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Posted: Jun 19 2017, 10:50 AM
RICHARD JOHN WOODSON
51 - MALE - HETEROSEXUAL
Appearanceappearance goes here, 1+ paragraphs, please! Up to 100 tokens may be earned from this section. If you are using a playby for your character, please include that information at the end of this section, including credit for where you found the image.
Personalitypersonality goes here, 2+ paragraphs, please! Up to 100 tokens may be earned from this section.
History“I’m gettin’ t’old for this.” The man said and pushed his fingers down into the dirt to give him the push to stand back up again. His Hitmonchan looked down at him and reached with her strong arms to pull him back upto his feet but jumped back when he growled in frustration. “Can do it myself darlin’.” The man said and leveraged himself against the hard ground and then with a heave of his arms he was back upto his feet.
The Hitmonchan rolled her eyes and gave a long sigh of breath as the man clambered upwards and then began to walk in his slow, purposeful way back towards the little house in the woods that he called his home. Just a few more steps. Just like before. A few more steps and then back to the house and then he would be able to eat and drink and no-.
The ground quivered and the man sighed and looked at the pokemon who looked at him with the same resignation that had punctuated her trainer's face and posture. “Looks like we’re gonna do this again darlin’.” The man said and watched as the ground quaked and began to crack, veins erupting in the dirt and earth, the trees shaking and beginning to disappear into the ground as it opened like the maw of a Gyarados with teeth made of jutting stone. The man stepped back and dived to the left to avoid a chasm that had opened beneath his feet. He reached out and with a hard shove of a muscled shoulder drove the Hitmonchan ahead of him.
This had happened so many times, so many, many times that the man and the pokemon that accompanied him knew almost every step, every single painful, burning step. The ground rose and lashed at the man’s face, spattering his stubble clad chin and cheeks with wet, fresh mud. Stones cut at his hands as he hefted himself up with the strength and drive only survival could invoke. Memories of journeys long consigned to history came back as the faint pounding of his blood in his ears reminded him that at this moment he had to shift to the left to avoid a tree falling.
His Hitmonchan dived after him dancing on her agile feet as she pulverised another tree with a hard punch and then she knocked her trainer further on.
Just a few more steps. A few more steps to the house. So many, many times had this one single journey been done that the man and his pokemon knew every trick that this scenario could throw at them. What had begun with the man and Darlin’ the Hitmonchan taken and snuffed out beneath the earth instantly had become, through constant trial and error, a passage right upto the door.
The man did not allow his leg to fail, did not allow his body to give up on him. He had to push on until the task’s completion. Desperation had never entered his bitter soul; his jaded eyes had never flared in all-encompassing fear. He had been too far, seen too many things and fought through far more than an eternal earthquake to allow his indomitable will to be conquered by it. He glowered and he shifted again to avoid another crevasse jumping with a spring of his legs.
The door beckoned. This was the furthest he had come in the entire repetitive cycle. The closest he had gotten to the sweet embrace of his modest, spartanly furnished home with its bed in the corner, his medals and ribbons on the wall just above the little stove. The pictures of Rosaline and Emilia smiling with their pokemon, before they had walked away to live somewhere else. The man in a moment of clarity stopped and turned back around. His Hitmonchan breathless looked up at him and, the hint of a smile about her eyes.
He remembered Rosaline and Emilia so very well.
Emilia was beautiful when she was born. Like a ray of delicate sunshine reflecting off burnished copper. So right it could never be wrong. The man could remember the way her tiny fingers had squeezed on two of his. All ten of her fingers grasping onto his own. He could remember the way Rosaline had eyed him and a smile had crossed her features and he could remember the way his own face had shifted to soft and gentle adulation and adoration as his daughter had clung to him.
The girl had been the most beautiful thing that had ever come of the Man’s broken life. Riven by past war and bloodshed and
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