Doyle FAQ

Okay, so Doyle may not know what the hell he is yet, but here's some basic info on general stuff so I can keep track of it all for the sake of my sanity. Also stuff your character can know/learn about/etc.

The Huma Bird



The Huma bird is a creature of Turkish/Persian/Sufi mythos that's very much akin to a phoenix or a bird of paradise. They're known to live for eternity, and every 100 years they catch fire, molt off their body and are reborn from their ashes. It's often considered a bird of fortune, and to be touched by it is said to bring good fortune.

In Turkish lore the bird is tied most closely to the Chepni people, who are one of the 24 tribal organizations of the Oghuz Turks. The Huma bird is also considered to be the bird of Umay, the the goddess of fertility and virginity in Tengriism.



In some legends the Huma also has a griffin form, pictured above.



The Chepni People



A tribe of people who live in the Eastern Black Sea region and are considered one of the most important groups in the Oghuz confederacy because of this location. They've been in existence for almost 2000 years, dating back to the Göktürk period. Over time they have migrated and retained populations in areas outside of Turkey (Georgia, Bulgaria, Greece and the US) but are still predominantly found in the Eastern Black Sea regions or Aleppo, famous for being at the end of the old Silk Road.

Music is a large part of their culture, and even in modern times they hold festivals to retain knowledge of their native dances, songs and clothing.

Multiversal App [WIP]

Out of Character Information
Name: Zully Quirke
Username: (if applicable) zully
Are you over the age of eighteen? yyyyyy
Current characters in Baedal: None.

In Character Information
Basics
Character Name: Doyle DaFoe
Username: picksflight
Fandom: N/A
Played By: Burak Özçivit
Icon: Default is fine. :V

4. Original Character Section (disregard if applying for a fandom character)
Physical Description: Doyle is ethnically Turkish. He has tanned skin, brown eyes, black hair and ever-present stubble if not an outright chin full of beard scruff. He's 6'1, twenty-seven years old and has a wiry frame. He has some cuts and scars in various places on his body, mostly on his back, chest and stomach. He has some generic crappy tribal tattoo on his upper left shoulder that he got when he was young and stupid because he thought it looked cool. He doesn't like to talk about it. When he panics he sprouts purple and blue wings and has no idea how to turn them off. They usually go away when his panic dies down, or shortly thereafter.
Sexuality: A very even-handed bisexual. -- well in truth he's pansexual, but he doesn't really know what that means.
World Information: His world is identical to our modern day world. He grew up in Los Angeles, though he's something of a drifter and wanders around quite a bit. The only real difference is something that isn't common knowledge and something that would be met with as much incredulity in our world as is theirs. Gods of all pantheons and mythologies are real. They exist and bestow blessings or curses on people as they see fit, which rarely works out well for the people they're "blessing."

It happens in very small numbers though and usually only in small communities that maintain culturally old belief systems. For example, someone that's Hindu and worships Lakshmi may be blessed by her but someone who just picked up a copy of Silver RavenWolf's "Teen Witch" isn't likely to get Kali to curse her boyfriend any time soon. The Gods only respond to the truly faithful, and even then only when they find it truly deserving. Most of the time anything bestowed by them is done so without askance and unknown to the one being "gifted."
History: Doyle remembers nothing of his life before he was six years old. His first memory is waking up in an alleyway between a seafood restaurant and a storage warehouse with nothing but the clothes off his back. He stumbled awhile on his own which didn't go so well for him, and he was eventually picked up and put in the foster care system in Los Angeles. He picked out the name Doyle DaFoe for himself and with no records to contradict the recollection of his name, it's what's stuck with him ever since. There were no missing children reports on him and as far as he or the city of Los Angeles are concerned he's just another abandoned child.

His experience in the foster care system was fairly lucky, actually. He didn't have abusive parents, or parents who took him on for the extra paycheck. For the most part he was well taken care of and given affection, but he always knew that in a few years he'd move on to another place. That it was all temporary. Doyle was determined not to let that make him miserable; he enjoyed and appreciated his times there but with time he grew detached. Knowing no relationships or comfort was ever permanent he instead enjoyed what he had while he had it without ever investing much in where he was or who he was with. In time he'd move to another city, another family, and it would start all over again.

He was released from the system when he was eighteen, took on a series of odd jobs and never really excelled at any of them. He's flipped burgers, been a barista, worked at a book store, been a telemarketer, worked tech support (very badly), made soap, been a line cook at a chop house, worked one summer as a ranch hand on a farm, and has stolen a lot of shit. Not much about his life was different or spectacular and he was more or less alright with that. He moved from state to state, bouncing around the country and taking on odd jobs when he needed the money. Places and faces were all temporary adventures he'd enjoy until things got hard or scary or boring and then he'd just pack it all up and move again.

And then something really, really awkward happened.

He was twenty five. He'd been caught picking the pocket of someone off the streets of Kansas City-- and naturally with Doyle's luck, it'd happened to be a cop. He chased him through the streets, calling for backup to teach that "dark-skinned punk" a lesson. Panic surged through him, his heart raced, and he very fervently wished to be anywhere other than where he was right in that moment.

His back muscles siezed. It felt like his skin was crawling, itching, burning, and then he screamed, loud and sharp-- he couldn't hear the ripping of fabric or the tearing of flesh. He was back-heavy and toppled a few steps before leaning forward to right himself, bracing himself against the wall--

And turning to see a set of bright blue and purple wings. On his back.

He, along with the cops chasing him, freaked out. The cops, having no idea what to do or how to even explain how the man in front of them had suddenly sprouted wings, ran the hell away. Doyle huddled there in the alley, eyes wide and panicked, searching his mind for any reasonable explanation. He couldn't find one, of course, and eventually the spike of adrenaline went south. He passed out there in the alley and when he came to, the wings were gone. His shirt was still torn but there were no marks on his skin. No scars, no errant feathers scattered in the grime of the alleyway. So he did the only reasonable thing he could think of. He forgot the whole thing ever happened.

The problem is, from then on out any time he panicked the wings would sprout. Not so frequently at first; just when he felt like his life was in danger, and then they'd stick around for awhile before vanishing on their own. But recently they've been appearing more frequently. Someone bumps into him, surprises him, boom. Wings. It's getting worse and he doesn't know how to fix it. It's getting harder and harder for Doyle to ignore his little problem, try though he might.

Powers: He sprouts wings when he's surprised. Essentially, though Doyle has no idea, he's a partial manifestation of the Huma bird. It's worshiped by his biological family and so he was blessed with some of it's aspects. He may eventually grow other fully retractable bird-like traits (a beak, talons, tail feathers, really whatever I can do to make his life more hideous) and if all goes well he'll eventually be able to control it, too. Once he gets his wings worked out he'll be able to fly.

Humas are considered birds of fortune. Legends say that if you're touched by one you'll gain great luck. Therefore I'm adding one additional trait, which is that anyone who touches a manifestation of his bird form (his wings, for example) will gain temporarily exemplary luck. How this manifests for the character is, of course, entirely up to them.
Talents/Abilities:: He's somewhat charismatic so he can talk his way out of situations easier than most people. He's a jack of all trades and a master of none, so he can do a little bit of everything. The only thing he's really ever been good at is picking up instruments, which he does with relative ease. He considers it a largely useless talent, though, so he doesn't use it for much aside from personal entertainment.
Personality: Doyle's past experiences have done nothing to erode his love and zeal for life. If anything they've only served to give him a taste for how precious it is-- for how he should take every moment possible to savor every second. This leads Doyle to frequently make impulsive decisions. He's not completely without foresight, but if something's shiny and interesting enough he's completely willing to throw caution to the wind.

He enjoys helping others just for the sake of it. He knows what it's like to need a hand and he realizes that despite his situation growing up he was extremely lucky to have people involved in his life that were genuinely interested in offering him said hand. Though he'd never risk his own life to help someone, he'd do just about anything else he thought he could if he saw someone who needed it.

It's easy to pluck Doyle's heartstrings. As much as he'll try to act nonchalant he's very sympathetic to tales of woe, broken childhoods, and he absolutely cries at sad movies. Not even single man-tears, out and out blubbers. Especially when kids are involved; kids are the worst for Doyle. It makes him an easy mark and he knows it, so he does his best to cover it up.

As his life has been somewhat transient he doesn't really attach to people. He's friendly, and he'll enjoy the company of almost anyone that wants to share their time with him, but he keeps everything to surface level. He'll go out for drinks with a group of friends, spend a night on the town. He'll even help people just for the sake of doing it, no direct benefit to him necessary-- but he'll rarely share anything about his past, who he really is. Tidbits here and there but nothing really important. Despite his appearances and genuine carefree nature Doyle plays all his personal cards close to his chest. And honestly he wouldn't know how to open up to someone even if he wanted to. This city will be a good exercise in him being forced to deal with people on a regular basis, something he's never really had to do before.

All in all, Doyle really is a good guy. He's just a guy who's used to looking out for the survival of number one and a guy who knows that people don't stick around. Not in any jaded "I've been abandoned and my life is terrible" sort of way, but in the way of someone who logically notes this as a typical life experience. He doesn't expect anything from anyone and is perfectly happy to simply enjoy the company of pleasant people and coast through life in exactly this manner.

Object: Nothing.
Reason for playing: Doyle is a character I've had the concept of for a long time and haven't really had the opportunity to flesh out before. He's an interesting combination of modern day and mythos, and a lot of the time that means:

1. He doesn't fit into a game.
2. The game he fits into is full of terrifying Mary Sue OC's.

So I was very excite to have this game recommended to me. One of your lovely members helped me find a PB for him already, and he's already blossoming in my head. He's awkward, he doesn't know a lot about his own history -- which will be readily apparent to any characters that happen to know anything about Persian/Sufi/Turkish lore who happens to catch him at an awkward moment -- and a lot of his character and development is going to be about coming to terms with the fact that he needs to. He's spent most of his life as something of a drifter and tends to flight rather than fight, so confrontation isn't something he's big on. A big character arc for him is going to be not only coming to terms with the fact that he has a problem that he can't handle on his own or run from, but it's going to be about learning about who -- and what -- he is and confronting some metaphorical demons from his somewhat murky past.
Gods: Ceith, Goddess of Messengers. What Doyle really needs is a slap in the face; a good wake-up call of "get off your ass and stop running away from shit." Ceith seems like she'd be pretty good at that and more than willing to stick him somewhere where he can't really run all that far.

Writing Samples
Players may choose to write three of the four writing samples. Additionally, for two of the three samples applicants may substitute links to previously written roleplaying threads of no less than eight substantial replies. We reserve the right to ask for an additional sample if more information is required.

First-Person Network Post: [The video goes fuzzy for a bit; the operator seems to be having a hard time focusing the camera. A few shots of the floor before it whirls around and you get a pair of bright brown eyes and a wide smile.]

So! This is new. I mean, I never really believed in all that magical pixie dust stuff but I guess there must be something to it. Didn't even have to click my heels three times. Not that I'm-- [he flusters on a brief frown] I ain't wearing heels or anything, but you know what I mean.

[he turns and squints at the walls] Not bad. Stayed in worse. And hey, hard to say no to free money, right? City's not too bad, but I don't recognize the scenery. Did a little poking around, and these pamphlets are cute and all, but where are we really? Is this a gameshow?

[Doyle's eyes go a little wider, and he glances around] Oh, sweet, am I on TV? Am I getting paid for this?

First-Person Journal Post: Alright, so. Creepy city. Showed up here by magic right after another one of those Incidents That Shall Not Be Named. I'm really, really hoping that I didn't somehow do this. I've got enough weird shit going on in my life and I really don't need the help.

Hey, Doyle, remember when your life was normal? Remember when you could wake up in a crappy motel room, go to a crappy job and bitch about life? Wasn't that awesome? I kinda really miss that. Especially since the alternative seems to be, you know. Sprouting fucking wings when I lose my shit.

What the hell was that all about, anyway? Did I do something new? Getting caught sure as hell isn't new. The wing thing That other shit isn't new. The flooding panic, wishing that I could be anywhere other than where I was especially with the way their faces changed when they saw what--

And then I was here. In this creepy little room in this creepy little motel i this creepy little city. I mean, it'd be kind of cool if I knew why the fuck I was here. Or what the fuck was happening to me. This is too much shit all at once for me to process.

Alright. New rule. We pretend the wing other shit doesn't exist and figure out how to work this city. Forever.

Good plan. No way this could go wrong.

Third-Person Action Post: "Faster. Must go faster!"

He'd probably seen the movie about a thousand times from the roof of that crappy theatre; so many times that it'd become ingrained into his psyche to the point where now, at the height of his panic, he was reciting lines on reflex.

The cops were hot on his heels. Being chased by cops wasn't anything really new to him; he'd been a homeless kid for awhile and he learned two things really quickly: Always eat food as soon as you find it, and when you're a dirty looking brown kid being surrounded by cops, running really fast was an essential survival skill. Even when he'd grown up in all those nice foster homes he hadn't quite trusted cops, though being the only dark-skinned kid in a sea of white families had probably been a contributing factor.

No, the chasing wasn't new. He used to love it, that flood of adrenaline and panic that'd overtake him. The shrill sense of pride that'd overwhelm him as he crowed over all those slow, deadbeat assholes he'd managed to beat. Victory. But more recently that sense of panic had started to cause an entirely different sort of reaction, one that was decidedly unwelcome.

He sprouted wings.

Fucking seriously. Wings. Right out of his back. He'd lost at least a dozen shirts this year alone. One minute he'd be running along, wishing to hell he'd be able to just vanish, leave these dicks in his dirt, get somewhere safe. And the next minute he'd have that now-familiar tugging, ripping pain as his flesh split, bones shifted and his body turned back-heavy, pulling at newly-created muscle and tissue.

And they couldn't be cool looking wings even. Angel wings, or big black raven wings, some cool "I hunt the night and am a protector of the good" shit. No, they had to be purple and blue like some kind of messed up peacock or something. Doyle'd never really studied birds, though he guessed he probably should all things considered.

He turned a corner and he could hear the footsteps of the police not far behind him. That burn started to build on his shoulderblades and he grit his teeth.

"Please, please, please, not here!" The muttering and praying never helped but he tried anyway. He ducked into a nearby building, long since abandoned and tried to swallow down his ragged breaths to keep as quiet as possible. The footsteps hammered down the alleyway, turned, passed him. He heaved a sigh of relief.

But it wasn't enough. He bit down on his arm to stifle a scream as his flesh tore, tattered bits of fabric falling to the floor as his wings snapped into being. The pain of it sent him to his knees, bowed against the floor as they spread wide above him.

After a few moments he drew himself up, staggering back at the weight of them before leaning heavily against a wall. He slid to the floor, hunkered down on the grimy floor that smelled vaguely of urine and mildew.

"Guess I'm sleeping here tonight."

In the morning his wings would be gone, and then he'd get to come up with an excuse for his boss as to why he didn't show up tonight. Somehow he didn't think "I sprouted wings in public and had to hide to keep from being submitted to some crazy medical journal or some shit" would cover it.

Misc
Other: NONE :E