FULL NAME: Desmond Savage
NICKNAMES: Des. His momma calls him baby a lot. Will answer to variations on 'you/boy/kid.'
AGE/DOB: 16 | May 22^nd (Or maybe the 21^st, but it isn't that important.)
YEAR: Junior
BLOOD STATUS: Halfblood
GENDER/PRONOUNS: Male | he/him/his
SEXUALITY: Y'all're crazy. Pretty. But crazy.

HOMETOWN: Stumble, Texas

APPEARANCE:
Currently, the whole look is a lot little bit Billy Idol's Secret Lovechild. But that's all down to the hair. It's very bleached. Something that was done terribly in the bathroom sink while Griz laughed at him and told him he was making a mistake and that they could probably do a better job with magic. In all honesty, he's sort of delighted by it. He looks like a trailer park angel.

In terms of clothing, there's nothing to write home about. His shoelaces are often untied, his color palette is limited, and his hems tend to be frayed from nervous fingers. Des has a big leather jacket and absolutely no sense of what it means to be fashionable. He happily puts on whatever's given to him and wears it all until it's all worn out.

Honestly, it tends to take people a little while to notice Desmond Savage. (Little bit less now. What with the hair. But even that's started to fade its way into a less surprising feature with September in the rear view.) He's friendly enough - not effusive, but he smiles easy and has the sort of demeanor that endears him to people. He just doesn't seem to take up a lot of space for someone who isn't precisely small anymore.

He isn't ever going much out of his way for anything, much less going out of his way for attention. Attention isn't worth all that. He does what needs to get done and isn't in a rush to be at the front of the line or the top of the class. He isn't making it there anyway, so there's no real use in all that extra effort with no chance of payoff. And it's fine, the not making it there. Not everybody's got to want everything that bad and he isn't real prepared to step on anyone's toes that'd rather be in the position.

There are things he wants. Of course there are. Everybody wants things. It's just that he's not as vocal or obvious about these things. He knows that they're important. That what he wants is important. You don't have to tell him. He can argue when he needs to but, for the most part, if where he is already isn't doing any harm, he sees no real need to kick up a fuss. So, yeah. Learning how to ask for things is still a work in progress.

In the same vein, praise isn't something Des enjoys overly much. While he doesn't exactly lack self confidence - the key there being self, he's good with it when it's just himself - he's well aware of the fact that he could be better at most things. Compliments are a surefire way to fluster and confuse him. It's nice. So, thank you. Appreciated. But he doesn't understand why you're doing it. He's still getting used to Mary Ellen at the diner calling him a 'polite young man' for helping her carry heavy boxes and she's been doing that for years now. He isn't prepared for anything more than that.

A lot of this can come down to his upbringing, sure. It was a bit non-traditional. Maybe less than ideal. But it's never really felt like something that hurt. Not terribly, at any rate. If there's anything he can say about the trappings of his childhood, it's that he feels a bit like he's playing a very prolonged game of catch up. Some of which comes down to his own volition, to be fair. He's well aware that he works at more of a casual sidle than an outright sprint.

He's a slow talker. Doesn't mince words, but won't use a dozen when a pair would do just as well. Soft spoken, but frank. Not because he wants to be rude - more because he's never exactly certain what he's supposed to do and it's easier to be honest and tell people that he isn't certain what they want him to do. If he doesn't know, he isn't going to try and play it like he does. That's asking for trouble. And trouble's more trouble that it's worth. He's seen more than enough of it to last him.

It does, however, take a lot for him to say no to someone he cares about. Especially if they push. He won't fall right over, but it's common knowledge among friends that a decent enough shove'll do him in. He'll tell you he'd rather not. That you probably shouldn't. He'll tell you that the thing sounds real dumb. But it's pretty clear that he's going to do it anyway.

There's still a lot of that wide-eyed and eager to please kid in there. But having more people to give a shit about spreads that desire out a bit better. Not so much a single-minded, unwavering loyalty, but a group of perspectives to care about. Which is healthier. And good. He's been informed that this is good. And maybe Griz gets a lot of that 'unlearning bad habits' stuff from books with catchy titles and brightly-colored covers, but he isn't going to pass up decent advice just because his brother picked it up from the discount rack of somebody's garage sale.

LANGUAGES: You're lucky that he speaks. When he does, it's in English.
HOBBIES: having his back against the wall when sitting in diner booths, puzzles, music, napping, doing things that make him feel like he's being useful

SKILLS:
quick hands : A product of people shoving things at him to stop his fingers from tapping out patterns onto tabletops or onto the palm of the opposite hand, Desmond catches on to most small puzzles or unraveling activities with impressive speed. He can untangle Christmas lights or impossibly knotted necklace chains without paying much mind to the process. He's quick with those interlocked puzzle links and folds tiny origami stars out of any napkin holder that isn't immediately taken away from him. He's pretty good at folding the napkins too.

cello : Desmond plays a very beat up cello. (It's name is Seymour, or so says the label on the inside of its case, and he will not replace it.) And he plays it wrong. He uses his bow sparingly and has a habit of scraping it down the strings - strings which he plucks far more than you're apparently supposed to? Whatever comes out sounds nice and that's good enough for him. Whether or not this is a legitimate talent is up for debate. Or maybe less whether or not it's a talent than whether or not it counts as playing the cello.

miscellaneous : Picked up in a variety of places at a variety of ages, Des has an odd assortment of small skills that barely add themselves up to anything substantial. A thorough cleaner, won't die if left to feed himself, decent at most manual labor. Can't figure out how to work the television remote, but he can program fiddly timers on ancient electronic devices. He can also make a perfect cup of coffee. And flip a pancake.

FAMILY:
BACKGROUND:
Desdemona Savage had Good Times and she had Bad Times, and a whole lot of little ones in the middle, but the Best Time was a cluster of years where she built a family in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. There was a ring on her finger and the same roof over her head. Her belly was full and her mind was clear and she loved and was loved. She was happy and sober and still. These were not the years of Desmond, but he certainly heard a whole lot about them growing up. To be happy and sober and still. It was something to dream on.

Des was - Well, he wasn't a Bad Time. But he wasn't exactly a Good Time either. He's been around for both - more good than bad, even - but the beginning of what would become himself probably didn't fall precisely into either. All things being the same, Desmond was an accident more than he was anything else. And, yeah, maybe the word accident sounds like an insult, but it isn't one. Not really. It just implies a lack of forethought. Which was certainly accurate, if nothing else.

So Desmond Savage was not a child of illustrious beginnings. Wasn't even Desmond Savage for a while. Baby Boy Savage wasn't exactly a name in the strictest sense, but it was on the paperwork for a bit there in the beginning. Just until Mona's head was on her shoulders right enough to find something that fit.

His childhood was a somewhat nomadic thing. Mona wasn't terribly good at staying anywhere for too long. Always told him that her feet weren't meant to be nailed to the ground. That even if she tried, eventually they'd go and pull themselves back up again. They'd be on the move soon enough. And, for a long time, where Mona's feet took her, Desmond's followed after like a shadow, his hands folded together behind him and his eyes wide and his mouth shut.

Jobs came and went. Sometimes Mona worked clubs and sometimes she was there to sing in them. Sometimes they were between places and reliable incomes for a while, but other times things were quiet. Close enough that Des had the idea of what still meant. Relationships came and went too. Some were better than others. There was Andrei, who had wanted them to stay. (They didn't.) And Oscar who let Des leave with his son's beat-up cello and his address on a little slip of paper just in case. (Just in case never happened. But he was grateful all the same. Still is, really.)

Things went on this way for around-about nine years. This way being a steady sort of unpredictability, comfortable in its irregularity. Until Mona pulled the string on the bus in between stops and started walking toward a Nowhere that turned into a crumbling diner that turned very abruptly into Somewhere. It was surprising. Here was the place - the place, the place in every single Best Time story - and it was real. He had a brother and a room all to himself. And then, after a dinner where everyone smiled a lot but no one seemed exactly like they were happy about the whole thing, she left him here.

It took a little bit for things to settle, Des maybe acted a bit like someone abandoned in hostile territory. (Which, while not accurate, wasn't entirely incorrect.) Maybe refused to speak in anything that wasn't 'yes sir's and 'no sir's for a while. Took what was offered and didn't ask for anything that wasn't given. Cleaned up after himself like it was his job to leave as little of a trace behind as humanly possible.

This particular standoff lasted until Charlie hit Griz upside the head and told him to stop making the kid uncomfortable. Then he told Desmond that he'd better put something up on his walls, they were empty as hell and god damn depressing on top of it. Then Griz dropped his ass at the school building and told him it was his job to get a god damn proper education.

School was small - a one-roomed thing that didn't quite count as formal, but didn't quite count as homeschooling either. Miss Simms had been a teacher after all, before Stumble. So it did the same things as any other school might. Desmond was good at helping the younger kids - all patient hands and low words - but he wasn't always as good at helping himself. He got better at it. Eventually. Never impressive, but good enough to catch up to where he was supposed to be.

Mona would show up now and again. Would sweep in bright and happy or like a wild-eyed dervish, and tell him she had someplace to show him. And he went every time, and always eager to please. Usually it was only a couple of days, a couple of days where she'd spoil him, before she dropped him off and swept back out again. Like a storm of some sort. But the last time was longer - three weeks back on the road again, back to the steady lack of stability.

And he found that didn't like it much. Or he didn't like it as much as he liked pulling up the same sheets on his bed and drinking the same shitty coffee behind the reception desk at the Inn. He might not want his feet nailed to the ground, but he liked them walking one street in the morning and the same one on the way back. Back home. He liked having a home to go back to. So he opened his mouth and told her to take him back there.

Griz suggested - Well, he insisted. But nicely. So that's as good as a suggestion, at the end of the day. He suggested going away someplace for high school. Said it would be good for him. Meant it would keep him from disappearing whenever Mona turned up again. Sat him down at the front desk and shoved a pamphlet for a school out in the middle of nowhere in front of his face. Ruffled his hair right up when Desmond shrugged and said he'd be all right with it. Turns out, he was maybe more than all right with it. Maybe it was a real good idea and he's grateful.

WAND: Beech, Demiguise hair, 12¼"
FAMILIAR: Danish, a former alley-cat with one eye and an underbite.
CAREER GOALS: He's got no idea. Long term plans are not in his wheelhouse. He would like to be both alive and not unhappy.

PART-TIME JOB: N/A

CLASSES: Desmond isn't brilliant. He's not stupid, but he isn't brilliant. Or, more accurately, he isn't accustomed to a rigid schooling structure. Or much for written responses. It's not that he doesn't understand what to do - it's that he isn't eloquent when it comes to explaining himself on paper. He guesses and second guesses and then guesses that he if doesn't have the right words right away then he isn't going to have them ever and there's no real sense in writing them down in the first place, now is there? In a somewhat ironic twist from his general reticence to monologue, he'll petition for an oral exam over a written one any day.

charms : Useful. Practical. He's got no complaints about having to learn something that you'll have to do in everyday life. He even does all right.
potions : Also useful and practical. He sort of hates the homework. Mostly because he has to spend way more time doing and redoing his homework than he'd really like.
transfiguration : One of his better classes. Largely because he wants to do decent enough in Transfig that he can stay in Animagus Studies. Also because he likes Ms. Min. She's nice.
astronomy : Look, Mr. Hogblood's cool. He's got good stories and Des is a good listener. And he's got no problem with a class that wants him to stare at neat space stuff.
home mag-ec : Right back on the useful and practical train. This is the sort of work he's used to from being recruited into KP duty at the diner back home. Never hurts improve. He's going to have to do it anyway.
music : He was a bit of a nightmare to have in class Freshman year. He didn't have the faintest how sheet music worked and he didn't much care to know. He's improved since then. At least a little. He still doesn't exactly mind that he's playing incorrectly, but now he'll play the right way when necessary.
animagus studies | newfoundland : Look, this was the thing in Griz's little school pamphlet that made Desmond actually display visually perceptible interest. And a verbalized opinion. The opinion was that he would like to do that. Y'know. Maybe. So Des tries real hard in this class.

EXTRA-CURRICULARS:
film club : He hasn't watched many films before. He likes getting to watch them now.
gaming club : Griz has a Nintendo. He's real good at Duck Hunt.
concert band | cello : He plays his cello correctly. When told to. His brother thinks him being in a concert anything is hysterical.
cheer : Not even close to the sort of dancing he grew up around. But he's good at listening. And Mary Grace is good at being listened to.

SORTING?: Long story short, he liked it. First glance, right off the bat, there was the Summer Room and he liked it. Didn't really bother walking any further than that, if he's going to be frank about the whole thing. And, well, the door let him in. On anyone else it might seem like a glib or dismissive response, but it isn't. The door was open. He could get through. That was enough. People've made homes out of less.

NAME: Jackie
EMAIL: yourbodyanditsbones@gmail.com
CDJ: jackspratt
OTHER CONTACT: ⧎
TIMEZONE: EST