Post by tabitha on Sept 16, 2010 1:57:18 GMT -8
Tabitha Grace Malkin
Pax
[/center]Pax
( The Basics )
( Full Name)[/color] Tabitha Malkin
( Nickname )[/color] Pax- and only Pax. She grows very distressed when called Tabitha.
( Age )[/color] Seventeen
( Birthdate )[/color] April 30th
( Sex )[/color] Female
( Hometown )[/color] Vancouver, British Columbia
( Class )[/color] Technically, Junior.
( Sexuality )[/color] Straight and showing no interest in anything even remotely related to her own sexuality.
( Played By )[/color] Summer Glau
( Their Power)
( Ability )[/color] Pax's primary mutation is telekinesis. Though possessing massive power, Pax's telekinetic potential remains, for the most part, untapped. The only time her telekinesis manifests is in times of distress, pain or when 'triggered' by a memory or emotion.
Her secondary mutation, while less impressive than her random-and-dangerous outbursts of telekinesis, is a weak form of telepathy and empathy rolled into one- telempathy, if you will. Sensing more often the mental pictures, sensations and feelings of others, Pax could also potentially read thoughts. At this point, any influence over other people's thoughts or emotions is purely accidental.
( Type of Power )[/color] Mental
( Good vs. Evil )[/color] Pax is almost entirely neutral. She will aid others if it suits her or makes some sense to her mind.
( Personality )
Pax prefers quietness to noise and solitude to the company of others. She is an observer, off in the corner or tucked into some hidey-hole, watching and listening. She has an affinity for plant-life and cats but seems to dislike dogs. She is sometimes seen with books but one can't be sure if she is actually reading them.
Not much is known about Pax other than what behavior is witnessed. When Pax speaks she speaks in fragmented speech, riddle-like questions or strange revelation. She seems younger and far older than her years at the same time.
( Little Details )
( Strengths)[/color] Pax has an impressive store of useless facts and bits of interesting knowledge in her mind. She is surprisingly fast and dexterous and excellent at hiding.
( Weaknesses )[/b][/color] Pax bears many a mental scar across her shattered psyche. She exhibits many characteristics of a schizophrenic though, at this point, has proven herself to be mostly-harmless. She has her periods of what could be called lucidity, able to function normally, reason and communicate during her 'good days'. During 'bad days' she is volatile, withdrawn, prone to hallucinations and potentially dangerous- it is on those days that she stays in her 'room'.
Pax's emotional instability means that she can go off at a moment's notice. No one is sure exactly what will trigger her. She dislikes bright lights, loud music, and is easily bothered by strong or malodorous smells (Pax has a highly-developed sense of smell).
( Dark Secrets)[/color] She can't remember.
( Reputation )[/color] That Pax has been there as long as anyone can remember. That she is strange, crazy, has no family to speak of and that she disappears for days at a time. That when, if ever, she shows up to classes she is more apt to lie under the lab table or tear words out of books than participate.
( Family)
( Mother )[/color] Elisa Colleen Malkin, age 36, whereabouts unknown. May be deceased.
( Belongings )
( Car )[/color] None
( Phone )[/b][/color] None
( Music )[/b][/color] Pax found a music player once, in a boy's night side table. She buried it in the garden outside.
( Anything Else)[/b][/color] Various small trinkets, knick-knacks and items students have 'lost' over the years.
(Sample)
Generally speaking witches were odd, frightful creatures and so they grew odd, frightful plants. The deadly nightshade, viper blooms, rat grass, reeking mosses and great gnarly apple trees bearing poisoned fruit. Also generally speaking, Bridget was not a typical witch, with a garden full of heady, fragrant herbs and thistle and a pretty bush that bore pale, milky berries in clusters of three. And while the garden was most certainly overgrown in places, the rock path through the expanse of it cracked with age, it was not a putrid swamp or briar thicket. In fact, in the current mid-afternoon sunlight filtering through the forest, it looked rather nice.
Bridget was not a typical witch because she preferred to live in a proper home instead of in some dank cave somewhere. She liked her privacy, true enough, which would explain why her humble little cottage was situated inside of the western wood, but she wasn’t about to go roost on a stormy cliff-side like a silly bat. Her home was a simple cottage with a kind of snug, thatched roof and a good wooden floor, with a large main room with a burning stove that served as kitchen as both laboratory. The other two rooms were occupied with functioning as a tiny bedroom, with just enough room to squeeze in a small bed, and the other was filled with books.
Hundreds of books, books of every size and color and shape that you might imagine a young witch would possess. Some were even in other languages, too ancient to be readable but still containing great magic. Books stacked haphazardly and lined up like sentries in shelves, books in teetering piles and all seemingly unorganized. That is where the young woman stood now, a small but thick leather-bound tome balanced in her hand. Glancing over the small, black words for only a moment, she determined that this was, indeed, the one she was searching for. Bridget had strange eyes, eyes that made normal folk uncomfortable, with their startling silver gray color and the piercing gaze. Now, those strange, slightly tilted eyes were crinkling in a smile.
Making her way out of the book room and back into the main part of the cottage, she hardly noticed that her plain, faded black dress was covered in dust. Her wild head of bright red hair messed even further as she ran a hand through in thoughtfully, considering the book still in her small hand as she reached for dark glass bottles lining the shelves above her counter workspace. A small gray cat with poison-green eyes slunk around Bridget’s bare feet as she sorted through the many, many bottles lined along her homemade wooden shelves, each labeled with a slightly untidy scrawl. When she had what she needed she turned to stare at the bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and then she sighed.
Bridget was not a typical witch because she preferred to live in a proper home instead of in some dank cave somewhere. She liked her privacy, true enough, which would explain why her humble little cottage was situated inside of the western wood, but she wasn’t about to go roost on a stormy cliff-side like a silly bat. Her home was a simple cottage with a kind of snug, thatched roof and a good wooden floor, with a large main room with a burning stove that served as kitchen as both laboratory. The other two rooms were occupied with functioning as a tiny bedroom, with just enough room to squeeze in a small bed, and the other was filled with books.
Hundreds of books, books of every size and color and shape that you might imagine a young witch would possess. Some were even in other languages, too ancient to be readable but still containing great magic. Books stacked haphazardly and lined up like sentries in shelves, books in teetering piles and all seemingly unorganized. That is where the young woman stood now, a small but thick leather-bound tome balanced in her hand. Glancing over the small, black words for only a moment, she determined that this was, indeed, the one she was searching for. Bridget had strange eyes, eyes that made normal folk uncomfortable, with their startling silver gray color and the piercing gaze. Now, those strange, slightly tilted eyes were crinkling in a smile.
Making her way out of the book room and back into the main part of the cottage, she hardly noticed that her plain, faded black dress was covered in dust. Her wild head of bright red hair messed even further as she ran a hand through in thoughtfully, considering the book still in her small hand as she reached for dark glass bottles lining the shelves above her counter workspace. A small gray cat with poison-green eyes slunk around Bridget’s bare feet as she sorted through the many, many bottles lined along her homemade wooden shelves, each labeled with a slightly untidy scrawl. When she had what she needed she turned to stare at the bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and then she sighed.
