Role: Human Male 1
Nicknames: Charles hates being called by his given name, and much prefers being called Charlie.
Species: Human "I used to be in Heaven, though. Kind of miss it."
Gender: Male
Age: Died at age 25
Appearance: Charlie bears quite a strong resemblance to many of the demons, with dark hair, fair skin, and light eyes. His skin is a pale, creamy color, untouched by freckles or any sort of marks. His hair is a rich copper-brown, and it falls in curls across his forehead. It's quite soft to the touch, but he doesn't like it when people touch his hair. His eyes are a luminous sea green that can convey even the most complex emotions with just a glance. He has a strong jawline and a long, thin nose, which he finds ugly, but really looks fine with the rest of his features. His eyebrows are thick and provide a sharp contrast to his much gentler looking eyes. He has a dimple in his right cheek that appears whenever he smiles. He sometimes seems to have an air of slight confusion, but this has gotten quite rare as of late.
Personality: Kind & Sad & Intelligent & Soft-hearted & Down to earth
Charlie is a bit of a mush, despite his calm appearance. He has a bit hard time saying no, and when it comes to those that he cares for, he will almost immediately relent, unless it's something reckless and potentially life-threatening. Due to his mother leaving him at a young age, Charlie has separation anxiety, and he hates it. He gets terrified that he'll be abandoned again, and has developed a complex about it. His fear of this can often leave him in a bad mood or a bit depressed.
Likes: People | Being Needed | Lo | A good conversation | Summer | The taste of clementines | Tea | Stripes | Books | Baking | Stability |
Dislikes: Being Alone | Porridge | The Color Yellow | The Orphanage where he grew up | Moving |
Brief history: Charles was a regular Oliver Twist as a boy, except his life was no Dickens novel. He was born in a small town, not far from London, to a young single mother. Her name was Linnie, and when Charlie had been born, she'd been but 17. She was a pretty young thing, slender, graceful, and she simply couldn't handle a child at her age. So she did the only "logical" thing. When Charlie was around 4 years old, she took him to Stockwell Orphanage in London, a miserable place for a bright child like Charlie. He remembers (well, a lot clearer before the whole amnesia deal) standing in front of the great mahogany door, dressed in his Sunday best, hair combed to the side, clinging desperately onto Linnie.
His first day at Stockwell was miserable. Older boys jeered at him as Madam Stockwell, the woman who ran the orphanage with her husband, led him through the halls. They were painted a horrid, sickly yellow, he recalls. The walls were peeling, the hardwood floors scratched up and dingy. "Your mum didn't love you any more," the boys hissed, much to his confusion. "That's why she gave you up." Girls, not much older than him, peeked around the corner, their hair held up by brown-grey scraps of fabric. Madam Stockwell had said to Charlie, with a prim look painted onto her face, " Charles, you are to stay here from now on. Your mother will not be back for you." He remembers... he remembers crying himself to sleep that night, to the sounds of whispers and sneers, of that awful fireplace that always smelled so awful.
Charlie was always picked on for being smaller than the others, or for being too nice to the girls, or for just being too nice in general. His disposition, he couldn't quite help. But his height might have improved if it wasn't for that weak, watery porridge that they ate every day. On Sundays, they got a piece of bacon and some beans. Mind you, this was a millennium ago, and they really didn't have much more to give to the children. Come the third Monday of the month, the children were always bathed, clothed nicely, and fed well. The reason? The benefactress of the orphanage, Lady Helen Grover, would always visit on the third Monday. The children were all questioned, one at a time, about how they liked the orphanage, how they were treated, whether they were being fed enough. Now, Charlie, being quite new to the system, was simply instructed to lie to her. But a few years later, when he was 7, he became quite blunt, as children of that age become. "What have you eaten today, child?" Lady Grover asked. "Today, we got soup and bread," Charlie said, furrowing his brows as she nodded. Then, as an afterthought, he added, "But usually, we just get porridge." Lady Grover widened her eyes. "And how do the Stockwells treat you? Well?" she asked. Charlie shook his head. "Sometimes, they beat me and lock me in the closet if I try to go outside." Lady Grover's delicate hand fluttered to her chest. "Oh, my, oh, my! That's quite enough, thank you, Charles. You may leave now."
That afternoon, Madam Stockwell came up to Charles' room, a pinched expression on her face. "Pack your things, you nasty brat," she spat. "You're leaving, and good riddance, too!" Much to Charlie's- and everyone else's- surprise, Lady Grover decided to take him with her. This isn't to say that his life was happily-ever-after once it happened, of course. Lady Grover and Charles lived in quiet amiability for 18 years, until one day, when Charlie rode his horse into the forest. Everyone knows that the forest never leads to anything good, and this was no exception. A lone wolf frightened the horse as they were crossing over a river. Agitated, the horse bucked, sending Charlie flying. His head smacked against a rock in the river, cracking his skull on impact.
When he finally drifted up to Heaven, his separation anxiety seemed to get worse, as he'd been separated from yet another mother figure. He'd always been kind, had a definite sense of right and wrong, and was sensible and trustworthy, making him an excellent candidate for a Guardian. He hated that he had to move around again, but he liked the fact that those in Heaven considered him good enough for the job. That was when he met Lo, a fellow human from Hell. She was bold, exciting, a breath of fresh air, everything that Charlie wasn't. She was mischievous, and frankly, whenever Charlie was with her, he felt like he was playing with fire.
A very small, feisty, adorable fire.