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 Posted: Wed Feb 08, 2012 12:34 pm
 “If we knew what it was we were doing, it would not be called research, would it?”
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Posted: Wed Feb 08, 2012 12:38 pm
Character Name: Muirín (MIR-een)
Type: Pokemon
Species: Goldeen
Region: Johto
Gender: Male
Height: 5'11”
Age: Eighteen
Hair Color: Orange
Eye Color: Blue
Skin Color: Light Brown
Nature: Bold
Ability: Water Veil:
Immune to BURN condition.
Skill Set:
Water Pulse
Water - The user attacks the foe with a pulsing blast of water. It may also confuse the foe.
Waterfall
Water - The user charges at the foe rapidly, and may make it flinch. It can also be used to climb a waterfall.
Attract
Normal - The foe becomes infatuated and less likely to attack.
Secret Power
Normal - The user attacks with a secret power. Its added effects vary depending on the user's environment.
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Posted: Wed Feb 08, 2012 12:38 pm
Personality:
"Don't you get it? I've got too much to see. This won't stand in my way." ((Adventurous>>Audacious))
Muirín lives for adventure. With a brand new world made of dry land and vaulting blue sky opened up before him, he has set out on a journey to experience life in all of its glory. Whether Muirín searches for some sublime, specific sight, such as the Lake of Rage in the midst of a thunderstorm, or a more simple sensory detail, like a local delicacy, Muirín spends most of his time questing, or preparing himself for a new venture. He derives great joy from novelty, and this in turn can make him hasty and bold. His audacity will occasionally assist him, like when his daring brings him to places he might not otherwise be able to enter, such as the Whirl Islands. Oftentimes, though, his recklessness will land him in trouble when he bites off more than he can chew, such as attempting to gain entry to Mount Silver. Muirín doesn't understand the difference between an adventure and rushing rashly into trouble.
"Huh, that's some waterfall. I figure if I go at it just so, I can...” ((Resourceful>>Overconfident))
As a being almost completely alien to the world which he now inhabits, Muirín can't survive by his experiences and desires alone. He has become a quick thinker out of necessity, and his wits grow sharper by the day. He hatches plans quickly, and is nearly as quick to spring into them, an important factor when they are formulated using only the dynamic factors at hand, on which he cannot rely to remain constant. Sometimes, this will help him, when his quick thinking will send him sailing through challenging situations, like sneaking into the Bell Tower. However, though Muirín has a good grasp on his own abilities, he often underestimates the world at large, and will place too much faith in himself without thinking what could go wrong. Many a plan may yet go wrong when he misjudges or miscalculates based on a simple factor, like his foot slipping on a perilous climb upwards, or the slightest shift in his body bringing about a gravity-fueled descent when scaling a waterfall.
"Why do you buy such... tight pants? They look like they... constrict in the wrong places." ((Inquisitive>>Intrusive))
For all of Muirín's raw observational prowess, he oftentimes lacks perception in the esoteric realm of human customs and interactions. Whereas nature is lasting and immutable, the men and women of the world are so prone to change, from their dress to their mannerisms to the very ways they entertain themselves. He seeks to understand them as best he can, and this usually translates into asking them directly. Muirín, however, has no distinction between acceptable inquisitions and intruding questions that infringe upon one's personal space. He often comes off as quite forward, and in the worst cases, Muirín even seems rude.
"There's so much magic here, I just don't know where to start!" ((Fanciful>>Flighty))
Muirín measures his entire life in degrees of titillation and curiosity. On all of his adventures, he constantly discovers new details and ideas to fascinate over, moving from one point of interest to the next, each novelty fantastic to his ever-growing mental log of experiences. No concept is too broad for Muirín to grasp at, and no facet of the world too arcane or strange for him to attempt to understand. A boy of dauntless curiosity and whimsical humor, very little but for the gravest of news can sour his almost elfish disposition. However, with his frequent shifting of interest, Muirín is easily distracted and flighty, with his humors sometimes giving way to fevered hysteria and his curiosity occasionally turning to his attention span disappearing. Muirín doesn't always understand when it's happening, and it often takes a harsh meeting with reality or a gentle call from a friend to bring him back into his right mind again.
"Okay, this whole frowning act isn't doing a thing for you. Come with me, we're going on an adventure for the day.” ((Kind>>Overbearing))
Many people wish for a friend who will barge right in and give them the swift kick in the a** they need when they're down. Muirín is just such a friend. He's a fast companion with a kind heart, and very rarely wishes any harm on anyone, even those he can't get along with. Though content on his lonesome, Muirín loves to share in his experiences with others, and the sensations of camaraderie and satisfaction from imparting in others the same wonder he feels in the world are even more pleasant feelings for him to experience. Few, however, have a friends such as Muirín, and they tend to romanticize the concept he embodies. When he senses a friend who is hurting, sad, or otherwise lonely, he'll make it his personal mission to ensure that friend's restored happiness. Whether it be simply standing by for his friends or dragging them kicking and screaming into the light of day, Muirín will exert his presence upon his companions, and can be quite overbearing about it. Not everybody wants to be cheered up right away, and not everyone has patience for a friend like Muirín, who's constantly trying to make them feel better. It can often garner resentment for the boy, even if people later realize he only had good intentions.
"To be perfectly clear, no, I do not now, nor will I ever, enjoy, or want to watch, reality television." ((Honest>>Frank))
Of all the new factors of humanity that Muirín can now experience, duplicity has never been one he's been particularly fond of. As a goldeen, there had never been a need to tell a lie, and now that he's joined the world of men, Muirín has yet to find one, and he doubts he'd ever enjoy it, even if he eventually found it. Muirín just isn't one to pull punches with his words. He's honest with his friends, his enemies, and everyone in between, because he feels that information, while precious, is a treasure that should be shared with the world. He's often told others that he would feel greedy if he ever kept knowledge to himself that others might be curious about, for he feels that if he has a right to it, so does the world. He'd like to one day learn to read and write, in fact, so that he can pen a book that details his adventures into the world. However, for all his good intentions and openness, Muirín has next to nothing in the way of restraint or reservation. Just as positive information deserves to be shared, so too does negative knowledge. Sometimes, his honesty can be brutal, to the point where his frankness will actually sting. He's very seldom asked to break bad news, or really break any news, for just this reason.
Strengths: Muirín is a skilled, powerful swimmer, with a wicked front stroke and a certain wildness to his style that no natural human could ever learn. His life of physical activity has turned him lithe and graceful, and corded muscles shift just below his skin. He's also very optimistic.
Weaknesses: Illiterate, and has a rather short attention span. Tends to eavesdrop and insert himself into other peoples' conversations.
Likes: Veggies, beautiful scenery, information gained, sunny days.
Dislikes Seafood, clouds without rain, the smell of paint, grating noises.
Fears: Forgetting, situations that prove too massive for him to grasp.
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Posted: Wed Feb 08, 2012 12:41 pm
History: To the water-breathers of Johto’s many rivers, the world must be viewed through a murky, half-obscured filter. Though the sun shines through from somewhere far above, it serves only as a reminder, a hazy eye of light that informs all those below the surface that a bigger, brighter world lays somewhere just beyond the shores, an impenetrable land that none may truly experience if they hope to live and remember what they’ve seen. Some lust after it, though, some feel the magnetic pull of the land above like the sweeping tides, ebbing in and out. Hope fades to hopelessness each time that fiery orb dips out of sight and the waters go dark.
The goldeen who would come to call himself Muirín spent his entire aquatic life as one of these dreamers. He swam among the silt clouds and rapid currents of a river that contained the entirety of his accessible world, the only place he’d ever been, the only place he’d ever go, his sanctuary and his prison all at once. Every rock, reed, and feature of the riverbed became trivial, each new pokemon that entered Muirín’s place became mundane, and each day that past turned him to ever great depths of restlessness. Drove him closer, too, to madness, to desperation, to depression.
One day, at the depths of this desolate slump Muirín had fallen into, his feelings coalesced into action. That white orb above had no right to taunt him, he thought, and he wouldn’t swim under its challenge another moment longer. He’d see what lay beyond that shimmering, wavering surface that served as his sky even if it would be the last thing he’d see, even if he had to annihilate himself in the process. He swam upward, hard and fast, with all the strength his fins could provide and all the fury of his potentially final action. Closer and closer he drew to the water’s edge as murk and darkness and pokemon fell away behind. He became a missile with deadly force as he reached the surface, breached it…
… And saw everything that lay above. For one glorious moment in time, he hung suspended there, the sun now clear and strong and beautiful, turning each droplet of spray that flew from the flume of water he’d kicked up into a diamond. Trees and grassy earth, strange new things he’d never seen, stretched away in all directions, and above the roar of water from his breach, he heard the startled call of what he’d later learn to be a bird. Then in an instant, everything disappeared again, as gravity kicked in and sent Muirín plummeting back into the river, back to his reality, back to the lot he’d been assigned as a fish.
But now he’d had a taste. Now Muirín knew what lay above, had seen and felt more in an instant than he’d experienced in an entire lifetime in the water. He felt sure of it, that day, almost the second he’d gained back the ability to breathe as water had rushed back into his gills: That land above was where he belonged, and he’d spend the rest of his days up there. Whether or not he had numbered them by making such an difficult decision, he cared not. He refused to settle for interment in a watery cage if he had even the slightest chance of liberating himself from it.
Every day, he made his trips back up to the world of fresh air above, threw himself with all his strength at the surface and jumped over and over again, taking in all he could until his fins gave up and refused to carry him any longer. When he could no longer swim, he would float up and gaze up at the sky until his eyes hurt, and then again when the sun went down, taking in the stars and the moon. And when he grew too exhausted to stay awake, he would float down and sleep like death, carried instead by dreams of one day staying above, of turning his back on this river and never looking back. He dreamed of adventure and wished for freedom, to be beholden to nothing.
Life continued on like this for quite some time, but like great tidal waves or earthquakes on the seafloor, Muirín’s life changed in an instant.
Muirín’s fins had grown strong from the strain they’d been put under, and he no longer grew tired from his endless excursions above. Again and again he flew above the surface, soaking in a world that he’d grown just as familiar with as the place he now saw as a prison. He knew every tree, every blade of grass, every pebble studded in the sandy shore. This place, though… he never grew tired of it as he had his home, for it was his place, separate from that desolation below. From the moment the sun went up to the moment it dipped below the horizon, he jumped, not stopping for food, or even to allow himself a moment’s rest. When the sun set, though, Muirín realized just how much damage he’d done to himself, the extent of the damage. He sank to the bottom, unsure if he’d have the energy to awake the next day, and completely unconcerned. Again he fell to sleep.
But his dream this night, the one dream, wasn’t the same lighthearted, hopeful affair he’d had every night prior to this one. This one felt fevered, prophetic, significant, possibly because he knew it may very well be the last one he’d ever experience. In it, he swam back and forth along the riverbed, faster and faster. The laps grew shorter and shorter, and the surface grew closer and closer, but Muirín knew that he, himself, grew, was still growing, turning massive. Big fish, small river. Eventually, he could swim no more. He simply lay on the river, gasping in the sunlight and the air he couldn’t breathe. He rolled onto the beach, though, determined to spend his last moment on dry land…
Just beyond the shore, a blackness stood among the trees, watching him, observing how he struggled just to fulfill his own desires.
And then he woke up.
On the beach.
With shaky, unsteady motions, Muirín rolled onto his back. Above him, that same sun he’d always loved stared down at him as it always had, from the middle of a clear blue sky. Warmth filled him, and he took in a deep, whooping breath. As he let it out, the simple exhalation became a scream of exhilaration. Because he could breathe. Because he hadn’t bitten it.
Because somehow, he’d done it. He’d gotten his wish. His prison lay to his left, so innocent looking from beyond the outside, giving no hint how it had so sought to crush Muirín’s soul. And now… freedom. Muirín had his freedom.
“Hey, kiddo… You… You alright?”
Muirín looked to his right, where the voice had come from. A… thing… stood over him, some creature he didn’t know, but wished that he did. Such a curious new thing. Its face held concern, an emotion foreign to the once-fishy lad, for none of the waterfolk had ever shown concern before, just hunger and anger and fear. Muirín gazed up at this things, with its curly hair and its beard and its loose white garment on his upper body. Muirín had no words to give his questioner; he merely stared.
When the thing didn’t get a response, it spoke again. “Do you… Are you… What happened to your clothes, bucko…?”
It seemed to be trying VERY hard not to look at anything but directly into Muirín’s eyes. The boy picked up on this and looked down upon himself, a new experience given the much more workable neck, and saw just why he could sit upon this beach without keeling over. He had lost almost all traces of his fishy body, which had instead given way to the body of a creature like the one who stood over him. Albeit far less clothed.
“Man, oh, man… You alright, kid? Do you have… parents? A place to go? … Anything? Don’t tell me this is all you’ve got…”
Still no answer from Muirín. The thing laughed and threw its hand up, finally breaking its gaze away.
“Why did I expect any different? Couldn’t speak before, can’t speak now… Hold tight, kid, I’ve got a tarp for you to wrap up in.”
The man who covered Muirín turned out to be a painter named Ross. He took Muirín in, possibly out of some sense of obligation, possibly out of being handed a golden opportunity to be a father when he had no way to stay still long enough to raise a child. A wandering hiker and occasional artist of many different mediums, he had no patience to let any place grow stale. He proved to be a perfect match for Muirín. When it became apparent that Muirín couldn’t speak at all, rather than try to question it, Ross taught him so that he could actually obtain an understandable answer. Muirín picked up quickly, and before long, Ross got what he wanted, at least in part.
“Lived in that river all my life,” was all Muirín ever said of it, and once he’d spoken it, never mentioned the river again. For he’d promised himself he’d never look back, and he never intended to.
They travelled together for quite some time, and months turned into years as Muirín’s new body aged in strange ways. He grew more and more comfortable with his mind, and his words, and his purpose, for his course of action had become abundantly obvious and clear: He’d wander these lands as Ross had done, and see all there was to see. He would have kept at Ross’ side, but Ross had plans to leave the continent, and even in the years they’d spent together, they’d never exhausted every nook and cranny. How could Muirín possibly leave without learning each place like the back of his hand?
So they parted ways, with a promise to keep in touch. Ross never taught Muirín how to read or write, though, so those plans died within a week of their split. Muirín intends to track him down one day, though. To thank him for making this new world manageable and understandable.
But first, he had to see it.
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Posted: Thu Feb 16, 2012 10:13 pm
Wow. xD You've improved a lot. I think this template works well for you.
Approved. Please start your journal~
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