Table of Contents
Devi Ravi is an inhabitant of Togi, sister to Dejan Ravi and daughter to Prana Ravi and Ishar Ravi.
Personality
Devi is a girl of actions and words. Prone to acting and speaking before thinking, Devi is known as something of a hothead, extroverted and stubborn. She has a strict code of ethics that she demands other people adhere to, without that they're ever publicised, and any presumed breaches are met with venom and an attempt to interfere. On good days, this means she exhibits commendable civil courage. On bad days, it makes her a vicious opponent.
Despite her extroversion and strong collection of opinions (that extend well beyond just the topic of ethics), she frequently proves she has an open mind by being a great source of level-headed, unassuming advice - but one does need to speak to her in private to get it.
She has a low tolerance for bullshit and will call it out if she encounters it.
Appearance
Shoulder-length black and copper hair gives her the impression of being a red-head, melting to a dark red impression at distance. She keeps the mostly straight hair tied up in a hair grip, the strands spiking out to all sides from it. Her eyes share the colour of her hair, maroon with speckled hints of copper streaking and darker patches, though appearing mostly uniform.
She's built fairly thinly, superficially seeming almost delicate, though her face breaks the gothic frame by being fairly round with a hint of very faded freckles at height of her cheek bones.
Her facial skin is slightly cratered with wide pores - no doubt due to childhood acne in combination with an obsessive compulsive scratching thereof - but it doesn't detract from her charming and perhaps even beautiful exterior. Her pale lips are never enhanced with lipstick, though she has a hint of red eyeshadow further underlining the crimson theme.
While she wears black, nothing about her hints at a sinister or faux-sinister personality - a wine-red shirt peeks out from under a black cloth jacket that seems to balance itself quite effortlessly between formality and casual, trendy style, with two function-less white laces tracing down from the open ends of its collar to her front, one on each side, reaching approximately halfway down her torso.
Her trousers tend to be a pair that she's grown to love: a thin pair of slightly reflective fabric, with four rectangular platinum-coloured metal pieces woven on their wide, top end into the outside of the trousers at height of her ankles, two on each leg, above each other.
Depending on the weather she wears a pair of sturdy black and dark brown sandals or a pair of black sneakers with silver detailing.
Her most constant companion is her backpack, which seems to have a hue as if someone had taken a painting of her and dissolved its components into a single medely of colour, a slightly dirty, perplexing colour doing the splits somewhere between black and a metallic hue not quite gold and not quite copper.
Pokémon
History
Arsaga continuity:
Devi Ravi went on the gym circuit prior to meeting Nikki Arsaga, but “had to turn back when the floods washed away large parts of Route 59.” She possessed the HM Strength.
Descriptions from Sessions
Collected from Arsaga:
“I don't have to justify myself to pokémon,” Devi snarls, words laced with a whimper, now stemming her weight as far sideways as she can bear, her hands clasped around the wrist of the raptorian holding her, trying to force her nails past the scales, barely even causing the creature to rumble in protest. The grip doesn't shift. “I'm curious, why do you think so?” Jagdish inquires, his words icy, mocking her - and the vulnerable position she's in. Simultaneously, it's a dare, trying to provoke her into worsening the situation for herself.
With reluctance, something clicks within Jagdish as though first battling its way through syrup before snapping into place. His brows knit together, his expression darkening, dislike entering his expression - not of her, though, of some thought he's having; even as she hisses her response. “What would they care? They've made up their mind.”
Jagdish's fingers flex silently, finding himself actually thinking about her words, with a part of him desperately trying to convince him to simply dismiss them. Her case was clear - prolonging it was only mental torture for the legendaries who had to listen to her bile. It was true - the psychic had made up its mind already, that much was certain, but why was Devi so sure? Something about her statement seemed more sweeping than that. “Your arguments will be heard… providing you have any, which I personally greatly doubt,” he remarks, weariness creeping into his voice.
Jagdish curls his right hand into a fist, resting it in the palm of his left hand, his expression becoming stolid. Something is keeping anger from surfacing - it boils silently at a distance, as though not pertaining to his person. But the grimace is there. “No? I suppose you didn't pay much attention to Marcus' trial, then. Just how much death would you like to suffer?” Cynicism was getting the better of him.
Again, a hiss, but there seems to be a heavy note of fear in that sound, and her gaze betrays the same. Still, she holds herself straight, resolute. “Fuck you,” she snarls, voice cracking slightly, her eyes squeezing shut. “They deserve it.”
Jagdish arches a brow, his left hand's fingers kneading into his fist. Even Dakarai had never argued that - not with such venom in his tone, not with that conviction. This wasn't a statement of arrogance - it was an actual belief. Dislike licks up his shape, not quite enveloping him - a rational fraction of his mind elbows its way forward, causing him to snap: “Why?”
Something catches in Devi's throat, like a sob - a tremble touches her shoulders, quickly dissipating into fresh tension. Silence. Jagdish narrows his eyes. “Why?” he repeats, the syllable almost barked. - “What did you expect me to do?!” Her breath is a pant, erratic at the edges. “Let them kill me in my sleep?” The last word is snorted, derisive, full of hatred and malice - as well as despair.
Struck by the unexpectedness of the answer, Jagdish's anger extinguishes like a flame. “…what?” he asks, bewilderment seizing his shape, his shoulders sagging slightly, his head inclined quizzically. - “Fuck, you heard me.” Devi's voice is more of a wail by now, a pitiful, broken thing. Is she crying, in that obnoxious way of refusing to acknowledge it?
Irritation touches his expression, tugging subtly at his brows and the corners of his mouth, but the bewilderment remains the primary factor. “Why would they kill you in their sleep?” - “That's how they are,” Devi responds, immediately, trying yet again to writhe from the grip that holds her, with the same amount of success as before.
Jagdish grimaces. What sort of a paranoid agenda was this? Feeling a strange twinge of concern for the girl - both retrospectively for what may have happened to force her into this stance and for her sanity now - he steps closer in a mostly casual saunter, tilted slightly, curiosity evident in his demeanour. “No,” he says, simply, wondering what that would provoke in her - his voice is soft again.
“It is, fuck you, how do you explain what happened to Dejan?!” she snarls, struggling again, pointlessly, pathetically - before sagging in the grip and uttering sob upon sob, unable to hold it back any longer, stressed to breaking point, grief seizing her.
It stumps him. For long moments, Devi's crying is the only audible sound, almost giving the impression that it would be all there ever would be again - that the silence was going to be permanent once her sobs died. Finally, Jagdish shakes his head, his eyes closed for the duration of the gesture, it slow, a motion almost of understanding, were there not his general air of confusion. “…I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate,” he says, voice still soft. The sudden courtesy seems jarringly out of place, especially since it is so genuine.
“Dejan,” she sobs, deflatedly. “My brother,” she adds, in half a croak. “…killed… him…” Apparently, this is not easy to talk about. Tears are glittering in her eyes. Jagdish glances up almost worriedly, regarding the raptorian with a grimace. “Let her go,” he instructs. With a vicious snort, the pokémon drops her, the motion abrupt, causing her shape to sag semi-uncontrolledly onto the ground, ending up in a pathetic heap. She rolls to her side slightly, breath still a pant.
Jagdish crouches down beside the crumpled shape, extending a hand toward her, touching her shoulder. Almost reflexively, she twists away. “Don't touch me,” she whimpers, right hand's fingers brushing the air as though trying to bat him away, though there is little aim in the motion - it's more of a gesture.
“What happened to Dejan?” Jagdish's inquiry is one filled with worry, but at the same time, he's evidently irked at having to ask it, uncomfortable, if not massively so, like someone who was unsure if he was walking blindly into an April Fool's joke, but suspected it subconsciously. “…no,” Devi whispers - but it's hard to say what she means with it, as she certainly doesn't mean that she won't share, continuing with: “His pokémon turned on him.” She lets that linger for a moment, but cuts across Jagdish's first syllable of speech with: “You would've liked him, he was the bleeding heart type.” She's definitely upset - evidently she'd like to do Jagdish's face in, but is far too taken by grief to do so.
Again, he extends a hand, trying to touch her shoulder, met with the same brash gesture. Sighing, he shifts to his feet, straightening to a stand. “…bet you get a kick out of that,” Devi remarks, trying to shift to a more dignified position, herself. Jagdish frowns. “…no. We don't condone what happened to your brother.”
Devi's attempts to rise falter at the statement. Unintelligible, sounds issue from her, tone one of despair. “…no, no.” It's become a whisper. Jagdish frowns, before glancing up to the psychic pokémon. A dark expression lingers on its features, counter-point to Jagdish's relative warmth. He nods to the pokémon, once, prompting it to latch its gaze onto Devi, it lancing through her crumpled shape.
~Devi Ravi,~ the voice of the psychic pokémon can be heard in the minds of all those present. ~You are to experience the pain you have put your pokémon through. Since you do not regret your actions, worm,…~ - the voice dips to a resentful hiss - ~…you will suffer for as long as we deem appropriate. Furthermore, we sentence you to death… later, rather than sooner.~
Devi's reaction is a fierce tremble, smothered beneath her weeping. Jagdish regards her for several long moments, before realising there would be no verbal response to the 'sentence'.
Collected from the public run:
The dull thud of running, approaching footsteps, rubber soles of sneakers against the sliver of sand they're pounding against struggle against the background noise of waves, but are quite audible - as is the heavy pant associated with it. It stops, and a broken, cracking voice, bordering hysterics, is cast toward Eli: “You! Please, I need… - I need some help!” If Eli were to glance behind him, where the voice approximately originates from, he would see a dark-clothed girl, hands clasped on her knees, sunk into half a crouch, dark, red hair starred out from a hairgrip behind her, maroon eyes wide with some form of undefined panic.
The fingers curl against those knees, gasps still prominent, laced through the words that then surface, accompanied by a single, awkward step forward as if catching her balance. “Please, please, I need help, my brother…” Uproar? Understatement. Those are tears in her eyes, glittering dangerously, about to fall. That left hand rises, outstretched index finger cutting through the air, hand cast back to point up road into the direction she'd come running from. “We need a healer, he… someone is with him, but we need better help than that…” She seems to struggle for a pause, briefly, wincing silently as if her throat were strained from just those few words. “A hospital - or a healer pokémon. Where is former? Or do you have one - a healer?” Scattered and broken though her voice and thoughts may be, her voice hints at something authorative, as though it were not in the least natural for her to be in this dissolved.