Post by Feliks Łukasiewicz on Apr 11, 2011 9:29:20 GMT -5
FELIKS ŁUKASIEWICZ
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vanity's like a funeral and everyone's at my wake[/center]
NAME:[/font] Feliks Łukasiewicz. Don't wear it out~ And don't try pronouncing his last name, you won't be able to. (It's too fabulous.)
AGE: Eighteen
GRADE: Senior
NATIONALITY: Polish. Duh
POSITIVE TRAITS:
- Cheerful [Feliks tends to cheerfully chatter away any and all tension that might be in the room.]
- Protective [Though somewhat fickle, Feliks tries to protect those he cares about... at least while he can.]
- Unique. [In a world of full to the brim with trends and copy cats, Feliks is a fresh breath of air.]
- Resilient. [You can't keep a good dog down.]
- Not afraid of Ivan Braginsky. [It's quite a feat, yes?]
NEGATIVE TRAITS:
- Selfish. [Feliks's world revolves around Feliks. Duh.]
- Vague. [He's a little out there... it's sort of hard for him to be serious... he'd rather be painting his house pink.]
- Shy. [You wouldn't really think so, but Feliks is quite anxious around strangers, and often acts a flustered around people he doesn't know well.]
- Impulsive. [He never got the 'think before you act' memo.]
- Troublesome. [He's not the easiest to get along with. Really. He's a handful.]
LIKES:
- Wearing skirts. (But he's been keeping that particularly hobby to a minimum lately.)
- Ponies. Cute.
- Pink. It's such an awesome color.
- Liet. Even if Toris hates him, it doesn't mean Feliks doesn't like him!
- Paczki. Like donuts. But better.
DISLIKES:
- Russia. How dare he hurt Liet!
- Overly serious people. Bo-oring!
- Losing.
- Chess. (Unless they're playing by Poland's own rules.)
- Poverty. Been there, done that. Not fun.
FEARS:
- Being hated.
- Strangers.
out of character
NAME: Sun, Sunny, Suncat... they all work for me. Or Susi. I'm down with Susi.
OTHER CHARACTERS: Nope.
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:
Note: I've never actually played Poland before... so I wrote up this bit just now. Technically, since it has dialogue from other nations, it's not a post sample, but it's a bit of writing from Poland's POV. Hopefully it suffices.
It was astonishing how much Feliks hated world meetings. Decades and decades of attending these gatherings, and by the end of it, he inevitably had a headache. It wasn't cool. He had much better things to do than sit around and listen to the stupid Western Europeans argue, or Russia wanting to become one with everyone. Poland had been there and done that and he was never going back.
The blond nation tapped his (presumably manicured) nails against the table, reaching up now and then to flick his long hair away from his eyes. His gaze flickered over America suffering strangulation at the hands of England (again!), the menacing presence of the former Soviet emanating from the corner, and the ever nervous Baltics beside him.
If he was a more caring person, he might have patted Lithuania reassuringly on the back; a promise of protection from the large, pipe wielding country. But he was pretty sure (not one hundred percent positive, but... pretty sure) Toris knew he'd be there for him in a fix (okay, so maybe he hadn't always been around in the past, but he had to admit seeing the scars on his friend's back had profoundly effected the ostentatious nation in a way he still didn't quite understand.)
Finally England had decided to give his former ward a break (maybe France was right, their actions could be interpreted as belligerent sexual tension. He was sure the tea-addicted nation was into all kinds of weird shit like child grooming.) The stupid German looked relieved, and started addressing the group of nations. Feliks officially stopped paying attention. He was the Rzeczpospolita Polsk, the Republic of Poland! He knew his own trade deficits and all that econ stuff. And even if he didn't, that's why he had a boss. Sheesh. Germany was just a stiff workaholic who expected everyone else to be as anal-retentive as him.
Feliks's nails tapped more insistently against the table, and he squirmed in his seat. God, this was so totally boring. He could swear these meetings kept getting worse. More monotonous. The same damn thing every time: the world powers would argue like they were human children, then South Korea would claim someone's breasts, then Russia would terrify Latvia out of his wits, Sealand would demand to be recognized as a country (Poland was, like, this close to actually recognizing the kid, just so he'd shut up. But England would totally hate him for it. Not like he really cared, but if England went all Calico Jack on his ass, he'd have a bit of a problem), and then they settled down to argue about GPDs, where one half of them took diligent notes and the other half spent the time fervently wishing they were anywhere but at this meeting.
(And Poland was, like, this close to stirring shit up, just 'cause he was so bored. But Germany would totally hate him for it. Not like he really cared, but if Germany went all Ubermensch on his ass, he'd have a bit of a problem.)
"Poland!" someone said. Feliks ignored them. "Poland! Stop clicking your fingernails against the table." He focused hazily on the nation that was addressing him. He was matched with similarly bright green eyes.
"But Englandddd. I'm like, super bored," he said, the whine evident in his voice. A large eyebrow twitched.
"This a meeting, Poland. They aren't supposed to be fun," the island nation snapped. Feliks rolled his eyes.
"Like you'd know anything about fun," he muttered, leaning back against his seat and ceasing his incessant nail clicking. Anyone who said Feliks Łucasiewicz couldn't be reasonable was... mostly right. Still.
The blond nation tapped his (presumably manicured) nails against the table, reaching up now and then to flick his long hair away from his eyes. His gaze flickered over America suffering strangulation at the hands of England (again!), the menacing presence of the former Soviet emanating from the corner, and the ever nervous Baltics beside him.
If he was a more caring person, he might have patted Lithuania reassuringly on the back; a promise of protection from the large, pipe wielding country. But he was pretty sure (not one hundred percent positive, but... pretty sure) Toris knew he'd be there for him in a fix (okay, so maybe he hadn't always been around in the past, but he had to admit seeing the scars on his friend's back had profoundly effected the ostentatious nation in a way he still didn't quite understand.)
Finally England had decided to give his former ward a break (maybe France was right, their actions could be interpreted as belligerent sexual tension. He was sure the tea-addicted nation was into all kinds of weird shit like child grooming.) The stupid German looked relieved, and started addressing the group of nations. Feliks officially stopped paying attention. He was the Rzeczpospolita Polsk, the Republic of Poland! He knew his own trade deficits and all that econ stuff. And even if he didn't, that's why he had a boss. Sheesh. Germany was just a stiff workaholic who expected everyone else to be as anal-retentive as him.
Feliks's nails tapped more insistently against the table, and he squirmed in his seat. God, this was so totally boring. He could swear these meetings kept getting worse. More monotonous. The same damn thing every time: the world powers would argue like they were human children, then South Korea would claim someone's breasts, then Russia would terrify Latvia out of his wits, Sealand would demand to be recognized as a country (Poland was, like, this close to actually recognizing the kid, just so he'd shut up. But England would totally hate him for it. Not like he really cared, but if England went all Calico Jack on his ass, he'd have a bit of a problem), and then they settled down to argue about GPDs, where one half of them took diligent notes and the other half spent the time fervently wishing they were anywhere but at this meeting.
(And Poland was, like, this close to stirring shit up, just 'cause he was so bored. But Germany would totally hate him for it. Not like he really cared, but if Germany went all Ubermensch on his ass, he'd have a bit of a problem.)
"Poland!" someone said. Feliks ignored them. "Poland! Stop clicking your fingernails against the table." He focused hazily on the nation that was addressing him. He was matched with similarly bright green eyes.
"But Englandddd. I'm like, super bored," he said, the whine evident in his voice. A large eyebrow twitched.
"This a meeting, Poland. They aren't supposed to be fun," the island nation snapped. Feliks rolled his eyes.
"Like you'd know anything about fun," he muttered, leaning back against his seat and ceasing his incessant nail clicking. Anyone who said Feliks Łucasiewicz couldn't be reasonable was... mostly right. Still.
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