| Don Kuevolo | ||
|---|---|---|
| Text Color | #CC00FF Grape (Safe Hex3) color | |
| Item | Twisted Spoon | |
| Gender | Male | |
| Age | Elder (Human 80s) | |
| Species | #065, Alakazam , The Psi Pokémon | |
| Height | 4'11" | |
| Weight | 95.8lbs | |
| Pokédex Entry | "While it has strong psychic abilities and high intelligence, an Alakazam's muscles are very weak. It uses psychic power to move its body. "-Pokémon Emerald "It does not like physical attacks very much. Instead, it freely uses extra-sensory powers to defeat foes."-Pokémon FireRed ”Its brain cells multiply continually until they die. As a result, it remembers everything.-“Pokémon SoulSilver "The spoons clutched in its hands are said to have been created by its psychic powers."-Pokémon Black and Pokémon White | |
| Level | 70 | |
| Ability | Inner Focus-Prevents Flinching | |
| Nature | Calm | |
| Characteristic | Often lost in thought. | |
| Moves | - Psychic - Teleport - Kinesis - Shadow Ball (TM) | |
| History | I suppose I must have been a kid once, hell, everyone was a kid once. It's a fact of life. I suppose that's one thing about getting older, your childhood seems to get further and further away until you look back over the haze of years and think that innocent young kid can never be you. You don't see the steadily growing cynicism. You just feel like inside you were always old and that naive kid going out into the world for the first time, nah, that can't be you. You were never that young. You were always Don Kuevolo. Perhaps after so long people would begin to forget but not me. These days I'm just careful about what I chose to remember. The black coat that rests around my skinny shoulders, the fine stitching around each cuff, that I remember well. It was no doubt some tailor's masterpiece and now it was mine. The fine crystal glass sparkles in the fire light as the steam of deep red wine fills it. The music swirls around me, fine as the crystal and as sweet as the scent of wine. Cigar smoke like a bloated python twists in the air. Before I drink I stir the fragrant liquid with a silver spoon, an accustomed little vanity. Once I am done with it the engraved spoon bends itself nearly into a circle and waits mid-air beside me. I take a small drink, feeling the tingling flow of the alcohol numb my throbbing brain. They say it kills the brain cells, I say let it. I have enough to spare after all. The last strains of music are cut off by the harsh crackling voices of bullets, a discordant choir arriving too late in the piece. In my head without missing a beat I pick up the rest of the tune. It plays around me as the glass of fine crystal breaks like a beheaded rose. I call the bottle towards me and pour a replacement glass. Ah, the taste is so rich. I overlay their screams with the sweeter sounds of a classical masterpiece. This raid is not orchestrated by the hammer of law that want to make my criminal 'benefactors' pay for the blood they have shed to acquire such wealth or even the gunmen that think they are dealing with the competition, no, it is one of my kind that has planned and co-ordinated this attack. Anyone wanting to be successful hired or bought a Psychic, it's another fact of life. I can feel his mind; he's a young buck who feels he has plenty to prove. He would be easy enough to crush yet I let him brush my mind and give him a glimpse of my true apathy. Poor kid doesn't realize that is what happens to you when you've been in the business for so long. I can remember all the years of being taught by them to ignore the screams of dying men, the screams I could always hear before they came. Now it is them screaming and I can ignore it easily. I fill my mind with better sounds. The red spreads deeper into the rug and my apathy is absolute. In my imagined Planet's Suite the last few notes of Mars fade just as the inelegant crackle of bullets fades to the lighter delicate sounds of the last few shards of glass falling and shattering on the ground. I tilt the bottle. All out of wine. The sound of approaching footsteps rocks the ground. A clumsy elephant's charge. The door clicks. I cannot raise my hands, the muscles have withered and rotted on my bones. I cannot raise my head although by now I no longer want to. Ah, it has been so long and my body is so weak. It is no longer needed since I learnt to shape reality itself to my will. No bullet can move more swiftly than thought and it takes merely a thought to peel back the fabric of reality and tug a few loose threads into place and the bullet's harsh stuttering is in vain for I am no longer in their way but elsewhere. The transition is harsh. What once was a golden gloom becomes the bright-lit forest. My feet don't touch the ground. Not a breath of wind disturbs my coat although the leaves on the trees wave to the gentle stroke of a summer's breeze. The watery cadence of the fresh water stream does not compare to the remembered beauty of the past and I let my mind slip back there and my body attend to its own needs. I drink the clear untouched water and in my mind transform it into wine. Held afloat only by the force of my self-control I play a new symphony in my head. For a while I live there, physically by the river side and mentally in the past. The water I drank I did not know until too late had been polluted upstream and with every sip more of an insidious disease sunk into my old bones. Ah how rich the taste… They say power corrupts but for this once it helped resist corruption. I felt then disease, too creep up through my veins and try to control me. I let it have my shrivelling skin, my dry bones, my dead still heart. It kept me alive long past my years until I was a withered corpse suspended only by my psychic powers and then it tried to sink its insidious tendrils into my mind. I defeated it. Ah, the heady taste of victory. My body I did not care for. The disease struggled through the damage the constant years of alcohol had done to me and I killed my own cells rather than let it change my thinking. The bloodlust did not overwhelm me; I overwhelmed it, beat it down and made it mine. In a strange way it was simple to distort my own thoughts. I lent to another pursuit the hunger of an undead, lent to another object the pleasure of rending flesh. My corrupted body is nothing. My mind is its own as it has always been and my powers are my own. Ah but how the desire breaks through even my apathy. I had been content to wait here beside the river until I died but how the desire drags me away. Not for blood or for flesh but for the fine things that once were mine. The soft elegant tones of the classical songs, the gleam of silver and gold, a comfortable room with a fire place and a bloody red glass full of wine… Ah how it set me to wandering, back and forth across this land in search of the beauties of before, through the places destroyed by weaker minds in more powerful bodies. They call my goals proof the infection has rotted my brain, my love of the simpler pleasures in life a mere mimicry of human behaviour yet I think them equally foolish in turn. More than the fool men and women whose blood soaked the carpet and mingled with the spilt wine I lament the loss of the beautiful things I have known… | |
| Appearance | His tale finished the long dead undead Alakazam hangs still in mid-air like a corpse cut free of the gallows that has yet to fall. His muscles have rotted away from disuse leaving nothing more than discoloured skin laminated to his bones and his overlarge head hanging limply against his skinny chest. He makes no effort to raise it. One finger from his left hand and his thumb from his right have fallen off somewhere along the way and have not been missed. His moustache is long and luxuriant although it has started to grey with age. His horns are long and curved, his face hollowed and chiselled with lines by the long years. His head is raised as if by an invisible hand. As he moves he makes barely a whisper of noise and his light dried body allows him to suddenly move as swiftly as he wishes. A near invisible power plucks a lone berry from the shadows and he eats by moving a portion of his psychic aura around it and pressing it against his jaw. A tightening of a psychic vice pulps it so the juice runs down his throat. He can no longer chew or wishes to. Two spoons of an antique silver hover around him. He does not bothering attempting to take them in hand but they twist and dance around him like silver fishes and pop in and out of existence. They are mere psychic constructs, physical manifestations of his memories. Surrounding his body seems to be a thin outline of violet light that fades out into a nearly transparent aura of power that distorts the view of all things behind it. Incapable of physical moment it seems his body hovers a few inches above the ground and moves manipulated by the aura of Psychic energy alone. Wrapped around his shoulders is a splendid black coat that moves as he does. Not a breath of wind disturbs its folds unless he wishes it. He is no longer dependant on his weak physical body to control his psychic powers. His hooded eyes, twin orbs of glowing red seemingly without pupil, shine with an arrogant light and perhaps if you look close you can see the faintest twitching of a smile play across his jaws. | |
| Personality | The Don’s telepathic voice sounds husky and aged. By his mocking tone you can tell his tale of his apathy has not been exaggerated, it bears the cynicism of too many years on this earth. Although his red eyes glow warningly at the suggestion that he is another blood-thirsty undead neither does his ancient pride bend him to helping others. He often floats completely still, half lost in a memory of his lost wealth and half keenly observing the world around him. Little care shows in his movements unless around something he considers valuable that he will pick up and closely examine with a deep sense of satisfaction. There is an air that he considers conversation with others vaguely beneath him, certainly he never makes effort to get to know others. Perhaps, if offered an appropriate bribe or you are unfazed by his bleak attitude, Don Kuevolo may be persuaded to offer you some advice or aid. After so many years his affections has faded, his self-serving attitude supreme. In truth his only enjoyment in living is provided by things, not people or pokemon. For the troubles of others he cares nothing. Help from him is simply because he finds it amusing or it benefits him directly. In his manner of speech he sounds a lament for his many wasted years. Overall his withered and slumped form is unnatural and ethereal, his constant wandering a mystery. | |
| User Notes | -I don’t know what Kuevolo means if it’s an actual word. -Suffers from severe muscle atrophy due to not using his body anymore. He moves by Psychic powers alone. -Cannot physically talk. -Often accompanied by a piece of classical music. -A recovering alcoholic. Good wine was his reward for supporting the business and he came to be addicted to it, with the down fall of humanity he has to make do without it. He says he used it in a vain attempt to kill off his excess brain calls and destroy his old memories. -Teleports from place to place pretty much randomly. -Does not hover to a degree to give him immunity to Ground Type moves. | |
