Full Name: Valeriya Mikhailov
Age: 18
Gender: Female
Appearance: With long black tresses, and grey-green eyes, Valeriya is a charming young lady to look at. In accordance to the traditional Phenac dress, she wears loose flowing apparel with plenty of cloth pieces. Her lengthy hair is tied up with ribbons or plaited into a single loose braid, but it's more common for her to leave it loose, with perhaps a cloth headband for the warmer days. They tend to fall in natural steps, endearingly framing her heart-shaped face. Her favourite set of clothing consists of a black tank top, over which she throws on a hooded jacket, held together at the waist by a cloth belt (literally a strip of cloth, which accounts for the gradating ends). She's usually seen wearing comfortable pants, over knee length durable boots. Being brought up on a farm, by profession, Valeriya is a lithe, healthy girl with a graceful frame and wiry strength in her limbs. By habit, she carries a sling bag, from which useful tidbits are often produced. There is a vibrance about her, a light flowery scent that lingers about her that reminds one of the beautiful, capricious, reluctant spring, lingering along through April and May in a succession of sweet, fresh, chilly days, with pink sunsets and miracles of resurrection and growth. A plain black choker rests at her neck, framing a small heart charm made of silver, with an inscription in an unknown language.
Personality: Wayward, thoughtful, but absent-minded may be some better ways to describe Valeriya. Her mind is typically all over the place, and her common discussions are just as scattered and non-linear and they travel with her train of thought. This causes her to hold curiosity in a wide variety of things, most of which pop into her head on a whim. While her mind may be like this, her mood typically doesn't change from a few scattered emotions. Her default feeling is that of quiet calmness, but she's very impacted by stress and has been known to snap at others when met with a situation she wasn't prepared for or has found she can't handle. She's the type of person who needs to be prepared and study a situation, so sudden, unexpected or chaotic occurrences that catch her off guard make her fall back into a mental haze and regress into more irate and hostile tenancies.
She's almost an open book through her expressions and this makes her a horrid liar. She's an escapist and when met with a situation she can't handle and the resulting frustration because of it, it's not uncommon for her to seclude herself to be alone for a while, throw on some headphones and just blast music to escape the weight of the world or any sort of daunting task for a while. She also loves to go for walks late at night and admire the stars and get away from life for a while. She's also prone to obsessive behaviors. When met with a certain task or question, she'll stop at nothing in order to understand it using whatever it takes.
She conducts herself in an intellectual mannerism and usually makes note of the mannerisms of everything around her in order to better understand the situation. While she herself is easily read, so too does she easily read people. She's often one of the first people to recognize when others are worried about something, avoiding a subject, or have something else on their mind. These small observations also help her be aware of when someone's actions contradict their words, although she never assumes that they're lying as a result since their body may be unconsciously meaning something else. Because she traveled so frequently in her life, she was rarely around peers her own age in order to learn proper social skills. As a result, she's awkward in conversation, and despite her best efforts, it's not something she's particularly good at. An academic discussion or debate can get her talking for hours... small talk on the other hand, not so much. She's an excellent mediator, though, as she always speaks her mind toward others and doesn't lie for the sake of sparing feelings. She was taught to be direct and to-the-point, so that's exactly what she does. If she notices her words create offense or negative reactions, whether shown by facial expressions or words in kind, she'll at least try to avoid bringing up the subject in the future but she won't take back what was said.
If she had a moral compass, it would rest on neutral. She takes moral actions that she believes is right at the time despite what the majority may feel. This means she's very open to mistakes and her current feelings and frame of mind influence her moral decisions. Her sense of humor consists of terrible puns, references to things that mostly go over other's heads, and dry, sarcastic wit.
Backstory: Born in Phenac to a modest household, an only child to two hardworking managers of said farm, Val had an easy childhood, spent playing among brooks and copses with the family pokemon. As was life, the first big change occurred when they moved to Sinnoh, in the 10th year of Val’s life, for a better business opportunity, leaving behind the sprawling acres for a frozen wasteland; atleast in Val’s eyes. Set high in the mountains, their new dwelling was far from the sunshine and the open fields Val loved and remembered. But as time passes, memories fade. Valeriya grew used to her thick, fur-laden apparel, learnt more about Sinnoh culture and even took up ice-skating. But while the vitality of youth held her in good stead, her father took ill, slowly growing worse as the cold settled in his body. It was excruciating, watching him grow sicker by inches. And so, with her hands full with an adolescent child and an ill husband, her brave mother took the initiative to move back to Phenac; back to the land of warmth and their oasis-fueled farm. Val had stayed in Sinnoh for over 5 years, and returning to the house of her childhood dreams was vastly different from what she remembered. Her education had been fragmented and irregular, and so, while her mother nursed the suffering father, Val threw herself into her studies, with passion and vigour unlike before.
Doing her best to distract herself from her muddle of disappointed and expectant emotions, she found solace in learning about Pokemon. Her parents had always been supportive, and decided to send her, on her incessant request, to the closest large official league; Mirai. The added level of difficulty didn’t dampen the ambitions of the fiercely competitive girl, and the examples of the very real danger, and the subtle power-play of the government couldn’t faze the headstrong girl. Warnings of the examples of crushed dreams fell to deaf ears, and perhaps it takes an experience for a lesson to be learnt…
Pokemon Partner: Malachite, the male Larvitar
Region of Birth: Phenac city, Orre.
Likes: Challenging herself, being proved right, most quadruped pokemon, sweets, ice cream, reading, drawing
Dislikes: Crowds, loud noises, braggarts and liars, not knowing something, her occasional awkward stumbling, her own social anxiety
Other: Her parents made her promise to return if she failed a single gym challenge, and she intends to honour that promise. They are, after all, her parents and they only want to look out for her well-being.
RP Example:
If she thought being damp and grumpy in the dead of night was uncomfortable, Nyx had clearly not socialized for a while. Her drying hair had grown coarse from the particulate matter of the river, and Abyss' fur would've crusted up to a most disagreeable mess. And yet here she was, elbow deep (alright, not literally, but it didn't feel much better) in someone's blood, an injury she was more or less obliged to see healed. Or so she thought, until he proved her wrong.
Blissfully unaware of the Flaaffy's gaze upon her, of the dilemma the boy struggled with, hunted for blood and tech, of the perverse amusement the Typhlosion she had so admired took in her social shortcomings, Nyx grimly hung at the boy's side, single-mindedly going through the motions of cleaning out the wound as her mind raced. It was clear her thoughts kept returning to the prospect of abandoning her pursuits and sleeping, to the situation at hand (which she'd more or less accepted as a hopeless case; she couldn't understand her own self) and to the potentials of tomorrow. Struggling to organize her thoughts and think linearly, logic seemed as elusive to her as the comforts of sleep.
Noting the quiet question of 'This is your house?' and ignoring it, her gaze rose to rest on his face for a second before she shyly dropped it again. The blood wouldn't stop flowing and she was weighing her options of either applying pressure until it did or simply sewing it up as the male spoke again. This time with a suggestion of cauterizing the wound. She looked up again, this time in surprise and a small amount of shock. Her breath hitched; this was the same idea she had considered back at the riverside, but somehow now the idea seemed less appealing than ever.
She let the silence settle after the male's words, thoughtfully gazing down at the wound. It was true that it was large, and deep, but not worryingly so, and burning it shut might have more cons to it than pros. Digging up what limited information she had regarding this certain branch of medical attention, she pursed her lips, internally debating about the sense of it all. This time, her response came quicker, information easily flowing into a narrative.
"A wound cauterization would make that side stiff forever. And it'll stop the bleeding for now, but it'll raise the chances of infection. Burning a clean wound shut leaves dead tissue inside, impaired circulation and an environment for bacteria to thrive. You'd also have to drain the infected liquid collecting under your skin," She paused to take a breath here, quickening the pace of her speech, "which would have to be done professionally. Your nerve endings will turn raw," she squinted, trying to simulate a burn wound, "and almost certainly turn gangrenous. Which also would need to be burnt away." There! So many reasons why that was a bad idea. Quite the debate victory.
She paused again, taking the time to steady her breathing, her heartbeat having picked up at the queerest of times. Perhaps it was the fact that she was lecturing this poor boy who didn't want to hear it, or the fact that she believed she was actively communicating, helping. Either way, she weighed her options, snatching a glimpse of the bandages by her side out of the corner of her eye. "I'd say stitching it would be better." While she had managed to say so with an air of bravado, her clenched fists drew closer to her chest; she secretly hoped he wouldn't agree. Terrible memories appeared in flashes, as best as her memory could serve, and the sewing operation wasn't something she was particularly looking forward to. She hesitantly turned her face to the suture materials she had laid out - just in case. Which, in hindsight, wasn't her brightest idea.
they are siblings
