VERTUMNUS FAUN, DISTRICT TWELVE

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

Name: VERTUMNUS FAUN
Age: SEVENTEEN
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 12
Appearance:

Personality:

I'VE BEEN HERE SINCE BEFORE I CAN REMEMBER SO THAT KIND OF SUCKS I GUESS, AND I'M PRETTY DANG DEPENDENT, JUST BECAUSE I'M CLOSE TO BEING AN ADULT IT DOESN'T MEAN I AM ONE TBH. I TALK WITH A ST-STUTTER AND THAT IS SOMETHING WE'RE GOING TO BLAME ON WINTER.

Skittish and cautious, Vertumnus became involved in Winter at a young age. Like many other teenagers in Twelve, his parents became part of the organisation in an effort to provide for their family, and he grew up knowing about the dangers of his situation. After a close call when he was small, he's incredibly hesitant to speak lest he say the wrong thing. His first reaction usually involves self-preservation, but after that fleeting moment he makes a deliberate effort to be kind. He's jittery, and talks with a stutter.

History:

[

I WAS RAISED BY THE WITCH HER GOT ME HOOKED ON THE STUFF, SHE'S A RIGHT OLD COW BUT I GUESS I DO WHAT SHE SAYS. I SORT OF HATE HER BUT I DON'T BUT I DO. SHE PUNISHES ME SOMETIMES SO I GUESS I'M SORT OF AFRAID OF HER AND THINGS.

Codeword: O BLA DEE, O BLA DAIR
Comments/Other:

This boy comes from a magical place called Narnia District Twelve. He is in Tristen and Clover's Plot as Mr. Tumnus.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8086/8395194440_1d4d7fd413_m.jpg); width: 459px; padding-top: 2px; padding-bottom: 10px;] “I CAN ONLY HOPE IT'S TRUE ENOUGH” That every little thing I do for love. AGE . Seventeen. GENDER . Male. DISTRICT . Twelve. OCCUPATION . Look-out/guard/security/addict. SEXUALITY . Teenagers don't have sexualities. TALKING . pinched cheeks DOING . Cement Wall DEEP THOUGHT . i didn't mean HEARING . famous last word OTHER . Deathly Kiss WHO . “REDEEMS ME FROM THE MOMENTS I DEEM WORTHY” Of the worst things that I've done. She stares at me like I'm a ghost, and the worst thing is that I think I am too. My mother doesn't recognize the son she gave birth to, I don't recognize me, that's fair enough. This could actually be the first time in eight years that we've crossed paths, see, since they sold me to the Witch, I didn't want to see them anymore, but here she is, and here I am. I'm seeing her from a different viewpoint though. I used to look up to her, my abnormally tall mother, and now I look down at her. I'm grown now, but not fully, I still have growing to do. I'm only seventeen, but I stand at a good six feet and three inches, just awkward enough to make me duck through doorways, and stoop in tunnels. She's only five feet and eleven inches. My father is gone, avoxed for his crimes against the Witch, we're all that's left. But no, it's just me. I stand quietly in the courtyard of her fortress, and let my mother's eyes stare straight through me. Your skin is far too pale, she might say. Well, I suppose that being hooked on a drug called winter, and living underground can do things like that to you, I might reply. My hair's like her's. A wild bush that sprouts from her head and tumbles down around her shoulders. Mine is shorter of course, but just as wild, if not wilder. It's wiry, and sticks up everywhere when I roll out of bed. All that I have to do is smooth it with one pale hand, and it's flat. My fingers are long, like my mother's. She used to play the harp, and it used to echo all through the house before. The only instrument the Witch has is the white grand piano in the foyer. She liked to teach me on sundays, and call me 'dear' but there was no pretending what our relationship was. Across the back of my hands, there are small scars from where the skin split when she slapped them with a switch for getting the keys wrong. Under my fingernails, there seems to be a permanent dirt from the tunnel walls. If not dirt, blood, from where I obsessively scrape away to get said dirt out. My mother's fingernails are clean as day and small. My fingernails are delicate for a man's. I stare carefully into my mother's eyes. They're green, gorgeously green. My father's eyes were blue. I don't know who's eyes I got, grey and ringed in black. A result of the winter coursing through my mother's veins when she gave birth to me, maybe. My father used to say that my mother's eyes were filled with the universe. I suppose he was just on winter when he saw that. My eyes always reminded my mother of the drug, so grey and flat. She fell in love with my father for his eyes, she said. I don't know what else she might have fallen in love with him for, so I suppose that's as good an explanation as any. Looking at my mother is almost terrifying, I haven't seen her in so long. Would she be proud of me, I wonder? Either way, she lost that right when she sold me for a drug. I haven't come very far since then, but if she was hoping for much, there was nothing I would have given her anyway. I'm branded, you know. With her initials, like a slave. I am a slave, I suppose, but a healthy one. Unless you count the pale skin, and the unnatural colour of my eyes. Or the fact that I'm unnaturally thin. I can eat for days and days, but it goes nowhere. My mother used to say I have hollow legs, but I don't think that's true. I just use it all up on my patrols through the tunnels. The brand is on my chest, right over my heart, as if to remind me every time I undress that I am her's. The skin is tight around the letter, and sometimes the memory of the heat on my skin makes it burn, but it happened years ago. Years ago, and painfully, full of rage. My mother isn't branded, not anywhere. She might be the Witch's now, but back then, she was her own, and a customer, someone to keep happy. When they fell into debt, I guess it changed everything. When the Witch took me, she cared for me in her awkward cold way. She keeps me well groomed, a fine wardrobe, and a comfortable room. She keeps me well fed, and I'm relatively free as long as I don't leave the tunnels and I do every little thing she asks of me. When I do bad she punishes me with pain, when I do good, she gives me my pill on time and I don't get sick, and she stays happy. My jaw clicks sometimes when I speak. It was broken once, eight years ago now, and it never set properly. My smiles have always been lopsided since, and I keep a short beard to hide the scar. I have millions of little disguises to hide my body, battered and broken piece of shit that it is. Just because she likes to teach me piano, it doesn't mean there is a care. I'm not irreplaceable, and of little import. All I do is watch the tunnels, act as a door keep, the muscle. I know I wouldn't look it, but I'm quite strong. When I make mistakes, there are no second chances. Her first instinct is pain. One foot out of line, and there is pain. It's taught me to step carefully, I trip up and I'm toast. I'm a disgusting image of the man I was supposed to be. When I was little, I wanted to be a Peacekeeper, and sometimes even believed I was due to the little white pills I had to swallow to stay alive. Nowadays, I tell the Witch everything, and it spurts like a stuttering waterfall from my mouth, just for a pat on the head. I'm despicable, all the lives I've ruined simply by reporting what I've seen. It's different for me, I'm not the same as the ghosts of people that we get wandering in for the pills. See, they take the pills because at first they wanted some joy in their lives. I take them because I'd die without them, without it in my blood stream, I get sick. My body thought it was something I needed since development, mistook it for an important vitamin because my mother's addiction to it while she was pregnant with me. My body needs it so badly that in an uncontrolled withdrawal, I could die. I've tried it before, of course I have. To wean myself from it, but all it resulted in was headaches, and me realizing that half the people I talked to were probably not real. Or the fact that purple was not the lovely shade I thought it was. Still lovely, just not the same. I live in a fairy tale world. I haven't even seen the sun in three years, not since the last time the Witch left me out and I tried to run. She threatened to avox my mother for that, and broke my foot so I couldn't run again. My father told me to take care of my mother when they dragged him away, I didn't even want to try running again. I don't know why I thought I owed allegiance to the man that ruined my life before I was even born. I guess all sons look up to their fathers though. There is a ghost of a woman standing in front of me, and I stand in front of her, my hands slipped into my coat pockets because it's winter and it's cold. There's winter everywhere, my world is winter, never summer. I miss the sun. My father met my mother in their seventeenth summer, and he swept her off of her feet. Their love was passionate, and filled with the underlying threat of being reaped. she was wild, and he wanted to tame her. He gave her winter, and she gave him me. I didn't have a running chance, was hooked to the chain that is winter before I was a twinkle in my father's eye. I never even got a chance. My mother and father became dealers when I was only three years old. They couldn't support a family, and my mother refused to give me up because I was her little baby boy, and I was gorgeous to her. That changed of course. I grew up with people coming in and out of my house, all different faces and names that I watched whither as I grew, and never knew why. They took my little white pill that I needed to live and it only ever slowly killed them. I never quite understood when my mother would explain, never quite understood where my parents went when they went out to get 'supplies'. They never returned quickly, their prize as dealers, 'some really concentrated shit' from the Witches' personal stores. It was meant to keep them hooked and craving more. She didn't need to use that trick on them, because they were addicts from the start. No matter how many times they said, "We'll be better soon, Tumnus, promise, okay? Don't cry baby, don't cry." I should have been used to it, having grown up with only knowing that. Been used to their constant lack of energy, the way they'd sit silently for hours staring into space. I thought that was normal, adults were just like that. When I was five and had my first day of kindergarten, I found out how wrong I was. Parents carried kids upside down, hanging them by the ankles, some type of game as they giggled and shrieked. Mothers tickled daughters, fathers carried sons on their shoulders. Some were swung between their parents, hands gripped tightly, feet never touching ground. It looked like fun. Everyone was so alive, and my house was like a tomb. I could lay flowers in front, but nothing could grow in there. I thought I could revive it. One day, in class, the Peacekeepers came to talk about the law, and they said that in the law, it said that the use or selling of illegal substances were bad, and there was a drug problem in this district. If anyone knew anything about it, they were to tell the Peacekeeper, and he'd help. It didn't matter if we were scared, nothing bad would happen to us. Only to the guilty party. That day, I went home and there was a man in the kitchen and my mother was handing him a bottle of little white pills, and he was handing her money, and I knew that Winter was illegal and that my mother and father were doing something illegal. I knew that they were being bad. The taint of evil was so thick that when I sat in my living room and watched the world go bye, nobody looked back. Nobody looked at our house because our house was only for evil things. Good came in the shape of people, but evil went out in the shape of evil. My parents were poisoning the District. I didn't know what to do about it. The final straw came when a girl in my class burst into tears in the middle of class one day. She was my friend so when she ran out of the classroom, I followed. I was only nine years old, and she was only eight, and I suppose I had a tiny little crush on her. I suppose I thought I could marry her some day, because that was what I liked to think about, falling in love and in turn falling away from the life I lived with my parents. That day, in the quiet of the hallway, subjected to her tears of rage and horrifying sadness. She told me that her mother was dead, over dosed on a drug. She didn't have to tell me, she knew that I knew what drug it was, there was only one drug. That day, instead of walking straight home like I was supposed to, I went to the Peacekeeper's office. I didn't know then, what it meant to cross the Winter Witch. I had never even met her, never felt the power she radiated. That very night, I met her. I met her horror too, and the men she kept around her. She could control them with a flick of her wrist, like dogs. That night, I met ehr, and i said goodbye to my mother and father. The Peacekeepers arrested my father, and avoxed him, my mother they brought to the Witch. The Peacekeeper was a rat, see, to see if her subjects were faithful. You can't trust any of us here in twelve, everything's been touched by evil. That night, I watched as they avoxed my father below the ground, tore his tongue right out of his skull, and set him in chains to the Capitol. I watched my mother weep and beg in terror for her life, and watched as she gave me away to save her own skin. I was the perfect slave, hooked since birth, and used to the life, the perfect little servant for the old Witch. She'd always wanted a son, she'd said. She brushed my hair back, and then had her boys hold me down as she smashed my jaw with a hammer, and made my mother watch. That same night, she branded me, and me already passed out from the pain barely felt it. The last time I saw my mother, she was sobbing, and screaming for me, and I was so angry. She sold me, and I knew it. I deserved it though, I sold out my own parents. I thought I was helping them, saving them from their evil, I wanted to do something good. I'm afraid to say much of anything these days, afraid most of the time. I'm jumpy, and I stutter when I speak. I try not to speak much as a result, because I lose something when I open my mouth and people see my weakness. It's a result of my goodness that I got it, just as same as my evil. I want to be good, I do. I try, but I'm afraid. I wanted to be brave, but being brave, and wanting to be brave are two completely different things. I've never gotten what I wanted. The courtyard is lit from above by lanterns, and the polished stone beneath my feet reflects them, making it look achingly beautiful in here. My mother would like that, I think. I don't actually know anymore, what she'd like. I don't think she knows either. She's as still as a statue beneath my gaze, and so are her friends that litter the courtyard like her. She's propped up by the metal ring around her waist, and her body is artfully moved to look like a dancer extending her arms. To me it looks like she's reaching for something. She's beautiful, my mother. Not as beautiful as the Witch, but beautiful to me. I was the one who told the Witch about what she'd done, how she was planning on going to the real Peacekeepers. I just wanted to protect her from herself, and I guess me too. I knew the Witch would break something of mine again when she found out what my mother I was doing. This way, I'm safe, and she's safe in a different way. She can't hurt herself like this, still that she is. Still as a statue. I just wanted to help. “IF I WAKE IN THE MORNING.” I only need two more miracles to be a saint. “EVERYTHING I PROMISED EVERYONE I'D BE” Well I just ain't . ANYTHING ELSE ? "Don't speak to me, don't speak to me. I'm thinking. I'm thinking so that I can hardly breathe." - Mr. Tumnus OUT OF CHARACTER . FACE CLAIM . HARRY TREADAWAY • VERTUMNUS FAUN OTHER CHARACTERS ? Click me. I, ELEGANT . actually finished a character for once is this the real life wow go me. CODEWORD . odair

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

complete and things I guess wow.

[Deleted]

Love this face, love this plot, love him, love you <3

ACCEPTED.