Walther Helmut Ebersbacher
Dec 19, 2013 2:44:19 GMT -5
Post by Walther Ebersbacher on Dec 19, 2013 2:44:19 GMT -5
The easy S T U F F . . .Name: Walther Helmut Ebersbacher
Nickname: Walt, Wally, Teddybär
Age: Twelve
Member Group: Student
Power(s):
Tell-Ventriloquism
Very Rudimentary Sonic Manipulation
Walther possesses the ability to create sounds of varying volumes, from instruments, to footsteps, to gunshots, to things scraping. He is not, however, able to replicate voices. Because of this, he's also able to manipulate sonic energies in their barest form. However; his grip on this is tenuous at best, and leaves him with a massive migraine and a full-body feeling of sickness for a day. As a result of this, his hearing is also quite sensitive, yelling will sound rather thunderous, and cause him to flinch in a purely natural reflex.
As far as duration goes, it varies by complexity. Footsteps, scraping, or repetitive sounds (Clicking, thumping, et cetera) can be sustained for a maximum of ten minutes, though he can cut that off if he doesn't need it for that long. The more sounds he replicates at once, the lesser the duration. Usually he can only manage about four minutes of a single orchestral song, regardless of volume.
Play By: Asa ButterfieldLet it F L O W . . .Walther was born in the city of Stuttgart, to two very well-meaning and eager parents, Marta and Dieter. His neighborhood was urban, but still managed to retain that local German charm that tourists fawned over so often in movies, and books. As a baby, he wasn't too inquisitive. The various toys that he received weren't able to hold his attention for too long. His parents, exhausted after trying so many different things, gave him a little cradle-mounted distraction. It rotated little plastic airplanes in a circle while playing a relaxing tune. This caught his attention.
Growing up in his household, he became fascinated with the cornucopia of orchestral music that the family had. The radio was something he hogged until he was sent to bed (but he would really sneak out and listen to it at a lower volume). For a reason he, or his parents couldn't explain, he was just a really good listener. At school, he gripped right on to oral assignments, or things that the teacher said. Trying to learn handwriting from a book was hard enough for him. Understandably, there was some concern when he fell behind in written math, and handwriting. His acute teacher, however, noticed this, and started keeping him after class so that he could receive one-on-one lessons. The very next week, he was writing letters, and doing his mathematics.
He was never a problem child, either. Always lanky, and nondescript, he blended well in to the shadows. Preferring solitude over massive games of tag, he'd listen to the breeze flutter by, or the joyous shouts and screams, always watching from a distance, but too afraid to approach. He retained that sort of personality as he grew up.
For some reason or another, though, when he became twelve years old, he started to notice some changes in the norm. For one, he was picked on a lot more by the other sixth-graders for his love of 'sissy music', among other things. He was no longer able to hide in the shadows. And this eventually became more and more of a problem. The other children were relentless. It became so much of a problem, and the next-closest school was so far away, that his parents had to make an ultimatum and call a favor.
"It'll only be a while." They said, teary-eyed, sending him to his aunt in the United States. New York, it was a confusing city, and he just spent all day barred up away from the signs he couldn't yet read, and the people he couldn't yet understand.
In his loneliness, he stumbled across something strange. Without his music, he merely began to think about The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. As if it were an entity of its own, it began to play next to him, at a gentle volume... A volume he could fall asleep to.
He didn't know how the set of circumstances came to be, but a half of a month later, a man had come. In basic terms, he was told that he had to go. There was no choice... The drive was long, and he just lazily watched all of the sights of nature. Through all of the red-lights and stops, through the hours, his nervousness climbed.
And then he'd arrived, at The Hammel Institute. Fresh, but not too eager.Behind the M A S K . . .Name: Zach
Age: Eighteen
RP Experience: I've been roleplaying for around eight years, now. Paragraph roleplay for about five.
How did you find us?: A friend.Show your S K I L L S . . .Learning English was, so far, the hardest part of adjusting to this new background. The institute was nice, buzzing with activity and life. But hearing all of the sounds and utterances that left him confused really just frustrated him the most. He missed home, the green grass and the kids on the playground. Every night was spent with tears in his eyes, and his face buried in to the pillow. And from the looks of things, this night would be no different.
He was given a selection of learning materials for the English language. Books with the letters for both tracing, and reference. He only got the ones where he could remove the umlauts. Thankfully, it /was/ another Latin-based script, but this was only stage one! His accent versus the assortment of accents that the students and faculty utilized, the different intonations and words! It seemed like such a lofty, insurmountable goal. He wasn't usually one to give up in defeat, but this almost felt like one of those times where he was going to do just that.
And yet, he couldn't. He was stuck here. He couldn't just go back home, back to the lifestyle and parents that he knew and loved. He was /stuck/ here, like some... some rat in a cage, a test subject that they could just poke and prod at. It really did frustrate him. And worst of all, there was just nothing he could do about that. A problem stacked upon a problem; and he just was not ready to accept this and make the best of it, not yet.
Dragging himself out of bed, he rubbed his eyes with two balled up fists. His glasses came on first, something he always did, even though he'd be showering in a few moments... Chalk it up to muscle memory. Hands wandered the varnished oaken dresser, taking hold of the metal rungs and giving them a tug. The several-foot wide top drawer opened up. He had a 'salad bar' of clothes, as he called it, where he could just wander down and scoop up a shirt, a pair of underwear, some pants, and some socks, leaving the next item underneath for the next change.
When he entered the shower, the water was turned on fairly high, steam pooling from the curtains, fogging up the mirror. With a moment's thought, some joyous, concerto tune kicked in to full-swing. He stepped in to the shower. Walther was as ready to take on the day as he would be.
