Name: Joseph “Honest” Sherman
Country of Origin: Ethora (Dredris)
Appearance: His straight brown hair is just this side of shaggy, barely short enough to keep from getting into his equally brown eyes. A small tuft of hair covers his chin, but otherwise he is clean shaven. While he’s fairly attractive, in a mundane sort of way, his smile sometimes verges on appearing too charming or too polished for comfort. He appears to have quite a lean physique; however, his movements are speedy and pack a surprisingly large amount of punch. Underneath his collarbone, he has a small string of numbers branded into his skin: 26569.
He generally wears a dark red shirt underneath a black coat, as well as long, dark grey pants which he tucks into his boots – black, of course. It is a habit of his to wear black and red, designed to keep bloodstains from showing too much. His clothes are of fairly high quality, but are beginning to look visibly worn. The most noticeable thing about his person is the two metre long glaive he carries much like a walking stick. Most of the time the blade is covered by a cloth tied with string, and sometimes he straps it over his back, although this is cumbersome.
Personality: In the plainest terms, Honest is a pathological liar. His fictitious backstory and personality are constantly changing on a whim so that Honest almost never tells the same lie twice. He is always found out, sooner rather than later, to which he would respond with yet another lie. He generally adopts a cheerful and optimistic persona, although there is always an edge of falsity in his brightness. Even when he lets the persona “slip” to reveal anger or sadness, it is usually just another act he puts on. His quick reflexes and fighting prowess are basically the only things he can truly claim for his own.
While this trait had started out as a way of protecting himself, it has evolved to the point that he himself doesn’t know what the truth really is. He has difficulty remembering what parts of his stories are real and which aren’t; a fact that it not helped by his propensity to effectively lie to himself. Honest can’t tell anymore whether the very emotions he are expressing at any given moment are really what he feels or just another act. It is really a vicious cycle: he had no identity, so he made new ones. He made up identities, and so he lost his sense of self. After so long, he’s rotten away until there’s nothing left behind the masks he wears to fool himself along with the world. Take away the masks too, and there would be nothing left but a blade.
The one positive of this is that he has developed iron-tight self-control. As he can never be sure of his feelings, he regards them as fake and can therefore dismiss them all. This does not mean he always practices his self-control: sometimes he even manufactures emotions and then reacts chaotically for no reason at all.
There is only one thing Honest knows for certain. He is very, very good at what he does. Or, at the very least, he is very, very good at pretending to be.
History: Honest grew up just outside of Baradoom. He was the middle child, with an older brother and a younger sister. Their parents earned enough to provide the family with food, clothes and shelter, but no more. Unfortunately, their area was under the control of a corrupt merchant—not that there were many incorrupt merchants around—who demanded money in return for protection. When his parents inevitably couldn’t afford to pay, the merchant offered to make a deal: sell him one of their children, and they could work it off for the rest of their life.At first his parents refused, resulting in a broken arm for the father. The next time the collectors came around, his parents reconsidered. And, well, seven-year-old Honest was the expendable child, after all.
He was put to use in the mines, to squeeze into the places that adults couldn’t reach. Soon after, he was resold to the government who branded him with his new identity, 26569, and put him on the farms. This only lasted about a year before the government decided to teach him, at nine years old, how to hold a weapon and sent him off to battle. Children slaves were small, agile, learned fast and, above all, incredibly expendable. Those that survived were then trained to become elite soldiers whose only mission in life was to kill.
His memory up until his late teens are jumbled and distorted to the point that he would be hard-pressed to even figure out where he actually came from. By that time he’d completely forgotten his original name, his only identifier being the numbers seared into his skin.
By the time Honest was twenty-one, he was trusted enough to be obedient that he was regularly sent on solo missions outside the country. One day, he just never came back. He renamed himself, stole some clothes, and sold his skills to the first person who would pay. He has never returned to Dredris since.
Weapon Preference: His main weapon, or at least his most noticeable one, is the two metre long glaive he carries with him. He also carries throwing knives dipped in poison in his belt, and hidden in various other places on his person. If given time and forewarning, he will also cover the tip of his glaive with poison.
Flamer gave a low whistle, impressed by the maze of a town around him. Certainly, he'd visited Fortree before, years ago, but the town had expanded considerably since then. He couldn't tell the time, with the greenery overhead blotting out the sky, but from the gathering crowd around the base of the conference center, the meeting would start soon. From his vantage point on one of the wooden bridges connecting several tree houses, there seemed to be a lot of friction between the Utopianists and Technocrats, their respective members gossiping like a bunch of housewives. He frowned slightly. Whatever he was getting into, it was a purely political type of thing and therefore not much interest to him except the money he got out of being here.
There was a yawn next to his ear, and he turned to grin at the Misdreavus resting on his shoulder. Trickery looked back sleepily, detecting the restlessness underneath them but unaffected by it. Flamer looked at the houses and bridges, this time with the eyes of a performer instead of a tourist. He could probably put on a great show with the layout of the buildings and trees. It would be slightly dangerous, but then, what wasn't? It was too bad he didn't have the time to choreograph an entire show right then, or he'd be blissfully throwing himself into the money-making practice.
What he could do, however, was check to see if a few things were valid. Immediately, he flung himself between the safety ropes and underneath the bridge itself. He dangled from his arms, grinning as he contemplated the almost definitely fatal drop that would greet him should he fall. He let go with one arm and grabbed onto the next piece of wood, repeating the process to move forwards. It was like the monkey bars that he had never been allowed to play on back in his childhood. Trickery was now floating by herself, keeping near just in case he did drop. After several more experimental swings, he slid so that he was on one side of the bridge and moved an arm to grab the bridge from above, his other arm following suit, and heaved himself upwards. That would be a great addition to any performance he would set up in Fortree. He just had to stylize it, add some special effects and fire and make it look as if it was easier than breathing to perform. Magic, his Houndoom, kept up his relentless pacing, whining every now and then in an effort to communicate that he was incredibly bored indeed.
Just as he stood up with a large grin on his face, a Scyther and Heracross leapt out of the greenery and attacked each other, presumably over territory or food. What was interesting was that they were forced to inhibit their instinctive need to fight by the Utopianists. This caused quite a stir among the gathered people and it was turning into an argument. Unfortunate 'significant pause' type of accidents, huh? That was going to be harder than he thought. The group preparing to attend the congregation looked about ready to try and slap their own views onto each other. Several looked as if they were ready to slit throats.
He shrugged, wondering why people were so bloody fired up every time anybody had the nerve to speak of 'religion'. Flamer beckoned to the two visible Pokemon by his side. Fool was reveling in the glory of being in his natural habitat.
"Come on, let's get down before we miss the real fun, eh?" He joked, leading them ever downwards. Trickery settled herself down on his shoulder again, eyes closing as she prepared to catch herself a nap, and Magic gave a short bark, happy to have something to do.
Quickly, they came to the base of the massive tree that was being used to hold the meeting itself. An agent passed through to the interior, presumably on some top-secret mission as the employed thugs of the government. He knew he was being slightly biased, but he'd had several bad run-ins with the group and had no wish to increase the number. True, he wasn't much better, being a prawn of the rich, but he had some measure of freedom at least.
There was some purposeful movement among the general milling about. He decided to just stay put until anything more interesting came up. As soon as Magic saw his intent, he shot off into the crowd in the hopes of bumping into any interesting Pokemon or people.
Other: While he can make poison and antidotes himself, he prefers to purchase them if he has the money, considering it too time-consuming to do personally.