Name: Kylar Hamilton
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Appearance:
Standing at 6'2" and weighing in at 215 lbs., Kylar can tend to stand out in a crowd. His light-brown hair, shaped by the same barber his entire life, clings tight to his head once the clippers do their work. The young man's face tends to hold the same modesty in appearance, looking nothing more than plain, at least in Kylar's opinion. Thick, but well-maintained, eyebrows arch over his relatively large eyes. These eyes sparkle a deep green color, the same emerald shade of his father's eyes. A robust, yet appropriately proportioned nose adorns Kylar's face, set over full lips and a strong jawline. These facial features can sometimes be the only parts indicative of Kylar's emotion, whether it be a jaw jutting out in anger or eyes drooping in despair, his face can be read like a book. A book that those close to him read often and easily.
Wide shoulders and a broad chest define Kylar's frame, giving him the athlete's body that he wants no part in. Yet, much to the teenager's chagrin, his father's incessant demands of exercise and fitness have led him to possess a muscular frame. His muscles are well-defined, yet they do not burst out of his clothes like those of people more passionate about their body image. Kylar looks more the part of a soccer player or swimmer, lean muscle and a slim waist, than a body builder strapped with bulging biceps.
Kylar's wardrobe is a simple one, consisting of t-shirts and jeans in the colder months and jeans and cargo shorts in the warmer periods of the year. The only thing that interrupts this cycle is exercise, (which has simply become force of habit at this point) when he dons a tank top and basketball shorts or If the weather is extreme, when he'll throw on a hoodie or coat. In classes, Kylar will wear a pair of simple, rectangular glasses, but when out with friends or at a party, he'll shed the spectacles for contacts.
Personality:
Kylar is a man of passion and vigor. The things he cares about, he cares about deeply and holds a vested interest in. However, contrary to what many would believe when looking at him, his interests do not lie in sports, fighting, or military work, but instead academia. He is a man of exceedingly bookish tastes, and is not in the least ashamed to express his joy and adulation for the great authors that act as friends, carpeting his shelf space with their prose.
Despite his literary fervor, he is not an introvert in the slightest. Rather, Kylar is a man who enjoys professing his opinions on current events and various theories of the contemporaneous authors of the moment. His vocal nature extends beyond literature and essays into the realm of politics, where he is truly at home. Nowhere is Kylar more at home than in the socialist musings of Leon Trotsky, or the nation-saving philosophies of Franklin Delano Roosevelt (unless they don't exist in your RP in which case, he likes Pokemon Creators X and Y xP). In fact, his political passions have landed him in hot water in the past, as he often does not know when to shut up and carry on preaching more than the Pope himself.
Whenever his nose is extricated from a biography or essay however, Kylar does enjoy to attend parties. He's hardly a juvenile delinquent, but he doesn't mind screwing around with his friends on Saturday night and drinking a cold one, or two, or ten. It is at these times when he is the most relaxed in front of people, boisterous and quick with a laugh, but slow to judge. Unfortunately, when he is removed from these situations of comfort or stuck at home without his friends, Kylar can begin to brood and become a bitter, angry person. He has a poor relationship with his single father, and it has in some ways turned him away from comfortable social interaction at home. His house is a toxic environment to Kylar and one he cannot wait to leave, whether it be for the Academy or for his journey. He just wants out.
History:
Born in Opelucid City, the final stop for powerful trainers before Victory Road, Kylar has grown up witnessing countless powerful Pokemon trainers, both home-grown Dragon-type masters and aspiring league champions, finish their quest for badges. Kylar's father, Michael, used to be one of these high-flying trainers, burning the ground with intensity as he strove for his final badge. However, Michael seemed to hit a wall in Opelucid Gym; he could never vanquish Drayden, his final opponent before challenging the true greats. Years passed, and still nothing Michael did allowed him to succeed. As this shame festered and grew, Kylar's father sought ways of escape. At first, he turned to love, marrying a pretty young coordinator named Shannon who caught his eye. But when she died and left him with only Kylar, Michael became much bitterer and hit the bottle hard, while his son was raised by grandparents. Finally, he turned to the military, hoping to either wash away his sorrow and pain, or gain absolution through fire. 5 years of military service left him a changed man; his wound still festered within, but on the outside, he was competent, organized, and commanding. Kylar was soon returned to the custody of his father.
As the years went by, Michael stayed bitter, pushing Kylar to succeed where he couldn't. He tried to make him stronger, forcing exercise every morning and evening; he tried to make him smarter, forcing literature down his throat on uninteresting mathematics and science; and he tried to make him a more competent battler, throwing Kylar onto the field to learn or lose. And losing was not an option. Kylar grew to hate his father, resenting everything he represented. The hard, bitter man pushed his last legacy on Earth, his son, away from him.
It was at this point that Kylar became determined to make himself a master of Dragon Pokemon, the one type of monster that Michael had forbade him from training with. He studied secretly with the trainers of Opelucid Gym, the men and women that Kylar's father detested with all of his heart, slowly growing stronger, until he recently applied to the Academy. Kylar was desperate to get away from his emotionally abusive father, and the Academy filled everything he needed, finally allowing him to escape.
Theme Song: 90210 - Wale
Preferred Dorm:
1. Dragon Dorm / Axew
2. Normal Dorm / Aron
3. Mysterious Dorm / Beldum
RP Sample:
(From a bit more morbid RP haha)
Glorious battle, honor abound, grace amongst every combatant, a dance of the gods under moonlight barren of mercy. Where the **** is it Odin?
The figure, absent of scythe, sways through the landscape, block by decrepit block, this place hasn't changed a bit since he left it those years ago. This is still the rebellion's playground, and just like always, intruders had to barge in. Filth-ridden by their blindness, corrupted by their greed, worthless in their sacrifice to something which holds no personal gain to themselves. Lacking completely in grace, with no sense of moral code, so will these imbeciles be purged from our personal hell.
Closer and closer to the building hurricane, their hideous venom befouling the air of his home, irritating him to no end. Charging through and through, in position as to not be detected be assuredly established radar system, in shadows as to not be detected by body or soul, should his lifelong friend be watching. Ready to play a game, his psychosis beginning to emerge, ready to pave a path of chaos through their souls. To eastablish his name in their minds forever, to burn it into their walls to never be forgotten, so as they shudder upon the slightest mention of its fury.
My dear, dear friend, I do hope you are ready for a dance of grace and fury. Being watched or not, you should know I plan to test you. A while it has been since I've had this honor. Once the false god has been disposed, we true three shall dance the night away.
Now out in clear moonlight, close enough to not give a care in the world of being detected, a symbolic toy of past days which he once used phased into existence once more. Upon the spikes of his right shoulder, opposite the cursed arm, stood a crow of ominous presence. As did its master now, it let off an aura which distorted the matter around itself, lending that space to ripple with instability equal to the peace of the land. Lacking eyes to call its own, empty sockets falling into a gorge equivocal to sunset, the classic symbol of one's final hours sawing at their strings. Everything he did had a purpose to it, and yet not everything must occur at the moment it is seen, for sometimes planting a seed of discord can cause a world of chaos to bloom.
The dispatched unit's mission was to target the sighting of Grand Cross personnel scouted in the far east of the slums. They would never reach their objective. Then again, their objective didn't even exist in the first place. A grand scheme, a ploy laid out by ye who retained wills of their own. Bait placed to dent their armor, to slash part of their arteries. And every single troop in the unit bit, even their feared trashcan. They would never reach their objective, as they would discover a new one. To save their lives and to keep their souls as their own.
Those who would breed slaves marched through the ambush point, all of them blissfully ignorant to the blade flirting with their strings. One would think they would notice the uniqueness of the local, set as if it was almost expecting guests. Some robots did happen to turn their skulls upon entering the setup, double-taking at the out of place decorations. Torches lined the street, one of the few that went uphill in the slums. Torches lining a path, following and following into the second sight of shock value in only one night. The raved skulls of those hung upon the cross, candles emitting light through their openings, arranged in rows before a platform, casting their stares onto those who dare to tread upon this ground. With a pulse emitted through the air, their screeches of suffering become audiable, as if they could still feel their bodies burning and their dreams decaying. Their haunting shrills piercing the midnight atmosphere, weights sure to strap down their wills and resolve. Their eyes raised up the shrine to the next levels. A few stairs that if walked would surely feel as miles, and a flat plane, two torches on each side. A banner hung behind a throne, the symbol of the Cross inverted upon it, dressed in the blood of those of the previous cross.
Ye who fight and soon give your lives to a cause not your own, to forever be eponymous with stupidity. Ye who sacrifice yourselves to someone else's view, be the epitomy of masochism.
As their primal instincts began to rise, their fear betraying their sense of reason, rendering them, if possible, more useless than before. Thick fog beginning to coat the ground, the weight of the air steadily increasing, a pressure upon the soul forming in the atmosphere. The moon's light on this fine night fading into darkness, for its purpose here was done. It had cast its final judgment, and left the power in the hand of he who was most worthy, entrusting him with the course of the night. A hollow voice echoing through the streets, first coming from behind...
"You fools are taught to contain yourselves, to perform trickery instead of glory, to perform murder instead of honor. You contain the beast inside man that should be exercised - never exorcised. Yet you have suffered the latter, and become the frays on the string of a whip. You lack all senses of grace, honor, and glory, making you not warriors, but nothing except a scum that must be wiped from this earth."
The feet of the back half of that mass of troops giving out from under them, falling to be seated on the ground. Attempted to scramble to their feet, they had not the ability. They threw their heads from side to side, searching for their tormentor, not to be seen.
"If someone bothers you, ask him to stop. I asked you to stop by erecting my piece of art, and you discoursed. If he does not stop, destroy him. This is your only fate. I will dance through your bodies, leave you bleeding, battered, broken and begging for death. I will reap your souls from your bodies and cast them into darkness, your punishment for wasting them in your lifetime. Those who cherish honor are treated as warriors. Those who beget it will be torn asunder."
The feet of the those who remained at attention gave out from under them, falling to be seated on the ground. Attempting to scramble to their feet, they had not the ability. As those before them, they raced to sight their tormentor, but had not the time to locate him, for he saved them the trouble.
From the enclosed sector shielded by an ornate torch to the right of the banner, that ominous figure emerged, scythes phasing from air to material, in the palms of his hands. Gliding to the center slowly, as if from the undead himself, his chilling laughter sending them what could well be their final words in their final hour.
"Ah, a lot of carnage. I will be enjoying this... hahahaha!"
A dance of the gods, I do hope you fellows can keep up...
