Post by Patch on May 14, 2010 12:25:38 GMT -8
Name: Fredrick Weaver
Nickname(s):
Patch
Age:
123 years, roughly 25 in Shapeshifter years
Date of Birth:
August 3rd
Sexuality:
Heterosexual
Breed:
Shapeshifter, Crafter Terrka
Abilities:
Magic Cloth
Loyalty:
Whoever he is commissioned to at the moment.
Status/Occupation:
Loner, Clothesmaker
Appearance:
In human form, his preferred form, he is roughly 4'4, but often feigns height by standing on tiptoes when standing behind something. His brown hair is roughly an inch long, with a windswept look unbeffitting his lifestyle. His brown eyes sparkle whenever he discovers a new style of clothing, abut other than that they just gaze about, lost in space, unless he's working. All of his features are soft, from his rounded chin to his almond-shaped eyes. He is very thin, with an extremely small layer of muscle that always goes unnoticed. His choice of clothing is usually a over-sized, baggy shirt and shorts, equally baggy, both usually some shade of brown, to match his skin.
In his true form, Patch is roughly six feet in height, with tan skin and longer hair, with white streaks criss-crossing all over, like a tiger. Six spindly arms jut out of his shoulders, constantly moving and always busy (on one occasion, two of his hands had occupied themselves with a game of rock, paper, scissors). His nails are replaced with, believe it or not, sewing needles, and the end joint of his thumb becomes a thimble.
Personality:
His personality changes day-to-day, depending on how he's doing with his work and what he recently ate. However, his usual personality comprises of a detached quality, and a calm disposition to whoever he meets. A conversation with him usually leads to talk about clothing styles and the different fashions of the races. He has no real hate for any race, really, but anyone wearing old or worn clothing gets a scolding and a free mending.
History:
Not much o a history, really. He grew up normal enough, and his love of mending and sewing had always been apparent. But he got fed up with always hanging around other shifters, and, at age forty, left to become a loner, and to strike it big by becoming a traveling clothesmaker.
Roleplay Sample:
Although it was still midday outside, the inside of his workshop was dark, lit only by a few small candles. Sunlight was tricky, and true art could only be made with the light from candles made from the wax of a rare tuber. Fredrick, more commonly known as the 'Patch', was hunched over a table, threading a needle with care through gossamer, working on the headpiece of a lovely white dress. It was a rare honor indeed to work on something so valuable, and he wanted to make the repair look as flawless as possible. The candles flickered slightly, and suddenly a flood of light rushed into the room. Patch, let out a sigh of exasperation. The rich were so impatient. With a grunt, he stood, scooping up the headdress and handing it to the woman at the door. "Yeah, yeah, done. Take it." With a nod, he closed the door, then went back to his worktable and slumped down into his chair, sighing. He could have done so much more than fix it, if only she ad given him the time.
Nickname(s):
Patch
Age:
123 years, roughly 25 in Shapeshifter years
Date of Birth:
August 3rd
Sexuality:
Heterosexual
Breed:
Shapeshifter, Crafter Terrka
Abilities:
Magic Cloth
Loyalty:
Whoever he is commissioned to at the moment.
Status/Occupation:
Loner, Clothesmaker
Appearance:
In human form, his preferred form, he is roughly 4'4, but often feigns height by standing on tiptoes when standing behind something. His brown hair is roughly an inch long, with a windswept look unbeffitting his lifestyle. His brown eyes sparkle whenever he discovers a new style of clothing, abut other than that they just gaze about, lost in space, unless he's working. All of his features are soft, from his rounded chin to his almond-shaped eyes. He is very thin, with an extremely small layer of muscle that always goes unnoticed. His choice of clothing is usually a over-sized, baggy shirt and shorts, equally baggy, both usually some shade of brown, to match his skin.
In his true form, Patch is roughly six feet in height, with tan skin and longer hair, with white streaks criss-crossing all over, like a tiger. Six spindly arms jut out of his shoulders, constantly moving and always busy (on one occasion, two of his hands had occupied themselves with a game of rock, paper, scissors). His nails are replaced with, believe it or not, sewing needles, and the end joint of his thumb becomes a thimble.
Personality:
His personality changes day-to-day, depending on how he's doing with his work and what he recently ate. However, his usual personality comprises of a detached quality, and a calm disposition to whoever he meets. A conversation with him usually leads to talk about clothing styles and the different fashions of the races. He has no real hate for any race, really, but anyone wearing old or worn clothing gets a scolding and a free mending.
History:
Not much o a history, really. He grew up normal enough, and his love of mending and sewing had always been apparent. But he got fed up with always hanging around other shifters, and, at age forty, left to become a loner, and to strike it big by becoming a traveling clothesmaker.
Roleplay Sample:
Although it was still midday outside, the inside of his workshop was dark, lit only by a few small candles. Sunlight was tricky, and true art could only be made with the light from candles made from the wax of a rare tuber. Fredrick, more commonly known as the 'Patch', was hunched over a table, threading a needle with care through gossamer, working on the headpiece of a lovely white dress. It was a rare honor indeed to work on something so valuable, and he wanted to make the repair look as flawless as possible. The candles flickered slightly, and suddenly a flood of light rushed into the room. Patch, let out a sigh of exasperation. The rich were so impatient. With a grunt, he stood, scooping up the headdress and handing it to the woman at the door. "Yeah, yeah, done. Take it." With a nod, he closed the door, then went back to his worktable and slumped down into his chair, sighing. He could have done so much more than fix it, if only she ad given him the time.