Donavan Driscoll
Oct 22, 2008 17:23:24 GMT -5
Post by Donavan on Oct 22, 2008 17:23:24 GMT -5
Full Name: Donavan Driscoll
Fandom: POTO, original, other (specify)? Original
Age: 26
Height: 5’ 11”
Build: Lithe. A bit lanky which can make him look awkward at times, though he moves well.
Hair: Dark and a bit long, falling gently around his face
Eyes: Brilliant blue, deep and wondering
Nationality: Irish
Job: Painter for hire.
Personality: Donavan is a rather quiet sort of fellow, piercing eyes often the only part that communicates readily. But once one begins to pull back the layers, the creature beneath only becomes more intriguing. A genuinely sweet guy, sometimes he is given to uncharacteristic outbursts of temper or mood, only to be apologetic a short time later. He seems complex, but there are times that it is easy to see that he is deeply enamored of the simple things in life.
Life Story (as much as you want us to know): Born on the coast of Ireland near Dun, Donavan was raised in a small cottage, mostly by his mother. His father was a fisherman and spent long hours to catch enough to make ends meet. But the boy was happy enough to be under his mother’s foot, chasing her about and begging stories and songs of her. She always found the time to indulge him, often while mending nets for his father. As Donavan grew older, the tales stuck with him and he picked charcoal from the fireplace, spending late nights sketching elaborate images on the stone hearth.
When he was 12, Donavan had been sitting on the edge of the cliff outside their cottage, waiting for his father’s return (as was his nightly habit). The sun sank lower and lower and there was still no sign of his father’s ship. When at long last his father made it back to shore, it was to the crumpled body of his son on the sandy beach. The cliff above had given way and the boy had landed hard on the ground below. Assuming the worst, he brought the body back to the cottage, laying it out for burial in the morning. Donavan’s mother was crushed. The next morning, the body was washed and dressed, prepared for simple burial. But as the small gathering of fishermen moved to lower the boy into the fresh grave, his mother threw herself on the boy, swearing he was not dead. Confused, they tried to pull her off, but she would not be moved. To humor her, they sent for the doctor who, upon arriving a day later, found that she had been correct. Faint breath still fogged the mirror. After that, Donavan’s mother sat, day after day at his bedside, forcing small amounts of broth into him and telling him stories and singing the ballads he had loved so much as a young child. She never told anyone that she had seen the boy standing on the cliff as she had prepared to go to the funeral, gently smiling and shaking his head. Only then had she known in her heart he was not dead.
Near a month later, the lad’s eyes finally flickered open. His mother was overwhelmed and his father’s heavy expression finally lightened. Only after a few days did they start to realize that the boy was a bit…off. He had always been quiet, but he did not speak for almost two weeks after waking. He seemed to startle unexpectedly, especially when meeting new people. He kept to himself mostly, his hand always moving, whether at the fireplace or in the sand of the beach. Finally scraping enough together, his parents bought him some paper and some ink. From that day on, there was no stopping him. He drew constantly, often not eating or sleeping, page after page filled. His work was surprisingly good for one so young and untrained. His work started to get noticed in town, his father selling a piece here and there. The portraits he did of his mother were particularly popular. They seemed to catch a certain essence of her, something lovely that was indefinable. After two years, he could afford oil and canvas and started doing portraits on commission. He seemed to have a harder time of it, often a particular customer would be disturbed by the ‘likeness’. But others were praised for their brilliance and beauty, so things seemed to even out.
But something changed. His portraits of his mother (she was still by far his favorite and most practiced subject) grew…sadder. Like there was something being lost in them, even though most could not pinpoint what it was. A month later, she was dead. Gone peacefully in her sleep. The next morning Donavan was gone, a simple graphite sketch his only note left behind. It was his mother, resting. In its pure lines was a sublime serenity that was indescribable.
From there Donavan sailed south, feeling at home everywhere and nowhere, constantly looking for new subjects, but never finding that one, the pure heart that can be his new muse.
Fandom: POTO, original, other (specify)? Original
Age: 26
Height: 5’ 11”
Build: Lithe. A bit lanky which can make him look awkward at times, though he moves well.
Hair: Dark and a bit long, falling gently around his face
Eyes: Brilliant blue, deep and wondering
Nationality: Irish
Job: Painter for hire.
Personality: Donavan is a rather quiet sort of fellow, piercing eyes often the only part that communicates readily. But once one begins to pull back the layers, the creature beneath only becomes more intriguing. A genuinely sweet guy, sometimes he is given to uncharacteristic outbursts of temper or mood, only to be apologetic a short time later. He seems complex, but there are times that it is easy to see that he is deeply enamored of the simple things in life.
Life Story (as much as you want us to know): Born on the coast of Ireland near Dun, Donavan was raised in a small cottage, mostly by his mother. His father was a fisherman and spent long hours to catch enough to make ends meet. But the boy was happy enough to be under his mother’s foot, chasing her about and begging stories and songs of her. She always found the time to indulge him, often while mending nets for his father. As Donavan grew older, the tales stuck with him and he picked charcoal from the fireplace, spending late nights sketching elaborate images on the stone hearth.
When he was 12, Donavan had been sitting on the edge of the cliff outside their cottage, waiting for his father’s return (as was his nightly habit). The sun sank lower and lower and there was still no sign of his father’s ship. When at long last his father made it back to shore, it was to the crumpled body of his son on the sandy beach. The cliff above had given way and the boy had landed hard on the ground below. Assuming the worst, he brought the body back to the cottage, laying it out for burial in the morning. Donavan’s mother was crushed. The next morning, the body was washed and dressed, prepared for simple burial. But as the small gathering of fishermen moved to lower the boy into the fresh grave, his mother threw herself on the boy, swearing he was not dead. Confused, they tried to pull her off, but she would not be moved. To humor her, they sent for the doctor who, upon arriving a day later, found that she had been correct. Faint breath still fogged the mirror. After that, Donavan’s mother sat, day after day at his bedside, forcing small amounts of broth into him and telling him stories and singing the ballads he had loved so much as a young child. She never told anyone that she had seen the boy standing on the cliff as she had prepared to go to the funeral, gently smiling and shaking his head. Only then had she known in her heart he was not dead.
Near a month later, the lad’s eyes finally flickered open. His mother was overwhelmed and his father’s heavy expression finally lightened. Only after a few days did they start to realize that the boy was a bit…off. He had always been quiet, but he did not speak for almost two weeks after waking. He seemed to startle unexpectedly, especially when meeting new people. He kept to himself mostly, his hand always moving, whether at the fireplace or in the sand of the beach. Finally scraping enough together, his parents bought him some paper and some ink. From that day on, there was no stopping him. He drew constantly, often not eating or sleeping, page after page filled. His work was surprisingly good for one so young and untrained. His work started to get noticed in town, his father selling a piece here and there. The portraits he did of his mother were particularly popular. They seemed to catch a certain essence of her, something lovely that was indefinable. After two years, he could afford oil and canvas and started doing portraits on commission. He seemed to have a harder time of it, often a particular customer would be disturbed by the ‘likeness’. But others were praised for their brilliance and beauty, so things seemed to even out.
But something changed. His portraits of his mother (she was still by far his favorite and most practiced subject) grew…sadder. Like there was something being lost in them, even though most could not pinpoint what it was. A month later, she was dead. Gone peacefully in her sleep. The next morning Donavan was gone, a simple graphite sketch his only note left behind. It was his mother, resting. In its pure lines was a sublime serenity that was indescribable.
From there Donavan sailed south, feeling at home everywhere and nowhere, constantly looking for new subjects, but never finding that one, the pure heart that can be his new muse.