Post by counterklock on Mar 27, 2011 16:49:47 GMT -5
Name:
Devon Blackwell
Age:
17
Race:
Half-Human, Half-Sylvan
Occupation:
Servant - Attendant
Allegiance:
To Be Decided
Physical Description:
With a slender build and rather distinct lack of height, Devon is often described as ‘petite’ and even ‘feminine’. His lack of strength restricts him to light duties as a servant, but his tiny frame lends him speed and agility in its absence. Pale, smooth skin is a result of very little outside labour, but there is a barely noticeable spattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks. Devon’s eyes are bright, piercing shade of azure. His neat, rather sleek black hair hangs down to just below ear level, hiding his most notable feature, the delicate pointed tips that often cause him to be mistaken for an elf.
As is proper of a servant, Devon keeps his eyes lowered whilst in the presence of those superior to him. Around those distinguished of rank, he makes sure to dip his head respectfully, keeping his head down and hopefully out of any trouble. When in the company of other servants, however, he holds his head high and proud, meeting the eyes of his equals with dignity.
Devon tends to move gracefully when not encumbered by outside forces, evidence of his Sylvan blood, upbringing and years of servitude. He rarely makes noise when walking, seeming to instead drift silently along. He prefers quiet over clamor, and in the past most masters have shared the same sentiment.
As a servant, Devon must wear what is given to him. Usually, he is a favored servant, and bid to don clean, aesthetically pleasing garments made of cotton, wool, or, rarely, silk. These garments often accentuate his small, effeminate form. Due to the intense dislike of elven figures at these times, Devon tends to wrap a scarf around his head or wear a cloak with a hood when out and about.
Overall, his dainty, exotic appearance makes him a rather desirable as a servant. Many previous masters and mistresses often acquired him for his child-like looks, claiming him to be 'charming' or 'adorable'.
Personality:
As expected of a servant, Devon is calm and obedient. He does all that he is bid to do, and does it with skill and speed. Due to his half-Sylph heritage, he tries to exert extreme discipline over his emotion, for any lapse of control could result in unwanted, dangerous outbursts. Due to this, he is viewed as cold, emotionless and even unfeeling, and only those who know him well enough can read his feelings.
Though he appears emotionless, and often denies his emotions, (as admitting a lack of self-control is unacceptable in the culture of his mother’s people) Devon still possesses them. Determination and a strong drive to perform to the full extent of his abilities run deep, as does his compassion for all living creatures. Devon intensely dislikes viewing others in pain, and often does everything possible to alleviate or take away this pain.
Devon rarely forms emotional ties, preferring to stay detached and aloof, to avoid attachments that could result in his physical or emotional injury. Many times have his former masters and mistresses set out to befriend him, only to be blocked by a cool, indifferent face. His loyalty and trust is rarely given out, but when earned, he is fiercely faithful to whoever has gained it. Very few of his masters have ever earned his complete trust.
Devon has noticed that he is most attracted to the male gender. Whilst he has never had a relationship on the romantic level, he is... curious, but unsure of forming emotional ties in fear of being hurt. He appreciates people for their minds and their personalities the most.
He has the ability to read, write and perform rather advanced arithmetic, a level of intelligence uncommon in servants. He is able to sew and weave, and often is requested to play the harp or sing for his masters and mistresses. All his talents make him feel pride in himself, and he inadvertently has gained the urge to please as a result of his long years of servitude. Fair masters garner gratitude and loyalty from him, while cruel masters are often resented and disliked. No matter his opinion of his masters, they remain private.
While Devon has remarkable self-control over his emotions, he has been known to lose this control, though this is rare. Intense emotional abuse has been a known factor that causes this lack of control, as is repeated verbal taunting. He is no stranger to being mocked for his elf-like appearance, but insults aimed at his heritage are most likely to result in a slip up, and he has been known to become irritated, or, rarely, angry enough to lash out. Such losses of control are few and far between.
Underneath his pride, determination and compassion, there is a secret desire to be free. Years of servitude have done nothing to diminish his hidden spirit. He has a strong yearning to be seen as an equal, to be considered something more than a mere inferior servant boy. And, like most young people, he dreams of travelling and of exploring the world, reflecting an intense curiosity to learn as much as he can about his surroundings. Devon has often considered fleeing from captivity, but the risks had often outweighed the benefits. He bides his time, obedient and docile, and hopes for the day he might make his escape, or be set free.
History:
Devon Blackwell’s story began far from these lands, in a distant kingdom. His father, Nicholas Blackwell, was a well-off farmer with much land and many hands to help tend it. Nicholas was a widower, for his former wife had died shortly after giving birth to their son, Jaden. Nicholas loved his wife very much, and diligently raised Jaden on his own with dignity and pride.
His mother, T’Pri, was Sylvan, a species not unlike the elves that inhabit Du Weldenvarden, and a member of an ambassadorial group sent from the Sylvan city of Novan’Dai to establish trade in the town near Nicholas’ farm. T’Pri was of minor nobility, who often disregarded those underneath her position, and was often described in the past as vain, superficial and ultimately very selfish.
T’Pri encountered Nicholas one day whilst purchasing jewellery, and thought him quite handsome. Nicholas fell in love with T’Pri that day, and after several weeks of courtship they were wed by the customs of their peoples. Nicholas loved T’Pri with all his heart, and devoted himself to their relationship and to his wife’s happiness, but T’Pri, though mildly affectionate of her husband, merely saw him as an intriguing being and rarely ever returned his sentiments. When the ambassadorial party left for Novan’Dai, she remained behind with her new husband.
They conceived a son, dark haired and pale, but with Nicholas’ brilliant blue eyes, and Nicholas named him ‘Devon’ after his grandfather. Devon had been born very small, so small the midwives did not believe he would survive past infancy, but against all odds the child lived. Nicholas fell in love with this tiny little baby boy, the way parents fall in love with their children, but when T’Pri first held the wailing newborn babe in her arms, she was said to have scowled and proclaimed him to be ‘too human’.
As Devon grew, T’Pri often traveled back to the lands of her people, claiming the wish to visit her kin. No matter how many times he begged to hear of her culture, Devon's mother never told him of her people and their mysterious ways. As he grew older, his mother was absent more often than she was present, and, in his young mind, he believed it was his fault. Whenever his mother did return, he strived to be like her – cold, detached, and in control of his illogical emotions - but she regarded him with disdain, as she did with his older half brother Jaden and her own husband. Nicholas, blinded by his love for her, did not see this.
Finally, when Devon turned eight years of age, T’Pri returned one last time to inform her husband that she had sought divorce from her people, and that she was no longer satisfied with their union. She left the farm house, and never returned again.
Devon believed that T’Pri’s departure was his fault. All his young life he had striven to impress her, to prove to her that he was worthy of her attentions, to show her that he wished to learn of the culture of her people, only to be dismissed or ignored. He believed that her absence from his life was a result of his humanity, and, as a result, he swore to prove his worth as a child of two worlds.
Nicholas was devastated. The loss of his second wife devastated him, and he finally saw the jarring truth; T’Pri had never loved him, and she had simply grown bored with him and their quaint little life. Broken, he allowed his magnificent estate to descend into ruin, and his family lost everything they had ever worked for.
Devon and Jaden did everything they could to rouse their father from his depression, but it was no use; later that year, Nicholas passed on, weakened by sickness that struck during the winter. Jaden, being on the cusp of manhood, did all that he could to acquire a job to support himself and his younger half-brother, but work was often hard to come by, and they spent many days huddled in doorways for warmth, hungry and cold. When spring came, they travelled to other towns and villages, in search of any way to buy food and shelter for themselves.
It was in one such village that Devon was captured by slavers. The slavers struck quickly and efficiently, only kidnapping the younger children, and any women they could catch. Immediately, his doe-eyed face and pale complexion was noticed, and expected to bring much gold. Finally, the slavers noticed his pointed ears, they realised that only the wealthiest of buyers would be able to purchase an elf, as they assumed him to be. Pleased with their bountiful catch, they retreated, taking several children and women, and Devon was among them.
Bound tightly with thick ropes, Devon was tossed into a wagon that was taken to a port, and then he was transferred with the rest of those captured into the hold of a ship. For several days they sailed, huddled together fearfully as the ship rocked and swayed with the waves, fed only scraps and given minimal fresh water. Finally, they docked at a port and taken from the ship. Devon learned this port-city was called Teirm, and it was the center of this country’s slave trade.
It has been nearly ten years since he had been taken. Devon has had several different masters and mistresses in that time. Most often he is purchased for his boyish, elf-like appearance, though his skills of the voice and of the harp, acquired when he was a child, have also been factors in the past. For several years, Devon was resentful of his status as a servant, but as he has grown, he has finally understood that being angry does nothing for one’s status. Now, he does what is asked of him with obedience and skill, and bides his time, hoping one day to escape or be set free, so he may one day return to his home land and his older half-brother.
Roleplaying Sample:
Brynvelinevornolendon had been one of the few children born during the Time War.
Only desperate fools had children during such times, and his parents, desperate and foolish enough, had loomed him without thinking of the fact that they were bringing an innocent child into a hellish world. The loom that he had been born from had been one of the last looms in existence, since most of the others had all been destroyed by the Daleks during the early days. It had been an older model, a model that created an actual child, because the newer models that created grown adults fit for fighting had been destroyed or lost, mostly due to the Daleks or overuse.
There was very little use for a child on a Battle TARDIS, but it hadn’t been as if his parents or the rest of crew could dump him off anywhere. Where could they leave an infant in the midst of a war? His parents, young lovers who had hurriedly eloped, hadn’t been the best of parents at all, really. They had little interest in raising a toddler, especially when time missiles were being shot at them by Daleks. Once they had realized just how much work a child required, they dropped that responsibility in favour of fighting.
The closest thing had had to a parent had been Rodaheilovorunal, an old scholar on his last regeneration who was as out of place on the type 153 Battle TARDIS as he had been. Old Rodaheil was gruff and harsh, but he always made sure Bryn had the knowledge he needed to survive. Bryn knew little about mathematics, physics (For what use did he have of them aboard a warship?) but he knew how to operate the weapons systems and arm time missiles rather well. He learned to be quick and cunning, and so he survived.
At the early age of four, Bryn had been taken to the Untempered Schism. Oh, how it had hurt. All of time itself had burned in his head, for the brief seconds he had been allowed to be exposed to the Vortex. And oh, how beautiful it had been! His young mind, predictably, had not been ready for it, and after about three seconds of staring into the terrible beauty that was all of time and space itself, Bryn had fainted, and stayed unconscious for several days. Looking into the Untempered Schism had nearly killed him, and no one had expected him to survive. It was a wonder he was alive at all.
After that, Bryn hadn’t been the same. He had been inspired by what he had seen, and he could understand why some Time Lords fled Gallifrey to see the universe. Sometimes, when the fighting got particularly bad, and it seemed like they all would die, he even wished he could flee too. He had been born into a life of war, and it had been all he had known. Never the less, from the moment he was born, Bryn felt as if he wanted out.
It had been the Last Day of the Time War when he had lost them all. His TARDIS had sustained severe damage, and everyone else had been killed during a single strike by some terrible, unknown weapon. Due to some miracle or anomaly, Bryn had survived from his place in the weapons room. Like a benevolent figure of myth, his TARDIS mentally cradled the last member of her crew left as he regenerated for the fifth time in his six short years of existence, and she, dying and weak, carried him away with her last ounce of strength to a place of safety.
Some place of safety it turned out to be. Starving, injured and spouting excess regenerative energy, it had been a challenge just to stay alive. He knew how to survive on board a ship in the midst of a war. He didn’t know how to survive out on the streets, exposed to the elements, having to steal food to survive. It had been terrifying.
Right now, he was scared. He was in the presence of Gallifrey’s two most notorious renegade Time Lords, and one of them was rather hostile. Bryn was afraid. He didn’t know what to do. So, he sat in the seat he had been placed in, still wrapped up in the Doctor’s coat, and toyed nervously with the apple in his hands.
“...My TARDIS left,” The dark-haired boy mumbled, his eyes on the grated floor a few inches beneath his feet, “You won’t find her there. She tossed me out, and then dematerialized. She’s probably gone to the Vortex to die. That’s what all the newer TARDISes do, so the Daleks don’t capture them.”
The Doctor had the sneaking feeling that something was going on inside his new passenger’s head. He studied Bryn closely. He could only guess at what this boy had been through. Before the War, there had been very few young Time Lords to begin with. When they came, they were treated with care and cherished. He had rarely, if ever, heard of children being born during the War. Those children were rarely loved as they should have been, and instead were immediately placed in front of a weapons console. The Doctor prayed his suspicions were wrong, but knew just by looking at Bryn that the young Time Lord had been one of those children.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. We can get along just fine with this TARDIS here.”
He could hardly miss the Master’s look at the mention of food. It was a ravenous expression, one that made the Doctor just a little bit nervous. He knew that the Master needed to consume vast amounts of food to support his dying body. It didn’t matter what sort of food it was, for he also knew that, in this state, the Master wasn’t picky. He knew the Master had eaten several humans, and if the Doctor didn’t keep an eye on him, he’d probably eat someone else.
Judging by the condition little Bryn was in, he probably was hungry too. He had to hungry, otherwise he’d probably wouldn’t have stolen that apple.
The Doctor didn’t exactly have much food in his TARDIS. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even gone grocery shopping. His kitchen was notoriously hard to track down, due to its tendency to wander. No matter how many times he looked into locking its location in the TARDIS, it never remained in the same place twice. Due to the fact that he never really knew when he’d see the kitchen again, he rarely had any perishable food. There was a reason why he and his companions usually dined out.
“How does an all-you-can-eat-buffet sound?” The Doctor had an idea of where to take them. The place he had in mind was a quiet little diner in the sixty-third century, on a star base in the Alpha Centauri system, where not many people would question their rather suspicious appearances at the moment, but with a fairly decent variety of food.
The Master would probably devour everything that was offered, but the Doctor hoped that it would be enough to satisfy his appetite for a little while. He was feeling a little hungry himself, actually. Running around non-stop tended to have that effect on one, no matter what species, it seemed. The Doctor would have preferred to get Bryn out of those ragged red robes before they went out, but the Master would probably die if they didn’t get a move on.
He began to work the console, flicking levers and pressing buttons to take them to that little diner in the sixty-third century. Out of the corner of his eye, the Doctor saw Bryn look up upon prompting from the Master about the apple in his hands. Bryn hesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to relinquish his well-earned plunder, before silently relinquishing the fruit, avoiding all eye contact as he handed it over. It didn’t take a genius to see the poor kid was absolutely petrified, even though he was trying to hide it. The Doctor wanted to kick the Master for making the situation worse, but he didn’t, because the Master would probably kick him back and the violence would probably scare Bryn even more.
When they landed, the Doctor paused for a moment, before he turned and crouched down in front of the dark-haired Time Lord child wrapped in his trench coat.
“Bryn? I want you to know that everything’s going to be all right now. You’re safe here, with... with us.” The Doctor said softly, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You don’t need to be afraid. We’ll protect you now.”
The Doctor meant it. This child, like every other child in the whole universe, deserved to be loved and protected, and he silently vowed to make sure that happened one way or another.
Bryn, with his wide blue eyes, looked up for a fraction of a second before nodding. The Doctor grinned, offered his hand to the boy, and, when Bryn took it, led him over to the TARDIS doors. When they stepped out, they were across the street from a quiet little restaurant with few patrons, due to the fact that it was late evening on the planet they were currently on.
“Last time I was here, Donna – she’s one of my old companions - made one of the waiters cry, but they have really good food. I once saved the owner’s pet cat from a catnapper, so I think we should be good, though,” The Doctor explained, more to Bryn than to the Master, and led the way into the restaurant.
As the waiter pointed out a booth for them to sit at, the Doctor added as an afterthought, “I didn’t really like that cat. It kept trying to claw my face off.”
He didn’t miss the small, brief smile that ghosted Bryn’s face. The Doctor smiled too.
