Hélas, pauvre Yorick, a cité Shadrach dans un bourdonnement, reposant le crâne sur le torse inférieur du corps qui l'avait cultivé. "Un homme d'une plaisanterie infinie. Ce n'est plus le cas, de toute façon." Le petit garçon sur le sol n'avait toujours pas beaucoup bougé, mais son corps se stabilisait. Shad pensait qu'il laisserait l'autre adolescent à n'importe quelle chaîne de pensée qu'il devait démêler. Il savait ce que c'était d'avoir à voler un moment de calme hors d'une dure journée, et il avait une certaine empathie... et un filet d'anticipation. Le garçon fixait ses dés avec plus d'intensité que Shadrach aimait être autour. Cela lui rappelait une bande élastique étirée trop loin. Ses marches étaient décontractées à son départ, mais il se déplaçait avec une vitesse inhumaine.
Il n'est pas allé très loin. Juste assez loin, peut-être, pour rester hors de portée du couple qui jouait avec le feu. Joigné par la fille avec le verre. Laisse-les jouer. Ce n'est pas comme s'ils pouvaient se blesser. Pas beaucoup. Ce n'est pas ma responsabilité. Les humains blessés aux bords de sa vision ont peut-être été sa responsabilité, s'il a pris un moment pour examiner la situation, mais Shadrach ne l'a pas fait. L'empathie envers les marionnettes de viande a été remarquablement lente à venir. Certains d'entre eux ont attiré son attention plus tôt que d'autres, cependant, surtout celui qui hurlait de la « merde sainte » au sommet de ses poumons alors qu'il s'éloignait de l'homme aux cheveux gris debout au-dessus de son vieux corps. Son camarade suivit bientôt.
«Certains d'entre nous sont plus longs que d'autres pour en avoir la sensation», a commenté Shadrach à la hauteur de l'homme à mi-chemin, jetant ses yeux d'abord sur les enfants aéroportés de l'autre côté de l'épave, puis sur le cadre immobile de l'adolescent aux cheveux pâles, puis de nouveau. Puis retour à l'adolescence. Il ne s'est pas senti très loin du tout. "Les motes de la suie qui filent dans l'air. Un humain ne les verra jamais. Mais une fois que vous les sentez... C'est comme un ballet." Il aimait ce type, jusqu'ici, qui n'avait pas l'air aussi stressé, mais tout aussi silencieux.
Name: Ivo Shadrach, he/him.
Age: 19.
Personality: Ivo's aversion to crowds has occasionally portrayed him as a quiet individual, but he's no less social than anyone- So long as he doesn't have to deal with too many people at once. In this way he can actually end up putting more effort into seeking and maintaining conversation than most, as a chance to chat in an environment he finds comfortable might not come around often. When he feels overwhelmed, he simply vanishes into his own thoughts and keeps doing whatever he thinks is most useful for him to do. When conversing, he is prone to change the subject to something more abstract or unusual suddenly and abruptly, though he tries to avoid speaking over anyone. Ivo laughs little, but smiles very often. It is difficult to say whether he is a friendly person, partially because he treats everyone like a friend, and partially because he seems so disinterested in what people are doing in their relationships and careers, much preferring to ask about their dreams, their emotions, their fantasies and guesses.
Interests: Ivo has long wished about overcoming the inherent materialism of his Avernalese upbringing and styling himself into a spiritualist, fanning the flames of a childish belief that there really is something under the bed, that mirrors winked at you when you looked away. The commercialisation of classical monsters held no appeal to him, and Ivo has always sought out entertainment that emphasises the unknowable and the forgotten. Lovecraft's sonnets were his bedtime stories, and old chants and ambient recordings were what he defined as music. Though applying his capacious memory to science was the only way he stood a chance of passing at his public school, Ivo secretly and privately wished that he'd forget everything and discover his own beliefs about the nature of the world, and did poorly in all but mathematics, which he enjoyed for its abstract, almost otherworldly nature. He keeps himself busy with sketches and poetic records of his emotions when he's alone in a new place, neither of which will ever be worth publishing. After many attempts to apply for work in novelty shops that sold dreamcatchers and practiced crystal healing, he eventually found his employment in a factory, hand-crafting gorgeous candles and perfumed soaps. He smokes irregularly with hand-grown tobacco, though what else might be in his cigarettes is hard to say.
History: Born to an old and somber family in Avernale, Ivo was raised in the shadow of his much older brother Ezra, who was very alike to himself, almost to the point of being twins. Like Ivo, Ezra did poorly in school but quickly found work, and left the family with barely a trace when he knew he was financially secure. Though difficult at first, both of Ivos parents soon surmounted their loss, knowing that Ezra had left only to seek independence, and not because there had been a lack of love or good parenting between them. A quiet expectation permeated the family that Ivo, too, would leave when he was able and no later. Knowing that Ezra had turned out well even without a successful education, they waited patiently as Ivo's grades collapsed, and did what they could to help him when he started seeking employment. Now that he has a job, they wait, neither impatiently nor regretfully, for him to take control of his own life.
Appearance: Unimpressive. Though he's more fit than he looks from long wanders and hours of overtime work, Ivo still looks like a twelve-year-old, with a bulky body and just the faintest touch of pudge still lingering in his face. His hair is short, dark and uncombed. While travelling to work on the day he died, he was suited up in a simple blue factory work jacket and trousers, stained by wax and dyes.
Notes: ayy lmao


Realm: Empty.
Form: Human.
Other: None.