Post by QUAN FUU on Jun 26, 2015 0:50:20 GMT -6
QUAN FUU
21 ♦ MALE ♦ HETEROSEXUAL ♦ DOG ♦ TRAVELING ARTIST ♦ FAE
APPEARANCE
Height: 6'5''
Hair-Color: Dark Brown
Eye Color: Medium Blue
Distinguishing Features: ink-stained fingers, mutilated right hand, sheer size, and a large amount of tiger-based scars
Summary:
Quan is a tall young man; he stands five inches above six feet. Most everything about his appearance seems large and intimidating; his shoulders, from years of swinging axes and dragging slabs of meat, bulge with muscles.Beneath his apron, which he no longer wears, rested a six-pack; it has lost some of its definition since he has set out on his travels. Quan wears a variety of practical and comfortable clothing in dull tones related to the night or in Earthy, still dull, greens. He was almost constantly getting things extended; most of his clothing now, being nearly six months old, is a bit short. He uses a belt, usually filled with food and oddly enough brushes, to make certain his clothing (which is usually baggy at the waist) stays closed. His feet, which have blunt and hammer-like toes (the least attractive part of him), are usually dirty from days of walking with nothing to protect them aside from old sandals.
His face is chiseled and defined with a prominent chin and a narrow nose. His eyes, which many feel are decently attractive, are a clear and bright blue—they are likely the only brightly-colored thing on his person. His hair, always wild, wind-tossed, and difficult to tame, is a few shades lighter than melted chocolate; the brown comes from his mother’s side of the family. With its tendency to fall in his eyes, as he would rather deal with that then have it professionally trimmed, he throws it up behind a green-strip of fabric. He picked it off a tree in one of his travels—he really hopes it was not a shrine of some kind; he never bothered to check. His cheeks are dappled with frown lines. His brow is slightly wrinkled. He looks about right for his age other than that.
Being mauled by a tiger can do some odd things to the human body. His entire form, from just beneath his neck to his hips (and maybe even lower) is riddled with scars. Most of these came from the claws of the giant tiger, formerly his lover, as she turned her ire upon him. The worst are centered on his chest. What looks to be a sun, the result of giant paws and a maw digging into his chest, sits in the center—he has had a sun tattooed there to help hide some of the scarring. The skin is raised, irritated, and much lighter than the rest of him. Curling out from the main damage, like rays, are a variety of little scratches and scrapes. His waist, torn by the back paws of the beast, are also coated in old injuries. The most apparent result of the attack is on his right hand, formerly his dominant one—two fingers are missing. The index finger is gone to its first knuckle and the pinky, which is the most fragile, has vanished completely. His hand is rather useless.
Hair-Color: Dark Brown
Eye Color: Medium Blue
Distinguishing Features: ink-stained fingers, mutilated right hand, sheer size, and a large amount of tiger-based scars
Summary:
Quan is a tall young man; he stands five inches above six feet. Most everything about his appearance seems large and intimidating; his shoulders, from years of swinging axes and dragging slabs of meat, bulge with muscles.Beneath his apron, which he no longer wears, rested a six-pack; it has lost some of its definition since he has set out on his travels. Quan wears a variety of practical and comfortable clothing in dull tones related to the night or in Earthy, still dull, greens. He was almost constantly getting things extended; most of his clothing now, being nearly six months old, is a bit short. He uses a belt, usually filled with food and oddly enough brushes, to make certain his clothing (which is usually baggy at the waist) stays closed. His feet, which have blunt and hammer-like toes (the least attractive part of him), are usually dirty from days of walking with nothing to protect them aside from old sandals.
His face is chiseled and defined with a prominent chin and a narrow nose. His eyes, which many feel are decently attractive, are a clear and bright blue—they are likely the only brightly-colored thing on his person. His hair, always wild, wind-tossed, and difficult to tame, is a few shades lighter than melted chocolate; the brown comes from his mother’s side of the family. With its tendency to fall in his eyes, as he would rather deal with that then have it professionally trimmed, he throws it up behind a green-strip of fabric. He picked it off a tree in one of his travels—he really hopes it was not a shrine of some kind; he never bothered to check. His cheeks are dappled with frown lines. His brow is slightly wrinkled. He looks about right for his age other than that.
Being mauled by a tiger can do some odd things to the human body. His entire form, from just beneath his neck to his hips (and maybe even lower) is riddled with scars. Most of these came from the claws of the giant tiger, formerly his lover, as she turned her ire upon him. The worst are centered on his chest. What looks to be a sun, the result of giant paws and a maw digging into his chest, sits in the center—he has had a sun tattooed there to help hide some of the scarring. The skin is raised, irritated, and much lighter than the rest of him. Curling out from the main damage, like rays, are a variety of little scratches and scrapes. His waist, torn by the back paws of the beast, are also coated in old injuries. The most apparent result of the attack is on his right hand, formerly his dominant one—two fingers are missing. The index finger is gone to its first knuckle and the pinky, which is the most fragile, has vanished completely. His hand is rather useless.
PERSONALITY
Positive Traits: Dependable, observant, loyal, helpful, moralistic, heroic, steady, honest, occasionally empathetic, artistic, and very doggedly determined
Negative Traits: Blunt, sometimes lazy, poorly mannered, perverse, occasionally nosy, outwardly apathetic, and he is also a bit slow on the uptake
Likes: Flowers, calligraphy, dogs, cows, the color green, his mother, music, watching blacksmiths, watching stars, former lovers, friends, dirt, carts, farmland, food, baked goods, gambling, spring-time, booze, sex, naps, and festivals
Dislikes: Sun in his eyes, the job of a butcher, dressing properly, overly ostentatious people and places, stupid rules, cats, his father, missing two fingers, cities, axes (nasty instruments), purple, rude people, pushy people, being rushed, and goats
Summary:
Negative Traits: Blunt, sometimes lazy, poorly mannered, perverse, occasionally nosy, outwardly apathetic, and he is also a bit slow on the uptake
Likes: Flowers, calligraphy, dogs, cows, the color green, his mother, music, watching blacksmiths, watching stars, former lovers, friends, dirt, carts, farmland, food, baked goods, gambling, spring-time, booze, sex, naps, and festivals
Dislikes: Sun in his eyes, the job of a butcher, dressing properly, overly ostentatious people and places, stupid rules, cats, his father, missing two fingers, cities, axes (nasty instruments), purple, rude people, pushy people, being rushed, and goats
Summary:
"I was a quiet baby. I was a quiet kid. My father used to say that it annoyed him and that I was stupid and lazy--as I just blinked at him when he would become enraged. My mother would just smile and say I was always deep in thought. It is my personal belief that it is somewhere in between the two. I do not enjoy wasting words--or forcing out too many. I am also sometimes distracted by thoughts or passing objects; some call me a day-dreamer. Others call me annoying. I was never one for caring.
Being the son of a butcher, and being taught how to properly slit a throat since eight or nine, make people think all kinds of stupid shit. I never liked killing nothing--I didn't have a choice. Quick and painless was the way to go. The other village children picked fights with me. They teased me. Many poked my ribs. They wanted me to punch them and show them what I had. I thought that was stupid and ignored the brats. I allowed them to call me stupid and a doddering oxen as long as they left me alone. I am sometimes anti-social--I dislike wasting my time with those that do not matter to me. My family, my few true friends, and those who I consider worthy of being learned from are who I pay attention to.
Many a time I was kicked or hit for being lazy. I enjoy napping and just thinking. I am not one for spending many hard days in the sun dragging carcasses to and fro. Recently, meeting a traveling artist, I found that there was something I enjoyed doing--calligraphy calms me and brings up things in me I had thought forgotten.
While I may be a slow and plodding oxen, I get where I am going eventually. My mother has boxed my ears a few times for being the last to arrive; I am usually interested in something other than whatever banal conversation is at hand. Maybe these hits over the head explain some of my later behavior and trouble-making. I speak my mind without caring how it sounds; if someone does not want their question answered honestly, it is probably better that they don't ask. I am quiet for the most part--and easily distracted by things that interest me more than conversation (or dragging carcasses).
Being mauled by a tiger would have killed many people; it has nearly done the same thing to me once or twice I am far too stubborn and determined to allow something like that to happen--I need to ask Suyin something, even if she will tear my head off. While I am stubborn, refusing to lie down and die when the village boys beat me (or when a tiger mauled me), I am also loyal to the fault of any dog. There is a reason, when most men would avoid the tigress, that I am attempting to follow her. I am strong for my friends and only lover. Then again, as my father said constantly, I may just be stupid.
He said it when I befriended the boy down the road cursed with slowly turning into a Cicada. The man repeated it when the odd woman from Nibiru started my introduction to art. I am not racist and small-minded; my father, never leaving his small village of less than 200 people
I am an oxen far more than a dog: plodding, slow, easily distracted by greenery and new things, lazily standing in a field in the summer, not averse to hard work (as long as it is not my heavy-handed father giving the order or being forced to participate in the butchering of some animal. I am a bit slow on the uptake. I am hard to stop when I am angry. I will likely nuzzle your hand, or bug you for food, if I see a reason. The only thing about me that is more oxen than dog, other than my compassion and bursts of artistic or common genius, is that I will follow you to the ends of the Earth. Even if you are a heart-eating tiger.
Being the son of a butcher, and being taught how to properly slit a throat since eight or nine, make people think all kinds of stupid shit. I never liked killing nothing--I didn't have a choice. Quick and painless was the way to go. The other village children picked fights with me. They teased me. Many poked my ribs. They wanted me to punch them and show them what I had. I thought that was stupid and ignored the brats. I allowed them to call me stupid and a doddering oxen as long as they left me alone. I am sometimes anti-social--I dislike wasting my time with those that do not matter to me. My family, my few true friends, and those who I consider worthy of being learned from are who I pay attention to.
Many a time I was kicked or hit for being lazy. I enjoy napping and just thinking. I am not one for spending many hard days in the sun dragging carcasses to and fro. Recently, meeting a traveling artist, I found that there was something I enjoyed doing--calligraphy calms me and brings up things in me I had thought forgotten.
While I may be a slow and plodding oxen, I get where I am going eventually. My mother has boxed my ears a few times for being the last to arrive; I am usually interested in something other than whatever banal conversation is at hand. Maybe these hits over the head explain some of my later behavior and trouble-making. I speak my mind without caring how it sounds; if someone does not want their question answered honestly, it is probably better that they don't ask. I am quiet for the most part--and easily distracted by things that interest me more than conversation (or dragging carcasses).
Being mauled by a tiger would have killed many people; it has nearly done the same thing to me once or twice I am far too stubborn and determined to allow something like that to happen--I need to ask Suyin something, even if she will tear my head off. While I am stubborn, refusing to lie down and die when the village boys beat me (or when a tiger mauled me), I am also loyal to the fault of any dog. There is a reason, when most men would avoid the tigress, that I am attempting to follow her. I am strong for my friends and only lover. Then again, as my father said constantly, I may just be stupid.
He said it when I befriended the boy down the road cursed with slowly turning into a Cicada. The man repeated it when the odd woman from Nibiru started my introduction to art. I am not racist and small-minded; my father, never leaving his small village of less than 200 people
I am an oxen far more than a dog: plodding, slow, easily distracted by greenery and new things, lazily standing in a field in the summer, not averse to hard work (as long as it is not my heavy-handed father giving the order or being forced to participate in the butchering of some animal. I am a bit slow on the uptake. I am hard to stop when I am angry. I will likely nuzzle your hand, or bug you for food, if I see a reason. The only thing about me that is more oxen than dog, other than my compassion and bursts of artistic or common genius, is that I will follow you to the ends of the Earth. Even if you are a heart-eating tiger.
HISTORY
My father was a farmer and butcher with hands like hams; my mother was a beautiful, gentle, but poor, girl. He married her for her looks with little care as to her desires, A rich butcher tempted those bastards that called themselves family. He treated her well at first.When the drink tempted him, calling, he always had a habit of taking things too far. Grumbling turned to beatings. The occasional bits of sunshine faded as my mother lost her shapely figure. My eldest sister's arrival ruined any change of repair. For ten years, my mother remained barren until I appeared in the world. A little ball of rain hen my sister was born, and she lost her shapely figure (something he complained about often when drunk). My elder sister was almost ten when I was born. My youngest brother, and the last child, was born three years after me.
My mother used to say that I cried little when I was born. My elder sister screamed like a banshee. My younger brother, as I was old enough to remember the process (and never desire children), came in with a series of grunts and jerky wails. My father just said that silent kids where trouble. Monsters. Disrespectful. Funnily enough, as I grew, I proved the worthless ass right. Nobody had a right to slap my mom.
Screams came weekly. A cold bowl of rice. A mislaid bottle. I hated it growing up. Each sound would leave me scared and shaking in my cot. Eventually, wanting to be a hero, I started infuriating the useless drunk. My skin did not purple so easily as that of my frail mother. My father tossed me into work, sometimes with whips, to ruin my "rebellion". Old moron. Killing things was not my desire but, like a good son, I did what I was asked. I cried at night in private. Things did not get better. My father began to teach me the tools of his trade. Blood-soaked hands aren't exactly respected in those parts. Not by a long shot.
I had few friends as a child--a few down the street that were also outcasts and little else. Other brats refused to listen when I told them that I had never killed an animal myself and only kept up the words. The punches. The kicks. Sniffling was harder to fight. Each and every day, braving the world, I would go visit a sad little lonely girl up the road. Our friendship would grow into something else.
When we first met, both of us still children, she was just a close playmate to toussle and fight with for a few years. My home life continued as usual--though my father, overweight and not overly strong, had a hard time pushing his growing son around. When fighting grew too much, or I just was not in the mood, I would go visit her. Somehow, she always made me laugh.
The first kiss was sloppy, silly, and rather disappointing. We were fifteen at the time and innocent. I held her hands. We walked together through fields and rice I brought her flowers and other such things. I began to care even less for the silly people that pushed and teased me. She was perfect. She was also, sadly, a tiger (or at least one in disguise).
Two and a half years later, on a manure-coated hill, we gave ourselves wholly to one another. I was clumsy. She was, as usual, very sweet and accommodating. I vaguely remember her laughing at me. When those matters were done, we fell into a deep sleep. The next thing I knew, eyes still blurred from sleep, the form of a shaking and terrified woman was in my arms. Something was wrong.
What is happening? Why? Was she sick? Her hands clutched her stomach. My eyes widened in surprise as she, sweet and demure, twisted into a giant predator. My hand rose in front of my face as she attacked with claws and teeth. Two of my finger disappeared into its maw and two more hooked into its nose--this was how I had been taught to deal with disruptive cattle. The claws tore into my chest. Blood squirted--I knew the smell. I passed out with my hands locked around the beast's neck. She was gone when I awoke.
A village child, picking flowers, found me. A medicine woman, with some kind of artifact, helped stop me from bleeding to death that night. I lay upon my bedspread for many moons. When I recovered enough to walk, I found my hand useless. at my side. She was gone with it. My family lacked sympathy.
Finally, with two questions gnawing at my brain, I set out on my own. My father could no longer use me in his business--my hands lacked the strength to rouse and gather cattle. I was given some meat to peddle and thrown from the house; my father did not want to feed useless weight.
No longer would my life be constrained to that of a butcher's son.
When my box opened, revealing a brush, something in me clicked in my soul. It was my job to make the world a bit brighter.
---
In the six months since, still aching sometimes from his injuries, Quan has limped from area to area. The only incidents of interest are his saving of and friendship with an artist; the woman still travels with him to this day. The man, learning from the knowledgeable woman, is slowly gaining notoriety for the unique sweep of his letters and brutal shadowing.
All the while, as he recovers, the man listens for talk of his former lover. His woman. His friend. When asked why, accused of madness, determination lights up his face. The same answer emerges.
"I have something I must ask."
My mother used to say that I cried little when I was born. My elder sister screamed like a banshee. My younger brother, as I was old enough to remember the process (and never desire children), came in with a series of grunts and jerky wails. My father just said that silent kids where trouble. Monsters. Disrespectful. Funnily enough, as I grew, I proved the worthless ass right. Nobody had a right to slap my mom.
Screams came weekly. A cold bowl of rice. A mislaid bottle. I hated it growing up. Each sound would leave me scared and shaking in my cot. Eventually, wanting to be a hero, I started infuriating the useless drunk. My skin did not purple so easily as that of my frail mother. My father tossed me into work, sometimes with whips, to ruin my "rebellion". Old moron. Killing things was not my desire but, like a good son, I did what I was asked. I cried at night in private. Things did not get better. My father began to teach me the tools of his trade. Blood-soaked hands aren't exactly respected in those parts. Not by a long shot.
I had few friends as a child--a few down the street that were also outcasts and little else. Other brats refused to listen when I told them that I had never killed an animal myself and only kept up the words. The punches. The kicks. Sniffling was harder to fight. Each and every day, braving the world, I would go visit a sad little lonely girl up the road. Our friendship would grow into something else.
When we first met, both of us still children, she was just a close playmate to toussle and fight with for a few years. My home life continued as usual--though my father, overweight and not overly strong, had a hard time pushing his growing son around. When fighting grew too much, or I just was not in the mood, I would go visit her. Somehow, she always made me laugh.
The first kiss was sloppy, silly, and rather disappointing. We were fifteen at the time and innocent. I held her hands. We walked together through fields and rice I brought her flowers and other such things. I began to care even less for the silly people that pushed and teased me. She was perfect. She was also, sadly, a tiger (or at least one in disguise).
Two and a half years later, on a manure-coated hill, we gave ourselves wholly to one another. I was clumsy. She was, as usual, very sweet and accommodating. I vaguely remember her laughing at me. When those matters were done, we fell into a deep sleep. The next thing I knew, eyes still blurred from sleep, the form of a shaking and terrified woman was in my arms. Something was wrong.
What is happening? Why? Was she sick? Her hands clutched her stomach. My eyes widened in surprise as she, sweet and demure, twisted into a giant predator. My hand rose in front of my face as she attacked with claws and teeth. Two of my finger disappeared into its maw and two more hooked into its nose--this was how I had been taught to deal with disruptive cattle. The claws tore into my chest. Blood squirted--I knew the smell. I passed out with my hands locked around the beast's neck. She was gone when I awoke.
A village child, picking flowers, found me. A medicine woman, with some kind of artifact, helped stop me from bleeding to death that night. I lay upon my bedspread for many moons. When I recovered enough to walk, I found my hand useless. at my side. She was gone with it. My family lacked sympathy.
Finally, with two questions gnawing at my brain, I set out on my own. My father could no longer use me in his business--my hands lacked the strength to rouse and gather cattle. I was given some meat to peddle and thrown from the house; my father did not want to feed useless weight.
No longer would my life be constrained to that of a butcher's son.
When my box opened, revealing a brush, something in me clicked in my soul. It was my job to make the world a bit brighter.
---
In the six months since, still aching sometimes from his injuries, Quan has limped from area to area. The only incidents of interest are his saving of and friendship with an artist; the woman still travels with him to this day. The man, learning from the knowledgeable woman, is slowly gaining notoriety for the unique sweep of his letters and brutal shadowing.
All the while, as he recovers, the man listens for talk of his former lover. His woman. His friend. When asked why, accused of madness, determination lights up his face. The same answer emerges.
"I have something I must ask."
OTHER
PLAYER BACKGROUND. - See Enfai Siao-
PLAY BY. HAIYKYUU –SENPACHI- QUAN FUU
[/b][/div]PLAY BY. HAIYKYUU –SENPACHI- QUAN FUU
