Information

Turos has a minion!

Dorian the Emeow

Turos
Legacy Name: Turos

The

Spectrum Montre
Owner: hollo

Age: 19 years, 8 months, 3 weeks

Born: June 27th, 2006

Adopted: 19 years, 8 months, 3 weeks ago (Legacy)

Adopted: June 27th, 2006 (Legacy)

Statistics

Level: 6
Strength: 11
Defense: 10
Speed: 11
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 2
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

Name: Turos
Age: 16
Height: 5'10"
Gender/Orientation: Male/Bi
Favorite Activity: Chilling with his plushie collection
Personality: Quiet, soft spoken. Tends to hover around the edges of other people's vision. Doesn't bring much attention to himself, and carries an air of mystery.
Is distant and seemingly cold to strangers and people he doesn't particularly like.
Opens up to those he accepts and allows closer. Can be quite a bit of a brat to Znajda if he doesn't get his way. Is charismatic when he wants to be.
Doesn't do well in crowds. A bit of an outcast at school. Prefers familiar surroundings to new ones and doesn't like traveling.
Let's his attractions get the better of him.
Description: Fair-skinned. Skinny for his age.
Eyes are golden.
Hair is a dark sandy-brown with streaks of both darker brown and light tan. Styled in the ever-popular over-one-eye emo 'do.
Ears, tail, and wings visible in human form.
No scars or markings on his body.
Often wears thick eyeliner.
Has piercings: nose, ears, left eyebrow and snake-bite.
Wears skinny jeans, usually dark denim, and mopey emo shirts. Prefers canvas sneakers to any other shoes.

It wouldn't be wrong of him to get used to the idea
that mommy and daddy weren't coming back.
They'd never been around much in the first place, after all.
They'd practically birthed him into his room, huge even after eight years of his life spent mainly within its walls, and filled it with anything he wanted. Everything he wanted.
He hadn't wanted them. He hadn't known them well enough to want them.
He was just fine there, surrounded by expensive game systems and his very own wide screen TV. His plushies lining his bed and the shelves above it, his toys spilling out of multitudes of toy chests. He was fine he wasn't ever
alone.
He was a quiet child for the most part. His voice was soft and he barely made a sound when he walked through the massive halls.
He had to learn to be heard, learn to be noticed so he wouldn't be forgotten -
would they have forgotten him?
- and it took him a while but he figured it out. If he was loud enough, if he was bratty enough and visible enough he could get them to notice.
He could get anything he wanted.
Just not what he needed
So when they went away and never came back, he didn't miss them at all.
He'd never had them in the first place.

When they took him from the house, they took him from everything.
No games, no TV. No plushies - all his plushies! - all left behind in a house too big and too dark for him to stay alone in it any longer
but he'd always been alone so what's the difference?The homes he was sent to were so little, so empty, so devoid of anything familiar. He lost his way in their short corridors and couldn't speak up when he was told to.
He wouldn't speak up because they never gave him anything, anyway.
Besides, when he did speak up, they never listened.
The louder he was, the less they heard. They didn't hear.
He was a bad child, a troubled child. He wasn't worth the time they spent on him.
He wasn't worth anything at all.
So he stopped being outspoken.
He stopped struggling to get his voice heard.
He gave away what few plushies he'd managed to collect - beg for - steal
(he was never alone)
and refused to ask for anything new
he didn't want to leave anything behind when he was gone
but he didn't make it that far.
It was a fluke, him ending up in that House. (it seemed like it to him)
He met Znajda on a corner one rainy afternoon, heading home from his first day of high school and knowing this was it.
The day was today.
It wasn't.
Three days didn't pass before he found himself standing in front of the House. Old, and it looked it, but for some strange reason, welcoming.
He didn't ask much. Not why he was there, not who pulled the strings to get him out of the system so fast.
He had a room, not huge, but all his. He had a House that felt like home and wasn't it strange nothing ever had before
and this time when he spoke up
he was heard.

Like the drunk you convinced was sober
You keep me falling over