Post by camtoniac on Apr 23, 2011 1:31:17 GMT 11
Name - Struan Patrick Feardocha Macduff
Age - 37; 24th Oct, 1973
Gender - Male
Occupation - Psychotic Caledonian (mature; ex-spindoctor, ex-journalist, ex-priest, ex-husband)
Hometown - [Motherwell], Glasgow, [Lanarkshire], Scotland, [UK, Europe]
Appearance -
Struan stands at five foot ten, although is generally perceived as being considerably smaller - his thin frame and large, wide eyes give him an eternally youthful appearance. His huge, bright, blue, Jigglypuff gaze conveys a misleading sense of innocence and creates the false impression of a constantly earnest awareness of those around him. Forever clad in workarmour; black lace-ups, distasteful Trade Unionist shirt, highstreet brand suit (jacket often hopelessly oversized), sensible tie, and one of seven attractive sets of cufflinks (expensive, each a gift from Avery - “I’m sick of you coming in here lookin’ ye stole yer da’s rejects, it’s embarrassing!”; Struan knows, or thinks he knows, that Avery just wanted an excuse to spoil him), and, of course, before the incident, security pass permanently clipped to his belt. His skin is pale, unblemished and smooth, and turns a delightful shade of crimson when the angry little man is bollocking an inferior. Struan’s hair is dark brown and curly, settling around his face in short, fluffy, rings, scruffy and only serving to reinforce the myth that he is at least half-wolf. Further endorsing this idea, his smile stretches viciously across his face, a mischievous grin baring his sharp little teeth to the general public with no consideration for their sense of security or general state of mind.
This tiny lunatic Scotsman has a habit of letting his anger rise to such a point that each step is so loaded it becomes a short hop, barely able to contain the level of energy pulsing through his body. He moves in fast, jerky strides, as if the laws of physics will not allow him to travel and gesticulate as fast as his brain and limbs instruct him to do so. Struan’s voice can be softspoken and gentle, but his Glaswegian tones are known to twist and curl into thick, harsh yelps and cries, violent and rising above the static of the daily maelstrom of shite he is accustomed to having to deal with. Struan compulsively licks his lips - as a bizarre intimidation tactic more than anything - and gestures wildly to explain a concept or reinforce a point; his hands are slim, and adam’s apple prominent - his ex-wife insists that the pace of his job forced him to endure an almost anorexic diet (Avery, who truly does consume so little he could merit an anorexia diagnosis, contends this, pointing out that Struan is rarely not eating - his slender build and scrawny limbs are just down to a fast metabolism, a horrendous smoking habit, and consistently gliding through life at a level of frenzied animosity unfathomable to the average human being). With an irrepressible smirk and twinkle in his eye, Struan prowls around his lair sniffing for the next whiff of trouble, canines sharpened and prepared for conflict. Shunning the stylish overcoat and long, designer scarf preferred by his infinitely classier friend for his favourite navy anorak and football scarf, Struan will never be caught without his Blackberry and a Filofax.
Personality -
Struan is a dynamite. His explosive temper can be triggered by the most insignificant of inconveniences. His speech is threaded with profanities and vicious baroque threats; for this, he and his master have become feared and revered - but encounters with Struan are layered with the additional weariness of his erratic violence. Impatient and quickwitted, the young Scot physically tenses and begins to overheat at the mere concept of procrastination and loitering; if Struan instructs you to dance, DANCE. Unfortunately, he has been known - although these incidents have been carefully erased from the memory of the Downing St and Party staff - to snap and dive for throats, slam against walls, abuse office equipment and innocent furniture, and on several wince-worthy occasions, bring his fist into swift, heavy contact with an insubordinate’s head (women too). For all of this Caledonian charm, Struan does genuinely care. While he has only ever truly enjoyed the company of Avery (and his three beautiful daughters, of course), Struan cares about his wife, his family, and the state of the nation, People and Pokémon alike. He enjoys a drink, but remains acutely aware of his intake and behaviour, cautious of his father’s affliction. Cancersticks are his real vice - despite what he told Catherine, he has never really attempted to give up smoking; he simply enjoys it too much. Coffee and lying are another of Struan’s addictions - caffeine to make the world go round, and untruths to conceal his vulnerabilities. Survival instincts and primal desires; the world views Struan as a berserk puppy, wandering the streets without direction, taken in by Avery and groomed to function as an elite hunter, entirely loyal and politically astute - Struan finds the parallel too apt to deny.
He is, as expected, intensely loyal and savagely protective - but dangerously unpredictable and emotionally opaque. Struan can be seen cooing over a Pokémon and dealing gently with a child, before twirling on his heel and ripping a proverbial chunk out of a political gambit’s neck. His face lights up, and his eyes twinkle and dance with unadulterated joy when amused, although this raw happiness is usually the result of another’s sensational downfall and, in Avery’s divine company, a dram of good whiskey and a cigar, rather than a bout of particularly pleasant weather or heartwarming tales of life-saving puppies (although, he is fond of puppies). In the early morning, crisp as the fresh London smog has yet to settle, he loves to go for jogs through the city, Hoothoot and Ghastly still haunting the streets.
Despite his open, inherently playful expression, Struan is an intensely private person. He suspects this may have been a factor in the breakdown of his (arguably loveless) marriage, and the strained, potent codependency of his two-decade-stretching friendship with Avery. Any attempts to pry into Struan’s past, private affairs or personal life, are promptly met with a succinct ***** off, or a series of misrepresentations ranging from simple and absurd to elaborate and facetious. Since leaving the priesthood, Struan has found it quite difficult to pinpoint a period in which he was wholly honest - with his loved ones, and with himself. He lives his life on three hours sleep a night - although retains the ability to fall into a deep sleep in the most disruptive of environments - running on sleep-deprived hysteria, he often has to shake his head just to check his eyeballs are still in their sockets, but no one could ever tell; Struan is innately youthful, wide-eyed and energetic, jumping on the balls of his feet, chasing victims from 6am through to 2am.
Struan loves to laugh - albeit, more likely at someone, than with someone. His sense of humour is both cutting and crude; the cruel misfortune of an unappealing colleague is as likely to entice a chuckle as a cockjoke and a dramatic fall (preferably, ‘off a building’). He enjoys watching the Old Firm derbies - and enjoys watching the inevitable chaotic brawl of the rival fans after each match even more. Struan doesn’t gamble, for fear he’d become addicted, but, when he had time for wasting valuable braincells in front of the television, back in Edinburgh, he had always insisted on watching the Pokémon Battle Frontier; Avery thought the whole thing barbaric, and as punishment for using his TV to watch it, would force Struan to sit through an art documentary (that he secretly enjoyed). He is notoriously difficult to interpret - the civil service driver that drove him to work each day, in a car he shared with Avery (despite the distance between their houses), had to begin each day with a deep breath and a prayer; one day, Struan would be chatty and amiable, discussing (mocking) the merits of the radiojockey stumbling through the morning news, and the next day, silent and fuming, staring out of the window, hissing through gritted teeth and a tight grasp on his briefcase - and then there are the days he bounces into the car, mobile plastered to his face, shouting and barking vicious instructions and threats down the line. Struan considers himself rather charming.
Although now a lapsed Catholic, Struan has continued harbouring guilt and shame, and has managed to repress or convert into fury almost any thought that makes him uncomfortable in his own skin. Perhaps, he thinks, he should have taken up painting instead. Feeling compressed and overwhelmed - not a situation in which Struan feels particularly at ease - he longs for his journey (he will not concede that he has been exiled) to Johto to provide relief, and means for an outlet. Memories of nights spent simply relaxing with Castro as a child bring hope of finding a similar release during his excursion; companions to bond with, numbing the pain of near-severed ties with his family and friends back in the UK.
History -
Growing up in an estate in Motherwell - a grey little place suffering from the collapse of its once-renowned steelworks industry, Struan spent most of his childhood loitering in shop doorways in the nearby city of Glasgow. He was born into a Catholic family; upon reflection, the circumstances of his upbringing seem almost farcical - his prevailing memory is of cold nights spent sharing disdainful looks across a claustrophobic room with his six siblings (three brothers, three sisters), an unstable, hypercritical mother, and a vile, alcoholic father. Struan would sit nestled in the corner, grinning wildly and whispering vivid notions and improbable ambitions to his Raticate, Castro - named after an autocrat or Old Firm footballer, he can never remember - whom he had found cowering under his mattress, a small, wide-eyed Rattata, scrabbling desperately at the floorboards, teeth chipped and claws overgrown. As his parents’ roaring voices thundered overhead, Struan giggled. The vehemence and venom a perpetual disquiet, the grotesque symphony of his youth; he thrived on the melody, violent and rough, fabricating vicious scenarios and painting obscene pictures. Young, but sharp, he felt guilty for his compulsions - and in turn, he felt anger. Here, he supposes, is when it started.
Aged 11, keen to escape his father’s frenzied, drunken beatings, Struan left his family and the estate to join the priesthood. He trained and boarded at St Xavier’s Missionary seminary. His father ridiculed him, and his mother dismissed the move as an absurd pipedream. While his father’s piety had crumbled, and his mother’s was hereditary and simply convenient, Struan’s faith was blind. He longed to evade the brutality of his previous school - small, thin, and easily agitated, the bullies were merciless - and found solace in the calming atmosphere of the seminary, and the gentle influence of the Fathers. With a clouded mind and heart full of trepidation, Struan kissed his ma and sisters goodbye, allowed his older brothers to rub his scruffy hair, and with a quick nod to his pa, and a tearful embrace with Castro - for the boys were not permitted Pokémon at the school - he hauled his bags over his shoulder and turned to face the cold morning sun. Three buses, ten bitten nails, two short sobs and an apple later, Struan stepped out and peered through the fog. The ominous shapes of boys playing football and five imposing spires rose out of the thick mist; here, he felt comfortable.
For six years, Struan spent each day (apart from the holidays) cushioned from the outside world. He was educated and trained, living without television or chocolate, watching the Fathers with their Growlithe, willing time to move faster, pleading with Dialga that his time to travel the world as a missionary priest would arrive. Then, at 17, faith and patience wavering, he saw her - long wavy hair, dark and mesmerising, bright eyes and an infectious laugh - and he was done. He broke protocol, sneaking out to visit her, and began to allow doubt to creep even further into his resolve; long repressed fury boiled over into careless words and heedless fights with the other boys. Inevitably, they caught him, clumsily pressing a kiss to the side of her mouth, hands wandering, wayward and wanton. Bottom lip pulled between his teeth, face flushed and eyes fixed resolutely on the cracks in the floorboards, Struan had received an ultimatum. The disciplinary measure would be foregone, the priest had said. Pidgeot perched majestically at the end of the vast wooden table, Father Santino had stared at the top of the boy’s head, and, large hands slowly sweeping across the surface, coolly stated: twentyfour hours - the girl, or the priesthood. Dazed and weightless, Struan had left the grounds and went for a walk.
Cold and confused, Struan found himself meandering through the wet, grimy streets of Glasgow, a light shower falling onto his curly adolescent mop. He let out a wolfish yelp as a hand suddenly clapped his shoulder. With an oddly endearing innocence, Struan whipped round to face the stranger; a man, pale and gaunt, perhaps five years older than himself. The man, with twinkling eyes and sharklike grin, held out a hand to greet the boy - and thoughtlessly, he took it, shook it, and exchanged greetings; Avery, the spindly creature had introduced himself as. They’d talked, and he’d led Struan through the city, spinning dreams and theories around the young priest-to-be’s naivety. Struan felt that he’d been stripped from the inside-out, dropped into a ravenous whirlpool, and - frantic without sense or direction - abruptly rescued in the eleventh hour, dragged ashore by the icy grip of a crooked angel. He hung on Avery’s every word, inflection and gesture - and when he returned to the seminary the following day, God and celibacy seemed a distant memory, a fresh flame flickering behind his eyes, a new thirst and curiosity galvanising each step. With a sheepish grin and bashful bow, Struan bid the seminary and his future as a man of the cloth farewell, and returned home, claiming his year had been let out early for the holidays. He spent a few precious weeks with Castro and his siblings before his parents received the inexorable letter from Father Santino; his father was irate and cruel - a fierce kick to the ribs and vitriolic insults spat with a laugh, while his mother snorted and declared that she always knew he wasn’t up to it. Struan wiped his face, ran a hand through Nancy’s - his youngest sister - hair, kissed her on the forehead and entrusted her with the full care and responsibility of his oldest friend, Castro. She smiled and nodded, squeezing his hand, whispered bring me back a Swablu - a pink one and watched him skip down the road, streetlights and Zubat his only company. Struan made two phonecalls, and followed Avery to Edinburgh.
Drinking, smoking, caffeine and mockery. Avery immediately offered Struan a position as his deputy at the newspaper he worked for. They stalked and intimidated by day, gathering information and churning out articles - at night, Struan sprawled out on Avery’s sofa, spilling pizza and cheap beer all over the upholstery, merely laughing at the older man’s angry outburst as he spots the stains - and then the bickering would rise to a bellowing argument, baroque and profane, insults and brandless plates hurled. Struan enjoyed the shouting, and so did Avery; each taunt and derision laced with affection - and so they’d fight and brawl, before collapsing in front of the television, chuckling and abusing the fat lady who spewed the rolling midnight news, debating politics and football, prior to invariably drifting off to sleep in their suits.
Years passed, and the two remained unnervingly inseparable - and increasingly ambitious. Accepting roles at The Independent, Struan and Avery moved from capital to capital, relocating to London. Avery rented an apartment; Struan moved in with him - this decision was never discussed. Their infamy grew, as the Scotsmen’s unique method of keeping their sources and minions in check was whispered louder and louder along the grapevine. A malicious spectre and his rabid attackdog. A noxious Darkrai and his deranged Houndoom. Avery proposed politics and Struan sniffed an opportunity, and into the Party political system they fell. Soon, his mentor and best friend was at the heart of the regime, Struan hopping frantically by his shadow. Despite the implications, this role suited Struan perfectly - the spinmaster’s chief enforcer; ranting and raving at wayward aides and politicians served an adequate outlet for his infinite rage and violent temper. The public mood improved, the media was adequately cajoled into submission, and the Party took power. Celebrations ensued; Struan swigged the most expensive champagne at the banquet, sloshed about the room, staggered out of the building and into an alleyway, declared loudly to Avery that he loved the cadaverous *****er and promptly vomited over said *****er’s Louis Vuitton dress shoes.
Of course, Struan had fallen in love - or perhaps, he considers, he had convinced himself that he had. Shortly before entering Government, he’d began seeing a girl, a pretty girl, who reminded him of his teenage years and the romance of newfound affection. Somehow withstanding his murderous insanity and surreal obsession with violence, politics, obscure early century jazz singers, and (most baffling) Avery, she had stayed with him and, unplanned (and panicattack inducing, on Struan’s part), become pregnant. Struan was fond of her, very fond, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her - but he’d been raised to do so and so he did; Struan proposed, and Catherine Ailsa Louise Macdonald became Catherine Ailsa Louise Macduff. He was terrified - but then he looked into the wide, impossibly blue eyes of his baby daughter, and all of the stress and strain of the world fell from his shoulders. Alice. She was beautiful. Struan’s life began to fall into place. He could have ruled the world if it took his fancy.
However, reality retaliated against this happiness harshly - the weather became hopelessly unpleasant, his fights with Avery became more mordant than banter, the government grew considerably more difficult to hold together - much like his marriage, and Struan’s head had compressed and pulsed until coherent thinking was no longer an option. Two more beautiful daughters, Grace and Sophia, and after five years his marital union was finally dissolved. She got the Vulpix. Eternally furious, disorientated and suffocated by the burden and pressure of the custody battle and the upcoming election, Struan panicked. Berserk, hysterical, Struan tore through the building with manic eyes and a savage smile - and understandably, he made a mistake. A substantial misjudgment; Avery swore at him, but this time, the fight didn’t escalate, the older man simply shook his head with distaste. Struan slammed doors and smoked fiftythousand cigarettes, ignored his phone and simmered angrily into a dreamless sleep. When he awoke, wild choler continued to burn through his veins. Fuming, he showered and drank his coffee, stormed silently to work - and stopped, slackjawed and incredulous, as he found himself demoted and transferred to another less central department. Avery simply lowered his gaze, answered an inane question asked by an equally bland drone, and turned away.
Struan took long strides across the building, alternating between heavy stomps and bouncing leaps and bounds, punching walls and kicking chairs. Primal screams and grunts escaped his throat, the incoherent noise of infernal fury echoing throughout the open-plan office. The workers cowered, meekly slipping into the background until Struan’s rage carried him elsewhere. The shaking, the migraines, and the illogical nonthought continued for another four days before Struan made his next fatal mistake. A media spectacular, a chaotic spiral of accusations and abuse, a broken mug and a torn up document. Struan was panting, quivering, and his cheeks were puce with distress. He didn’t return home all night, and by the following day, he’d lost his job and through a series of complications, his house, his children and his partner. Even as he eased back into the seat of the plane due to take him away from his troubles and to the long-sought liberation of Johto, Struan could feel Avery’s acerbic gaze searing a cold account of his failures into the back of his head, and his final words, caustic and dry, ringing in his ears. He sighed, closed his eyes, and suppressing his ire into a tiny ball in the pit of his stomach, wished for nothing more than a refreshing sleep.
Goals - He needs an escape; to reinvent himself.
Other Info -
Struan is a fantastic singer and talented actor, but he’d never admitted it to anyone. His pa called him a useless poof after he won a Robert Burns poetry recital competition, at only nine years old; his ma repeatedly reminded him that he wasn’t good enough, and could never achieve anything, and so therefore shouldn’t even try. A similar situation occurred when Struan showed interest in pursuing the route of becoming a professional Pokémon Trainer. He loves Al Jolson, Bobby Darin, and the like. While he always chooses the most expensive drink at the party to neck, it’s purely imitation; Avery always scoffed at Struan’s uncultured palette. When sharing a flat with Avery, he purposefully left a lot unsaid, for fear that his friend would reject him. This vulnerable, insecure aspect of his personality is something that Struan always ensures he overcompensates for - no one must know. He secretly felt guilty for smoking in the other man’s presence, given his asthma and obvious aversion - but he always made a show of laughing about it, using the habit to rile the sly birdman - grinning ferociously, sitting on the windowsill, puffing merrily into the cool nightair as Avery spat venom from the other side of the room, dramatically smothering his face to avoid the wayward smoke billows. During his time in Johto, Struan compulsively checks his Blackberry every few minutes, endlessly disappointed at the empty inbox. Even within the confines of his own mind, Struan would, could never - ever - admit his obsession with- - it’s not something he will ever be able to face. His last visit to Motherwell was to lay flowers at the grave of Castro (whose daughter, Amelia, a sweet little Rattata, is currently cared for by Nancy). While still in contact with his siblings, Struan has had engaged in no form of communication with his parents in years - his mother still resides in Glasgow; his father died suddenly of a heartattack shortly after the birth of Grace - Struan did not attend his funeral, and never introduced his children to the man. He misses his daughters every single day.
How did you find us? - I’m vintage.
