Post by Antimoany on Aug 12, 2020 13:27:18 GMT
Name: Roran Dossl | Height: 131cm | Age: 38 | Gender: Male (he/him)
Born: Toploss Town, but his family didn't stay there long enough for him to internalise the culture. They weren't natives of the town, either.
Roran's family travelled a lot from town to town, and once they finally settled in Sunhaven when he was nearly an adult, Roran didn't stop. He doesn't consider himself to have a hometown.
Appearance:
Roran is a short, round man with a prominent belly. His skin is very pale, which only accentuates his frankly impressive quantity of dark body hair. Rather than hide this, however, he almost seems to flaunt it: on the rare occasion he wears a shirt, it is always open at the front. His wardrobe always includes some kind of coat, shirt or no, and that likewise is never fastened. On particularly hot days, he wears a blindingly bright white cotton coat, citing that it is by far the best way to stay cool.
But all this must come at a cost, and that cost is his shiny scalp. Roran doesn't shave his head, but his hair had always grown thin, and as more and more grew pratcially everywhere else upon him, that had gradually ceased to grow altogether.
His face could generously be described as “striking”. He has a wide jaw that tapers dramatically to an almost flat chin. His nose, however, is pointed, but his nostrils are wide and very far apart – resulting in an almost perfect triangle. Roran's rather large ears are closer to perpendicular than they are paralell to his cheekbones, which, if nothing else, renders them an excellent support for his myriad headwear. Many a debate has been had as to whether his moustache or eyebrows are thicker, for both are certainly large and well-bodied. As if to compensate, his lips are tight and thin, and his eyes are a round, dull brown; practically small compared to his other features.
Roran typically wears light combat trousers, a raw wool skirt, or both. He owns precisely one pair of boots, which he has had and patched up for many years. He travels with as many bags and tools as he can physically carry.
Personality:
Restless, but tires quickly. Roran is not restless in the small ways – he can sit still for hours just fine. He enjoys a good book (or, for that matter, a bad one). He loves to just sit and admire the scenery.
No, he's restless in a grander sense. He doesn't like to stay in one part of town for too long. He'll soon tire of the town itself. He's camped out in some strange places; he's found some tiny settlements that weren't even on his map. Sometimes, he'll find somewhere that feels..pleasant. Right. Enjoyable. He thinks he could probably stay there for a while. When he gets comfortable enough, he stops thinking about travelling. He thinks perhaps he's found somewhere he can settle.
Then that restlessness will creep up on him again, and he nothing feels right. He can't enjoy anything until he's on the move.
Roran is constantly fighting a vague anger he can't quite place. It feels separate from him, yet determined to haunt him. Like some furious spirit, it lashes out at whatever it can, and uses Roran as its tool.
If you asked him, he wouldn't be able to tell you where it came from. Just that it was there, and that it hadn't always been. He further would not be able to tell you when it had begun to manifest. He's offered some guesses, though, and those guesses are more telling than the truth:
He feels he has great potential, and has been eternally robbed of the opportunity to fulfil it.
(His parents were nothing but loving and supportive, constantly telling him that he'd do great. But he never did. He's never been great at anything in his life.)
He's frustrated by the limitations of his own body. How is he supposed to learn anything useful when his brain won't hold onto it?
(He tried medical school, but was advised by his own tutors to drop out. He just kept failing every test, however small.)
He's angry at fate for dumping him in a region in famine.
(He thought he'd like to become a chef, but with only two staple foods and almost zero crop variety, that's an extreme challenge. All the successful chefs of the region are rich enough to import ingredients, or use expensive artificial substitutes. There are so many amazing-looking recipes on the backs of a series of comics he used to collect. To this day, he doesn't even know what half the ingredients are.)
He's angry at the rich for being rich when so many people aren't.
He has so many reasons to be angry. Good reasons. He's angry about that, too. He's angry that there's just so much wrong and nobody with the power to fix it is doing so.
He's angry he doesn't have the power to fix it himself.
But mostly, these days, he's just tired.
Or, he was, before pokémon returned. With them came a renewed love for life. A genuine passion Roran hasn't felt since he was a child. He feels like he has something to look forward to for the first time since...
For the first time.
He refuses to waste any more of his life. He's going to meet pokémon. He's going to become a trainer. And he's going to do good things if it costs him his life.
History:
Roran always wanted to do...something. But he never really did. He always envied those with goals, however unachievable. At least they had something to work towards. At least they had something they wanted.
Roran? He never had any specific wants, not really. Sure, as a kid, he'd wanted to become a pokémon trainer, maybe even a gym leader! What eleven-year-old didn't? The novellas and comics seemed to be set in some idyllic, magical place, where these incredibly powerful creatures that seemd to be practically made of love and compassion bonded deeply with humans...
What kid didn't want that? What kid didn't want even one pokémon, something they could love unconditionally? Something that would love them unconditionally. Something that would keep them safe, something that would play with them...
How many of those kids grew more bitter with age? Why couldn't they have pokémon? Why were they only gone from Deprin? Was that even true, or just more lies? With communication and travel cut off the way it was, no-one could verify for themselves... Maybe the other regions were better to live in, but pokémon?
The older Roran got, the more he understood that he'd been conned. They'd all been conned. Pokémon weren't real. Pokémon couldn't be real. It didn't make sense!
And then, of course...they came back. He wasn't sure at what point he actually started to believe it. Not at first. More propaganda, more lies. Some nebulous elite trying to keep the common people down through a sort of universal hopelessness.
He had come to believe it, privately, internally, before he met the Combee. He probably wouldn't admit that if questioned. He'd say the Combee was proof. But really, the Combee wasn't a shock. It didn't bring about some great realisation. It was just a releif.
And Roran came face-to-face with his own bitterness. He'd sour-graped the very concept of these wonderful, magical creatures. They really did seem to be made of love. They had an endless supply to give out, only stopping when it was time to sleep.
He gave the Combee a few spoonfuls of sugar-water, a random yet powerful image that had stuck with him from the comics of his youth. It seemed to work; the tired little bug quickly regained its energy and flew off, but not before thanking him as best it could by rubbing its faces against his.
Roran looked out for it for a few days, but he never saw it or another Combee again. He saw other pokémon, though. More and more, as time went on. He didn't even recognise half.
He felt, not for the first time, that he'd wasted his life; but, for the first time, not because of inaction or failing to learn a skill. He'd wasted his life being angry. First, angry at the world for taking pokémon away, then for lying about them ever existing, then for...
He wasn't sure. At some point, he was just angry. It was a constant, quiet part of him. It's still something he needs to fight down. He doesn't always win against it. But, for the first time in twenty years, he feels like he has a reason to try. This was what he'd wanted all his life. Not just pokémon, but something to care about. Something to want.
A note to staff:
Roran is a nuzlocke character. I'm happy to discuss with staff exactly what this means, but the broad idea will be that he and his pokémon should always be treated as though they're in a dangerous area, even if they're somewhere safe - without applying this danger to other thread participants.
Born: Toploss Town, but his family didn't stay there long enough for him to internalise the culture. They weren't natives of the town, either.
Roran's family travelled a lot from town to town, and once they finally settled in Sunhaven when he was nearly an adult, Roran didn't stop. He doesn't consider himself to have a hometown.
Appearance:
Roran is a short, round man with a prominent belly. His skin is very pale, which only accentuates his frankly impressive quantity of dark body hair. Rather than hide this, however, he almost seems to flaunt it: on the rare occasion he wears a shirt, it is always open at the front. His wardrobe always includes some kind of coat, shirt or no, and that likewise is never fastened. On particularly hot days, he wears a blindingly bright white cotton coat, citing that it is by far the best way to stay cool.
But all this must come at a cost, and that cost is his shiny scalp. Roran doesn't shave his head, but his hair had always grown thin, and as more and more grew pratcially everywhere else upon him, that had gradually ceased to grow altogether.
His face could generously be described as “striking”. He has a wide jaw that tapers dramatically to an almost flat chin. His nose, however, is pointed, but his nostrils are wide and very far apart – resulting in an almost perfect triangle. Roran's rather large ears are closer to perpendicular than they are paralell to his cheekbones, which, if nothing else, renders them an excellent support for his myriad headwear. Many a debate has been had as to whether his moustache or eyebrows are thicker, for both are certainly large and well-bodied. As if to compensate, his lips are tight and thin, and his eyes are a round, dull brown; practically small compared to his other features.
Roran typically wears light combat trousers, a raw wool skirt, or both. He owns precisely one pair of boots, which he has had and patched up for many years. He travels with as many bags and tools as he can physically carry.
Personality:
Restless, but tires quickly. Roran is not restless in the small ways – he can sit still for hours just fine. He enjoys a good book (or, for that matter, a bad one). He loves to just sit and admire the scenery.
No, he's restless in a grander sense. He doesn't like to stay in one part of town for too long. He'll soon tire of the town itself. He's camped out in some strange places; he's found some tiny settlements that weren't even on his map. Sometimes, he'll find somewhere that feels..pleasant. Right. Enjoyable. He thinks he could probably stay there for a while. When he gets comfortable enough, he stops thinking about travelling. He thinks perhaps he's found somewhere he can settle.
Then that restlessness will creep up on him again, and he nothing feels right. He can't enjoy anything until he's on the move.
Roran is constantly fighting a vague anger he can't quite place. It feels separate from him, yet determined to haunt him. Like some furious spirit, it lashes out at whatever it can, and uses Roran as its tool.
If you asked him, he wouldn't be able to tell you where it came from. Just that it was there, and that it hadn't always been. He further would not be able to tell you when it had begun to manifest. He's offered some guesses, though, and those guesses are more telling than the truth:
He feels he has great potential, and has been eternally robbed of the opportunity to fulfil it.
(His parents were nothing but loving and supportive, constantly telling him that he'd do great. But he never did. He's never been great at anything in his life.)
He's frustrated by the limitations of his own body. How is he supposed to learn anything useful when his brain won't hold onto it?
(He tried medical school, but was advised by his own tutors to drop out. He just kept failing every test, however small.)
He's angry at fate for dumping him in a region in famine.
(He thought he'd like to become a chef, but with only two staple foods and almost zero crop variety, that's an extreme challenge. All the successful chefs of the region are rich enough to import ingredients, or use expensive artificial substitutes. There are so many amazing-looking recipes on the backs of a series of comics he used to collect. To this day, he doesn't even know what half the ingredients are.)
He's angry at the rich for being rich when so many people aren't.
He has so many reasons to be angry. Good reasons. He's angry about that, too. He's angry that there's just so much wrong and nobody with the power to fix it is doing so.
He's angry he doesn't have the power to fix it himself.
But mostly, these days, he's just tired.
Or, he was, before pokémon returned. With them came a renewed love for life. A genuine passion Roran hasn't felt since he was a child. He feels like he has something to look forward to for the first time since...
For the first time.
He refuses to waste any more of his life. He's going to meet pokémon. He's going to become a trainer. And he's going to do good things if it costs him his life.
History:
Roran always wanted to do...something. But he never really did. He always envied those with goals, however unachievable. At least they had something to work towards. At least they had something they wanted.
Roran? He never had any specific wants, not really. Sure, as a kid, he'd wanted to become a pokémon trainer, maybe even a gym leader! What eleven-year-old didn't? The novellas and comics seemed to be set in some idyllic, magical place, where these incredibly powerful creatures that seemd to be practically made of love and compassion bonded deeply with humans...
What kid didn't want that? What kid didn't want even one pokémon, something they could love unconditionally? Something that would love them unconditionally. Something that would keep them safe, something that would play with them...
How many of those kids grew more bitter with age? Why couldn't they have pokémon? Why were they only gone from Deprin? Was that even true, or just more lies? With communication and travel cut off the way it was, no-one could verify for themselves... Maybe the other regions were better to live in, but pokémon?
The older Roran got, the more he understood that he'd been conned. They'd all been conned. Pokémon weren't real. Pokémon couldn't be real. It didn't make sense!
And then, of course...they came back. He wasn't sure at what point he actually started to believe it. Not at first. More propaganda, more lies. Some nebulous elite trying to keep the common people down through a sort of universal hopelessness.
He had come to believe it, privately, internally, before he met the Combee. He probably wouldn't admit that if questioned. He'd say the Combee was proof. But really, the Combee wasn't a shock. It didn't bring about some great realisation. It was just a releif.
And Roran came face-to-face with his own bitterness. He'd sour-graped the very concept of these wonderful, magical creatures. They really did seem to be made of love. They had an endless supply to give out, only stopping when it was time to sleep.
He gave the Combee a few spoonfuls of sugar-water, a random yet powerful image that had stuck with him from the comics of his youth. It seemed to work; the tired little bug quickly regained its energy and flew off, but not before thanking him as best it could by rubbing its faces against his.
Roran looked out for it for a few days, but he never saw it or another Combee again. He saw other pokémon, though. More and more, as time went on. He didn't even recognise half.
He felt, not for the first time, that he'd wasted his life; but, for the first time, not because of inaction or failing to learn a skill. He'd wasted his life being angry. First, angry at the world for taking pokémon away, then for lying about them ever existing, then for...
He wasn't sure. At some point, he was just angry. It was a constant, quiet part of him. It's still something he needs to fight down. He doesn't always win against it. But, for the first time in twenty years, he feels like he has a reason to try. This was what he'd wanted all his life. Not just pokémon, but something to care about. Something to want.
A note to staff:
Roran is a nuzlocke character. I'm happy to discuss with staff exactly what this means, but the broad idea will be that he and his pokémon should always be treated as though they're in a dangerous area, even if they're somewhere safe - without applying this danger to other thread participants.
