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by courier six 6/15/2014, 2:13 pm
- Name:
Your name is Timothy Abernathy Winters the Fourth. It’s not your favorite name (that honor belongs to Tiberius), but it’ll do. The whole "the Fourth" thing is cool, but now you feel obligated to have a kid and name it the same.
Age:
Fifteen-and-a-half years, seeing you were born on November 2nd.
Gender:
You identify as a demiguy male. Basically, you’re a boy but not completely so. Neutral pronouns are in slight favor to male pronouns, but you’re rather cool with either set.
Eyes:
They’re a light brown, but not quite amber. The few times you get coffee, they remind you of macchiatos.
Hair:
It’s a bloody mess, it is. Brown, longish-shortish and something you just can’t describe. Well, you can try. It’s a mix between dark and regular brown, and it constantly sticks up in some feathery-looking shape. Unless you buzz it all off, it stays pretty much the same despite length.
Height:
Too short for your tastes. You’re about five feet and nine inches.
Body Type:
Skinny as a rail. No matter how much you work out or how much you eat, you’re the same skin-and-bones toothpick everyone picked on in third grade.
Skin Color:
Finally, the only thing you like about yourself. You’ve got a healthy tan on you, with rosy cheeks and rather even tone. Blemishes, surprisingly, aren't a problem for you.
God Parent:
Hebe, the goddess of youth. You wish it was someone cool, like Poseidon or Apollo, but Hebe will do.
Mortal Parent:
Timothy Winters the Third is your dad, not that you care for him much. He was always ashamed of you since you weren’t very masculine compared to your older brothers. God forbid he figures out you’re gay.
Country of Origin:
Technically the United States, because that’s where you were born. But you moved to Surrey Heath, Britain when you were, like, two and lived there almost ever since.
Pets:
None, seeing you’re allergic to dander. And remember that one time you tried to keep a fish? Yeah, no pets for you.
Talents:
Hah. Haha. That’s a laugh, considering you’re not good at anything, as you believe. Except guitar, you can always find solace in that. You’re also damn good at gardening, but you don’t dare talk about it with anyone.
Weapon:
You have two simple Celestial Bronze daggers at about six inches in length. There’s not words inscribed on them, as most people have it, but instead a Celtic-style weave. They're rather pretty.
Personality:
Myer-Briggs results say INFP, whatever that means. You're quiet and complex-minded, preferring to focus on the big picture rather than details. People are more bothersome than helpful in most cases, and books have never let you down. You're hopelessly optimistic, and believe that everything will be fixed, with you as one of the engineers in making this happen. When you get close to a person -which is not all that often- you tend to be super open with them. Philosophy discussions and warm hugs are common. And somewhat out-of-character, you get a lot more snarky, if that was even possible.
Flaws:
Yikes, you're not sure where to begin. First off: you're slow. Painfully slow. It takes you forever to do simple tasks; not because you're dull, but you just physically can't move fast. You're not sure why, but you've gotten used to it. You also tend to be absentminded and aloof, which certainly helps you with friend-making. As for physical flaws, you have few. The only really noticeable thing is your larger-than-average nose. Who are you, Cleopatra?
Powers:
Nope, none. Not that you mind, what the hell would a Hebe kid do, anyways? Except maybe some sort of magic Botox thing.
Life Before Camp:
Life for you was rather average. Your dad was married to some woman you barely knew, considering they divorced before you were born. It affected your brothers a bit, at ages four, seven, and eight. When you were brought down in a basket, your dad freaked, but soon came to terms with the fact that he probably shouldn't be sleeping around. Hey, you were helpful! He decided to remarry when you were two, so the lack of a mother figure didn't mess you up.
Now, your brothers were always the athletic, macho-man sort of people. It was only fitting that you were the exact opposite. Your dad didn't approve much, and he always made you enroll in the little league rugby team no matter how much you fussed that you didn't like it. Your brothers constantly called you homophobic slurs, with little reprimand from your mom or dad. Bless her heart, your mom was at best a total ditz who was surprisingly good at cooking. To this day, you're still not sure what your dad sees in her. People in school tended to ignore you, since you were really obsessed with mythology and astronomy up to about the age of thirteen. And of course, there were rumors about you being gay or that you were adopted or some other totally crazy thing that had a hint of truth to it.
Speaking of homosexuality, you found that out when you were fourteen, a month from fifteen. One of your best friends always had the cutest smile and the nicest laugh, and you couldn't help but like him. Sure, you were friends with girls and there was the stray rumor that you liked one of them, but you never like-liked them. And so, one day after school you went to study at said friend's house. His name was Andrew. You both looked over your Earth Sciences notes and you couldn't help but stare at him. He noticed, and you leaned in for the kiss. He slapped you. Nothing much happened after that that you remember, but you guys got distant fast.
As for Camp Half-Blood, you got here maybe two weeks ago. Your dad decided to fess up and haul you over here. No tearful goodbyes, just a weird and hopeful feeling of release.
RP Example:
Timothy stared.
At what, he wasn't sure of. He was just sitting on his bunk, staring at the floor and thinking. The Hebe section of the cabin was painfully quiet, but it was better than painfully loud. Bunnies and his brothers floated through his mind. What really popped out, was the scenarios running through his brain. Hey Dad, I'm gay! Are you going to accept me yet? His mind yelled at an imaginary father figure. Honestly, coming out sounded terrifying. What even sounded nice? Would presenting a boyfriend (as if) be good enough? Gods forbid, would he be thrown out in the streets? Dad seemed like the type.
"Hey, Tim, are you alright? You seem kinda pale," another kid passing by said.
"Yeah, just thinking."
Notes:
Surprise, you're gay. Relationships don't seem like your deal, though. Your favorite color is a clay brown, and you love eating stews and soups.
