Georgie “Firkle” Smith App
ABOUT THE MUN: Name: Keith
Age: 17
Pronouns: Masculine
Discord:
ABOUT THE MUSE: Name: Georgie “Firkle” Smith
Age: 16
Gender: Demi-Male
Pronouns: He/They
Sexuality: Homosexual
Height: 5’2’’
Faction: Hades
Brief History: Firkle was ten when the outbreak happened. His parents were never there for him in the first place so he was left to fend for himself. As soon as word spread he rushed to stuff the rations he could into his backpack, bandages, water- things important but not heavy. His defense was his pocket knife and a bat he found in his parents room. He would have looked for something if there hadn’t been the shattering of windows notifying of unwanted guests.
He escaped through his bedroom window, sliding down the roof and to the ground below. Then he ran. He doesn’t recall how long he ran for, but he kept running and never in six years has he looked back. It’s been a struggle, due to little weaponry at first he did a majority of hiding and rationing. When he was killing, it was safer zombies or other survivors. He’s not proud of it, but he’s not regretful either. As he grew older, he was able to scavenge more, take others out easier. It’s how he got his hands on his machetes.
Firkle survives by trusting very few and moving often. His whereabouts currently reside in Hades.
Appearance:
Firkle has inky black hair, cut shorter in the back and his bangs often pushed out his face by a few bobby-pins. His eyes are a deep blue, dark circles around them for lack of sleep and constantly glancing around and surveying everything. His skin is a paler tan from constant roaming in the sun, his body built with lean muscle from the physical activity of it all. His lips thin and pink, with a scar that cuts across the right side.
His clothes are nearly completely black and fitted. Black jeans, black well-grip boots, a white shirt, and a black cropped jacket. His machetes are attached at his sides or in his hands. His pocketknife is tucked away in his boot. He still carries around a small backpack if his important items.
Personality:
Firkle’s personality has shaped over the six years of being in survival mode. His constantly on the defensive, cold, and detached. He’s also very cunning as well as deceiving, especially to those helplessly begging to be protected. Those are the people who will abandon you first in his book, often he saves them, only to take them out for their resources. Should someone be one of the few he cared for before the outbreak, The Goths, or someone who somehow earned his trust, he is loyal. Deathly so. His colder layer is pulled back to reveal someone protective, admittedly even a little caring.
5 or more Headcanons: - Firkle has adapted to being a very light sleeper. That is if he even sleeps much at all. Often he has nightmares which keep him awake. In a way its a positive, he hates staying somewhere too long. He gets restless. - Firkle got the scar on his lip from his first kill of another survivor. He was twelve and it was a man who taken him in to ‘protect’ him. They scuffle happened when the man was asleep and Firkle plunged a knife into the mans throat. He had woken up and was able to cut Firkle back but choking on blood he still passed away. - Firkle has more scars that litter his body, the worst one is on his leg, a deep cut wound from another scuffle that he had to stitch up himself painfully when he was fourteen. - Firkle does own a journal, its about half way filled with his writings. Often telling of new locations, kills, nightmares, and other details. - One of the few things Firkle still enjoys is when it rains. When its somewhere safer, he likes to watch it pour.
RP Example:
It was dark, murky, Firkle reeked of sweat. He swore he could taste the iron of blood in his mouth as he ran, his lungs burned, aching and begging him to stop as tears welled up in his eyes. He wasn’t gonna survive this. He wasn’t and he knew it when his legs gave out under him. He couldn’t will himself to get up, his body exhausted. He shut his eyes tightly, curling up in a defense position when he felt it, the piercing feeling of teeth into his flesh- blue eyes shot open wide. Tears streaming from them and down his face as Firkle sat up.
He woke in cold sweat, breathing uneven as he reached for his machete and gave a quick look over his current base. Light was shining in, there was no threat. His grip tightened on the handle before slowly he released it and stood up. Firkle knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he packed up his things again, eating a two of the nutrition bars to satisfy the clawing of his stomachs hunger. Grabbing his water bottle he washed it down with two large gulps of the liquid, quenching his thirst. Before he grabbed and put everything back on, peeking out the window to double check for the coast to be clear before he was back on his way out.
He kept his head low, discreet as he tried to keep going. He’d be needing more food soon, even if he knew water would make him last without actual food he’d die from starvation. As he walked, he recalled yesterday, out of the corner of his eye he swore the blood was still on his hands from all those six years of wandering. Dried and layered on his palms even if when he looked, there was nothing there. Shaking his head, Firkle snapped away the thoughts in his head, he had to focus on reality. Remembering the past and especially his nightmare would do him no good in survival.
Accepted!
