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Aug. 27th, 2018 12:16 pm⩕ PLAYER
Name: Chase
Age: Yes!
Contact:![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
weallfloat
Other character: N/A
⩕CHARACTER
Character name: Richie Tozier
Canon: IT (film)
Canon point: About to confront Pennywise in the sewers
History: film wiki
3 weaknesses & 3 strengths: +Comic Relief
+Quick thinker/observant
+Works well under stress
-Inability to know when to stop
-Young
-Rude/blunt
⩕SAMPLES
GETTING HEALTHY
This is weird. Well--of course it's weird, he's at a freaking quacks' place. His left leg bouncing in place, Richie chews on his left cheek before finally glancing over, eyes overly magnified, giving him the appearance that's somewhat fly-like.
"I thought this sorta thing was just for, like, crazy people." As far as he knew he wasn't crazy. He squints, leg still bouncing, and while he doesn't look accusatory he certainly looks wary. "Oh, ooh oh--you should get Danny Appleton over here. He's a real nutbar."
"It's for anyone," the therapist replies, smooth and sure, and Richie scoffs.
"S'for cuckoo's. Everybody knows that."
"Everybody?"
"Sure," Richie confirms, because in Derry you don't do this. You don't go to places like this. You deal with whatever it was like God intended and if that didn't work out, you just drank yourself to death like Gregory Cole. Everybody knows that. He wrinkles his nose, draws his right leg up so he's half perching on the chair, and sniffs, almost expectantly.
"Tell me about everybody, then. Tell me about where you're from."
Richie shrugs, and when he does his whole body bunches up. "Rains a lot in the fall. Got a whole four seasons. Nifty-neato, y'know?" And something else. He's stilled from the usual fidgeting he normally does, shoulders still bunched up even though the rest of him isn't, and his look is more cautious than it probably should be. The person he's with doesn't respond. Richie exhales.
"It's....small. Derry's small. If you want something and you can't get it at Freese's, you're shit outta luck until--crap outta luck until you go into Bangor. Drives my folks nuts all the time." He drives his folks nuts all the time, too. "Summer's the best, though, 'cause you can go to the quarry, you can see all the double features at the Aladdin..."
"What about your friends?"
"What about 'em? We suck, but we suck together."
"What do you mean?"
Why did this suddenly sound like an interrogation? "I mean we're Losers. You think this mug makes me popular?" It's subconscious, the sudden itch to push his glasses back onto his face as he says this. It's not just his glasses, it's his mouth, it's his inability to take things seriously, it's his compulsive need to say something out of line and gross--but if this doctor person's worth their salt, they already knew that. "There's me, Bill, Eddie, Beverly, Bill, Ben, Mike and Stan. I mean, we were always all kind of friends but it didn't click into place until the rock war."
"Rock war?"
Richie's grin is contagious. "Rock War. We found Henry Bowers fuckin' with Mike because he was black one day, and we had a rock war. Like--you don't know a rock war?--okay, well, it's real simple. You throw rocks. I still have a scar from it on my forehead a lil, wanna see? Check it--no, no, check it out, come on, it's cool, it's so tiny you can barely even tell." There's another scar. One along his palm from half a coke bottle: a nice, neat slice that contained not just a promise, but a vow for all seven of them to come back if It was still there.
Like hell Richie Tozier was going to show that.
CLOSE YOUR EYES AND BREATHE
It's here. Not 'it' but 'IT,' that fucking clown, and there's a strange detached part of Richie that swears that this is proof of the universe not being fair: he was scared of clowns before this. Before all of this, before It, before Bill had to chase down a fucking sewer drain and go into a haunted house and oh, god, none of that matters none of that fucking matters because Bill isn't here, and it's just him.
Him and It.
He can hear It, It's otherworldly footsteps ringing out to Richie like a blaring fire alarm, and as much as he wants to shut his eyes so hard his face hurts he know he can't, not with his back against the flat of the wall (It can't go through walls, It can't go through walls, It can't) he knows if he does that, he's done for. Can It hear how fast his heart is beating? It tastes fear, doesn't It?
Fuck. Fuck, he's going to die because no one else is here. Just him, him and It, and when he breathes in it's a ragged, stuttering breath. He feels like his whole body is numb, and he knows he needs to calm down but it's hard, it's hard when there's not the rest of his friends around, and he realizes with dawning horror that that's the only reason they had any chance of winning if Beverly was right: they were together.
One more shuddering breath. He swears he can smell rotting flesh and raw sewage, and Richie takes a chance: he runs. He runs as fast as his legs can possibly take him, pure adrenaline pumping through his veins. He doesn't care where, just not where that fucking clown is, not with that voice.
He hears It in the distance. Beep, Beep, Richie.
Richie screams.
⩕MOD RECORDS
Do you wish your character to participate in body horror elements of the game? No
Do you want your character’s worse fear to be incorporated into an event? Yeah!
Any notes/requests/comments: I'm assuming Richie will be able to keep his glasses, but if that's not the case let me know!
Name: Chase
Age: Yes!
Contact:
Other character: N/A
⩕CHARACTER
Character name: Richie Tozier
Canon: IT (film)
Canon point: About to confront Pennywise in the sewers
History: film wiki
3 weaknesses & 3 strengths: +Comic Relief
+Quick thinker/observant
+Works well under stress
-Inability to know when to stop
-Young
-Rude/blunt
⩕SAMPLES
GETTING HEALTHY
This is weird. Well--of course it's weird, he's at a freaking quacks' place. His left leg bouncing in place, Richie chews on his left cheek before finally glancing over, eyes overly magnified, giving him the appearance that's somewhat fly-like.
"I thought this sorta thing was just for, like, crazy people." As far as he knew he wasn't crazy. He squints, leg still bouncing, and while he doesn't look accusatory he certainly looks wary. "Oh, ooh oh--you should get Danny Appleton over here. He's a real nutbar."
"It's for anyone," the therapist replies, smooth and sure, and Richie scoffs.
"S'for cuckoo's. Everybody knows that."
"Everybody?"
"Sure," Richie confirms, because in Derry you don't do this. You don't go to places like this. You deal with whatever it was like God intended and if that didn't work out, you just drank yourself to death like Gregory Cole. Everybody knows that. He wrinkles his nose, draws his right leg up so he's half perching on the chair, and sniffs, almost expectantly.
"Tell me about everybody, then. Tell me about where you're from."
Richie shrugs, and when he does his whole body bunches up. "Rains a lot in the fall. Got a whole four seasons. Nifty-neato, y'know?" And something else. He's stilled from the usual fidgeting he normally does, shoulders still bunched up even though the rest of him isn't, and his look is more cautious than it probably should be. The person he's with doesn't respond. Richie exhales.
"It's....small. Derry's small. If you want something and you can't get it at Freese's, you're shit outta luck until--crap outta luck until you go into Bangor. Drives my folks nuts all the time." He drives his folks nuts all the time, too. "Summer's the best, though, 'cause you can go to the quarry, you can see all the double features at the Aladdin..."
"What about your friends?"
"What about 'em? We suck, but we suck together."
"What do you mean?"
Why did this suddenly sound like an interrogation? "I mean we're Losers. You think this mug makes me popular?" It's subconscious, the sudden itch to push his glasses back onto his face as he says this. It's not just his glasses, it's his mouth, it's his inability to take things seriously, it's his compulsive need to say something out of line and gross--but if this doctor person's worth their salt, they already knew that. "There's me, Bill, Eddie, Beverly, Bill, Ben, Mike and Stan. I mean, we were always all kind of friends but it didn't click into place until the rock war."
"Rock war?"
Richie's grin is contagious. "Rock War. We found Henry Bowers fuckin' with Mike because he was black one day, and we had a rock war. Like--you don't know a rock war?--okay, well, it's real simple. You throw rocks. I still have a scar from it on my forehead a lil, wanna see? Check it--no, no, check it out, come on, it's cool, it's so tiny you can barely even tell." There's another scar. One along his palm from half a coke bottle: a nice, neat slice that contained not just a promise, but a vow for all seven of them to come back if It was still there.
Like hell Richie Tozier was going to show that.
CLOSE YOUR EYES AND BREATHE
It's here. Not 'it' but 'IT,' that fucking clown, and there's a strange detached part of Richie that swears that this is proof of the universe not being fair: he was scared of clowns before this. Before all of this, before It, before Bill had to chase down a fucking sewer drain and go into a haunted house and oh, god, none of that matters none of that fucking matters because Bill isn't here, and it's just him.
Him and It.
He can hear It, It's otherworldly footsteps ringing out to Richie like a blaring fire alarm, and as much as he wants to shut his eyes so hard his face hurts he know he can't, not with his back against the flat of the wall (It can't go through walls, It can't go through walls, It can't) he knows if he does that, he's done for. Can It hear how fast his heart is beating? It tastes fear, doesn't It?
Fuck. Fuck, he's going to die because no one else is here. Just him, him and It, and when he breathes in it's a ragged, stuttering breath. He feels like his whole body is numb, and he knows he needs to calm down but it's hard, it's hard when there's not the rest of his friends around, and he realizes with dawning horror that that's the only reason they had any chance of winning if Beverly was right: they were together.
One more shuddering breath. He swears he can smell rotting flesh and raw sewage, and Richie takes a chance: he runs. He runs as fast as his legs can possibly take him, pure adrenaline pumping through his veins. He doesn't care where, just not where that fucking clown is, not with that voice.
He hears It in the distance. Beep, Beep, Richie.
Richie screams.
⩕MOD RECORDS
Do you wish your character to participate in body horror elements of the game? No
Do you want your character’s worse fear to be incorporated into an event? Yeah!
Any notes/requests/comments: I'm assuming Richie will be able to keep his glasses, but if that's not the case let me know!