(no subject)
*he's sixteen, curly-haired, and biracial, seated in a corner, an electric violin held under his chin. He salutes with his bow, waving it in a lazy circle before going into an exaggerated bend from the waist, almost touching his nose to the floor*
Hi. I'm Fiddler. You guys don't notice anything, I've been here for two days already and the first time anyone looked at me was when I plugged the amp in. *he's amused, and he may or may not be lying.*
And yeah, I know a lot of people here, hi. Yeah. *shrugs, as if this is not important to him, and launches into an electric rendition of an Irish dance tune*
Typist: Fidelis "Fiddler" T. Whipple, the somewhat bratty son of Diogenes Pendergast and Helen Whipple (though he was raised entirely by the latter, with no knowledge of the former). Do not call him by his full name.
Hi. I'm Fiddler. You guys don't notice anything, I've been here for two days already and the first time anyone looked at me was when I plugged the amp in. *he's amused, and he may or may not be lying.*
And yeah, I know a lot of people here, hi. Yeah. *shrugs, as if this is not important to him, and launches into an electric rendition of an Irish dance tune*
Typist: Fidelis "Fiddler" T. Whipple, the somewhat bratty son of Diogenes Pendergast and Helen Whipple (though he was raised entirely by the latter, with no knowledge of the former). Do not call him by his full name.