, when dealing with unwanted problems. the balance must be kept, at any cost. Mother: caryl parker Father: nathan parker Children: n/a Pets: n/a Others: michael augustus parker (older brother, deceased) History: it's not him that's supposed to be doing this. it's always been michael; loud, powerful, graceful michael, whose laughter is warmth that bleeds into his chest in pools of dripping sunbeams, whose eyes are bright and glint with sparks of ever present power and mirth. michael, whose strength and prowess as an emissary precedes him in reputation far and wide, whose pack is strong, trusting and loyal. michael, whose very existence brings pride and joy to his family, and those around him. rhys has always been content to be the only one without magic, without a spark, in a family of druids. so he reads. he reads tomes and bestiaries and spell books and more, because while michael is known for his power and charm and unexpected moments of wise words, there's always something left to be desired from his knowledge and strategic thinking. and that's what rhys is for, that's what rhys insists to be, the one who is always by michael's side, his shadow, his other half, and it happens often enough that it's a given; where michael goes, his shadow rhys goes with him, the sharp-witted human brother from a family of druids, and it happens often enough that most days, it's hard to tell where michael's thoughts start and where rhys' begins. rhys was happy. which is why when michael dies, a part of rhys dies, too. and of course, it happens the only time rhys is not there with him. it's supposed to be a normal meeting, michael assures him. just some creatures seeking him out for his advice, and really, rhys, i'll be fine, i can live without you for a few hours. you're smart, it'd seriously suck for you to flunk your test just because of me. trust me, michael says, and rhys, all of fifteen and anxious and trusting, agrees. it's when he's penciling in the last of his answers onto the exam paper, three hours later, that something in him just breaks. and rhys just knows. because his brother's voice, it rings in his head, his i'll be fine, i'll be fine, i'll be just fine, rhys, don't worry, everything will be just fine, it'll be all right, you'll be fine, you'll be okay, rhys, you'll be okay, i'm so proud of you, you'll be the greatest-- rhys throws up all over his answer sheets, and gets sent home. he comes home to the sight of his mother bending over the couch, head in her hands, his father a stiff, stony figure at her back, arms crossed and jaw tight, and on the couch, the couch-- on the couch is the dead body of someone wearing his brother's face and skin, and his mother, she says, they sent him home like this, my baby, my angel, they sent him and they disappeared, oh, my baby boy-- they don't know who did this, and they won't ever know. because his parents, more than half of their magic went into michael, and they can't find the people who did this, not anymore, and michael's pack, the one he'd been protecting, every single one of them disappeared. just like that. and rhys just. he just deals. it's one week later, after rhys' first successful barrier, cast in a moment of weakness with teary eyes and a broken heart, that the spark inside him sings, all raw unfounded power that rolls into him in waves, like a floodgate broken open, and it almost sounds like michael, how he used to say it's okay, rhys, you're just a late bloomer. there's a spark in you, i know it, i can feel it, and one day, it'll come to you like it did to me, it'll be like lightning in your nerves, sparks in your breaths, it'll happen one day, i know it. it's almost like his brother is right there with him, sun spilling in his laugh, and rhys deals. they move to beacon hills a year and a half after his brother's death, and rhys deals with that, too. if anywhere's a good place to quietly practice and train himself, it's there. RP Sample: it's a testament to his new found, seemingly endless patience, that rhys doesn't immediately sock someone in the face. his hand clearly aches for it, judging by the way it trembles, white-knuckled and tense, and he taps restless fingers against the tabletop surface instead, the incessant taptaptaps in beat with the violent thudding of his heart. "what are you trying to say?" he manages, tries to keep his face loose and blank, and across the kitchen, leaning against the sink, he sees his mother crumple in against herself, subtle and quiet, her black hair tied in a loose bun, grey-blue eyes not meeting his, arms wrapped around her waist to hold herself up. "sweetheart," she starts, and rhys tries to hold back a snort. she only calls him that whenever she feels guilty of something, and it's always guilt these days, isn't it? "sweetheart," she says again. "you don't have to go to school today, if you don't feel like it. we won't push you, you know we won't. it's a new place, you should get used to it--" "you don't trust me?" "of course we do," and rhys reads the lie in the twitch of her index finger. "we trust you, sweetie. but. we also worry, for you," she purses her lips. "you haven't been--" "Mom," rhys interrupts her before she says something she regrets, and ignores the pang of guilt that stabs at him. he wasn't raised like this. "mom, i know. i'll practice some more with dad, after school. i'll read up the books and i'll learn the spells, and--i'll do my best, okay? i'm not--" michael, he doesn't say, "--but i'll try to at least be a proper druid, okay? it's the least i could do. and i.. going to school might help. i could learn more, see more. so can i.." he stands up from the kitchen table, slowly approaches his mother. "can you at least trust me enough not to accidentally kill someone when i'm at school?" it's the most he's said to her in a week. there's a pregnant pause, then, and when his mother nods, it's short and jittery. rhys takes it as it is, says a quiet, thank you, and rushes out the door with his bag pack hastily slung over his shoulder, and stumbles out into the street. the door clicks quietly as it shuts behind him, and rhys breaths out a quiet sigh of relief. he observes that of all the teenagers standing glumly in half awareness at the bus stop, he's probably the one itching to leave home the most. whatever. he'll just deal. |
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