EPONYMOUS FEY, DISTRICT 7

[gamemaker kelsier]

Name: EGGHEADED IDIOT WHO THINKS HE CAN FLY OR WHATEVER?
Age: 17
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 7
Appearance:

HE'S GOT A BIT OF A MANIC, 'IF I PUT ON GOGGLES, EVERYTHING WILL BE OKAY' SORT OF LOOK TO HIM.

Personality:

Eponymous has never been entirely all there. Maybe his mother's stories filled his head up to the brim and he never learned anything else. The general assumption is that he was dropped on his head as a babe. With wide, curious eyes he looks at the world in a ponderous sort of way, he's the type to stop in his tracks and try to put back together the cracked shell of a snail, fruitless as it may be. Every step he takes is tentative because Eponymous knows he is not meant for the ground. He was born an albatross, but by some cruel design was turned human boy. He is forever trying to figure out how to take to the air and remove this cruel curse. He's spent many an hour designing winged contraptions to help him in this endeavor. He's convinced that his little sister, Mosca, is a changeling. If she doesn't get back to her people soon, she very well might perish, and he can't have that. He's been plotting their escape to the woods for weeks now.

History:

UHHHH HE LIKES TO MAKE WINGS AND LIKES BIRDS SO HE PROBABLY HAS A FLOCK OF DOVES THAT DELIVER WEIRD MESSAGES TO HIS SISTER AND BROTHERS. THERE IS ALSO A NANNY GOOSE THAT KEEPS HIM FROM FALLING OFF CLIFFS. HIS NAME IS NATALIE. IT'S A WEIRD NAME FOR A MALE GOOSE, BUT HE LIKES IT. GO FIGURE.

Once upon a time, on the outskirts of the seventh district, there was a relatively nondescript cottage. In this cottage, there lived a mother, a father, four sons and one daughter. The mother was a lovely lady with laughter lines etched like spider's webs from the corners of her mouth, and the father was a lumberjack who only ever wore plaid. The mother and the father were very much in live, and loved their children dearly. In the evenings, the talented mother would weave stories about the fair folk who lived in the woods around their home, and the father would leave cups of milk out on the window sill to appease them. The children grew up on a diet of haphazard magic and home cooked meals. Once though, on a very dark and stormy night, the father did not come home to hang up his ax and be a father again.

So the mother pulled on her rubber boots and tramped off into the woods to find her husband. "He'd always had a poor sense of direction," she'd say. "He probably has gone off the wrong way," she'd say. So that night the children waited for their mother to drag their father back home by the ear. They waited and they waited and they waited. After two days they began to wonder if they were coming back, after a week the eldest decided they weren't. After four months, the youngest still hoped that they would.

These are the Fey children.

Codeword: DID U SEE THE THING O DAIR?
Comments/Other:

HE is FOR MY FEYS PLOT.

SOME DAY I'LL BEEEEE, PART OF THAT WORRRRRRRLD~~~~


also the quote is Ernest Hemingway u guys.

[gamemaker kelsier]

[atrb=cellSpacing,20,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 10px 10px 0px 0px; background-image: url(http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/07/b4/34/07b434c2d5dd55471a0dc34d8d6a5c2b.jpg); background-repeat: no-repeat, background-position: bottom, bTable] e p o n y m o u s f e y.

[/size][/right][/td][/tr]
[tr][td][atrb=style, font-family: Tahoma; word-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; background: #ffffff; opacity: 0.7; padding: 10px; border-radius: 10px 10px 10px 10px;]"There is something odd about them Feys. That Eponymous, he ain't all there fo' sure."

The general assumption is that Eponymous Fey was dropped on his head when he was a baby. People new to the neighborhood might scoff and call their neighbors cruel, but after some time they'd finally have to agree. There was something incredibly wrong about the way his thoughts flew about his head, through the air a bit, and then back in. The words he said took flight with his excitement, even if they were half uttered, insane ideas. One might even call him insane, but that really would be cruel, not when he holds that blissfully sweet look upon his visage. How does one be mean to a boy that will stop in the middle of a busy street to attempt to put a snail's cracked shell back together?

There have been people who have attempted a cruelty, mean words and harsh looks. Eponymous has always been oblivious to an abusive tone, or a glare. A soft smile on his face, he's always responded only with non-sensible kindness or twisting statements that make people go, ".....errr," with confusion. Eponymous is full of interesting facts and things that no one has cared to know about before. For example, "Ants stretch when they wake up in the morning," or something even more relevant such as, "A gozzard is a person who owns geese." Arguably, Eponymous is a Gozzard, yet Eponymous and Natalie might argue that fact. Natalie is pretty certain that he is a gozzard and a goose, Eponymous doesn't deny this, as last time he did there was a lot of yelling and blood. Some might even argue that the goose is the gozzard, and the gozzard is the goose.

Either way, Eponymous would be hopeless without his gozzarding goose, in the end that is the only point that matters. A name is a name when you get right down to it, and Eponymous' name had always meant exactly what it means. An Eponym is to name something after it's self. For a boy who's never bothered to be anything but exactly who he is, it fits rather nice, like a shoe that's already been worn in for ages. Like Eponymous' shoes for example. He's a tall boy, somewhere over six feet, so to match, he has big feet. His shoes have always been ones full of holes for snaking laces and road burns from many a flying experiment. They've never been a new pair, always found somehow at the markets, browned laces tied together, and tossed into a pile to sort through. It's alright, the shoes he wears have stories, just like him. He's always found it odd, that shoes don't write words through the air with every step, just like how his brother's words scrawl themselves out in various scripts whenever they speak.

He never knew it was unnatural to literally see the font of the way a person sounded. For example, Atreyu's script was ornate and beautiful, each letter perfectly formed and sometimes even illustrated in the lines. It's how he talks to Natalie, how he speaks to the flock of doves he tends. To him, they speak, words magically appearing above them for him to read. Amarith says he's just an empath, but Eponymous stubbornly believes that he and Natalie can converse. Mosca's script is in a spidery handwriting, Kronos' looks like blocks of cement piled on top of each other. Eponymous wondered too, what his looked like. He was far too shy however, to glance at his own reflection in the pond near their house. In fact, it might not have even occurred to him.

If he were to look he might find that his eyes are surprisingly, not like most. Most eyes are waterlogged, heavy things, weighed down by sorrow and cloud. Eponymous' eyes are bright as silk, and just as light. They do not know real sorrow like most. His mother and father may be gone but it does not trouble him. Indeed, the most trouble he has is when Mosca forces him down to her height so she can shear his long, bleached-by- some-past-experiment, locks. When it grows long enough he is more than happy to let it hang in his face, or pull the long strands up with a bit of rubber. It is rather difficult for her to force that knobbly, body down, he's so tall that he has to stoop when he goes through a doorway. It's something that he inherited from his father before him, and although second youngest, he is the tallest of his three brothers.

Those eyes of his are half of why it is so hard for people to be cruel to him. In those eyes, there is only a hopeful sort of trust. He's only ever looked on anything as beautiful, can find beauty in the ugliest of things. It's not unnatural to find something not altogether natural looking in the trees around their home, but Eponymous has never let himself be bothered by the features of these creatures. He might mend a leg here, feed a mouth there and send it out on it's merry way again, never really thinking about the consequences of his actions, or why the creature might have that bullet hole in the first place. When he sees pain, the only logical thing to do, if logic can be applied to the boy, is to fix it.

Maybe that's what keeps his flock of doves coming home to his shed every night to rest. Or maybe, they just recognize a kindred spirit when they see one. Eponymous was born a bird, his own mother told him, said she'd found him, wing broken in the woods. She said that when she splintered his little wings and began to heal, he never wanted to leave her so he grew arms and lost his feathers, he became her little boy. Since the day she'd told him this story, he'd become obsessed with the sky and flying. It explained why he was so light, so ready to fly. From that moment on, he was intent on taking to the sky once more. Besides, maybe if he could travel from that height, he could find his mother and father, the two that had disappeared on he and his brothers months ago.

He doesn't remember how to use the mail system. Kronos will patiently explain it again and again, but the licky-stamp thing has never made any sense to him. Any message that he might send is usually half written, his brain running along miles before his fingers, and delivered by a dove. A tiny scroll of paper tied to an insistent dove tapping at one's window is usually good enough reason to open the portal, but half of what makes it intriguing is what might be written on the scroll. One can never know what he might send, thinking everyone will understand his frantic ideas and alerts. His knuckles and slender digits are often stained with inks and oils, residue from his experimental wings and diagrams. His knees are often battle grounds, covered in scars and grazes, sometimes band aids when he lets Amarath attempt to disinfectant him. He doesn't like the sting.

Lately, his mind has been engrossed on just one thing. Years ago, Atreyu planted an idea in his head, one he's never been able to let go of. In fact, the recent disappearance of Mr. and Mrs. Fey has only served to confirm things for him. He is intent in the belief that the youngest Fey, Mosca, can be nothing other than a changeling. He's convinced that she's dying, that if he can return his beloved sister to the fair folk that live deep in the woods, she will get better, maybe they'll even find their parents along the way. Maybe, that's just what their father set out to do. Lately, his work shop has been a muddle, Natalie the goose annoyed out of her mind, tired of picking up his little messes he leaves just about everywhere. He's frantic see, he wants to go to the woods, and he's almost done planning. He's always been able to help others, always had that compassion in him to the point of close stupidity. He's the type of boy who's back yard is filled with home made bird nests, just to make sure they have somewhere safe for the winter.

The fact that Mosca's condition isn't something he can really help is utter agony. He is determined to help her, to fix her. If It means going into the woods, he will do so, wheeling her in by barrow, Natalie nipping at his heels. People might whisper he was dropped at birth, for all those oddities that make him up into a person, but luckily, he doesn't know to listen to whispers, he doesn't know to feel paranoid when he walks into a room and the voices suddenly go quiet. He trusts everyone with the fullest of hearts, it can't fit mean words or horrible ideas. He means everything in the most well-meaning of ways that even if he was to create a weapon, it would probably be meant to be a toaster.

In his heart there is an innocence that is hard to crush, his eyes carry it too. People can't seem to let him down, they can't seem to say no after one of his excited idea sharings, with his arms flailing. He's difficult to resist, even harder to disappoint. If he had a cruel bone in his body, he could probably become king of the world. Yet, he's happy in the shed he calls his work lab, happy with hand me down clothes, and whatever food they can scrounge up. He's happy to live in a cottage on the edge of civilization because for all his small geniuses, Eponymous Fey is nothing more and nothing less than he appears to be. Eponymous, is nothing less than an eponym, there is nothing more to him, no hidden depths of anger or meanness. He is simply everything he appears to be.

"Live the full life of the mind,
exhilarated by new ideas,
intoxicated by the romance of the unusual."

N a m e : Eponymous Fey
A g e : Seventeen
L o c a t i o n : District Seven
F a c e c l a i m : Park Chanyeol
C o d e w o r d : ödair
C h a r a c t e r s : click![/td][/td][/tr][/td][/td][/table][/center]

[gamemaker kelsier]

completedededed! ( ˘ ³˘)♥

[Sunrise Rainier D2 // [Thundy]]

Accepted!

[/center]