Foster just got here, and already he looks out of place. A skinny, sallow figure the colour of an old cement road. It's really obvious that he's scrawny, because he's not wearing a shirt, revealing a slightly ribby, undermuscled torso and a terrible bandage job on his right arm.
He has something clutched in one hand.
He's also wearing pyjama pants and an international baggage claim under his eyes.
He is not wearing shoes.
Foster runs one hand back through his hair agitatedly--hair that is now swept back very hard from repeated this gestural tic.
"I don't... have anything? I don't have anything. I don't have anything to give you. At all."
Well. He has his pants. He could give you his pants. Do you want those?
B. Gamer's Circle
Once he's finally allowed in, Foster is only really interested in one part of the carnival. He doesn't like games of pure skill. He doesn't like them because he's bad at them, usually--but also because it doesn't tell him anything about anything, no matter what outcome he gets. But carnival games aren't games of skill. They're games of cunning--or luck, depending on how cunning you actually are. That's what's fun. He actually recognises some of these. Or he thinks he does. Jacob's Ladder and darts and milk bottles and things like that. The goldfish bowl game with the rings or balls.
They're not hard, if you know the tricks. That's not what he's looking for.
He wanders the midway, the soft hems of his pyjama pants trailing in the dirt.
He asks the question like perhaps anyone is listening to him, but he assumes they're not. He turns, though, grabbing the nearest passerby. His blue eyes are bright--eager.
Foster van Denend | Original Character
Foster just got here, and already he looks out of place. A skinny, sallow figure the colour of an old cement road. It's really obvious that he's scrawny, because he's not wearing a shirt, revealing a slightly ribby, undermuscled torso and a terrible bandage job on his right arm.
He has something clutched in one hand.
He's also wearing pyjama pants and an international baggage claim under his eyes.
He is not wearing shoes.
Foster runs one hand back through his hair agitatedly--hair that is now swept back very hard from repeated this gestural tic.
"I don't... have anything? I don't have anything. I don't have anything to give you. At all."
Well. He has his pants. He could give you his pants. Do you want those?
B. Gamer's Circle
Once he's finally allowed in, Foster is only really interested in one part of the carnival. He doesn't like games of pure skill. He doesn't like them because he's bad at them, usually--but also because it doesn't tell him anything about anything, no matter what outcome he gets. But carnival games aren't games of skill. They're games of cunning--or luck, depending on how cunning you actually are. That's what's fun. He actually recognises some of these. Or he thinks he does. Jacob's Ladder and darts and milk bottles and things like that. The goldfish bowl game with the rings or balls.
They're not hard, if you know the tricks. That's not what he's looking for.
He wanders the midway, the soft hems of his pyjama pants trailing in the dirt.
No... no... no, no, no....
Dissatisfaction becomes irritation. Irritation becomes frustration. Frustration becomes--
"Isn't there anything new?"
He asks the question like perhaps anyone is listening to him, but he assumes they're not. He turns, though, grabbing the nearest passerby. His blue eyes are bright--eager.
"Do you have anything different?"
C. Wild card!
[Just make something up. Just fucking do it.]