Kovacs
the maestro of mad shit.
matthieu villeneuve
full name
matthieu villeneuve
nicknames
matt, mateo
age
seventeen
D.O.B
09/12/'04
gender
male
sexuality
hetero
race
caucasian
ethnicity
french-canadian
occupation
works as a dog sledder and maintains his father's farm
home
born in Trois-Rivières, Québec, moved to Campton Falls at a young age
hair
chestnut brown hair
eyes
blue-green
skin
warm ivory; though in the winter it takes on a reddish hue thanks to never-ending farm chores
build
Matt stands in at 5'10, with a slender yet strapping build, bolstered by years of mushing and outdoor work.
dist. features
Coarse, roughened palms thanks to rugged burns from gripping the dog sled handle too hard; his angular features; his eyes, which have a habit of never staying the same color. depending on the day and what he's wearing, they are either piercing pale green or more of a robin-blue
wardrobe
x | x | x
faceclaim
mackenzie astin
summary
Matt has always been the boy with the world on his shoulders. Whether it came in the form of broken cattle fences, overly-enthusiastic tourists asking for the millionth time if it was alright to pet the dogs before the dog sled tours (the answer is yes), or the newest batch of farm bills beckoning to be paid, the outcome would almost always be the same: it would fall to Matt to fix it all, and fix he did. Fix is what he does, even if all the good it'd do him was to hold him afloat for a few more precious minutes. Even if all he had at his disposal was tape and dust bunnies to hold it all together, Matt will find a way to make it work. Because in the end, no matter how trustworthy or trained his volunteers are to give out the tours or how secure the fences are in the ground, something will always come along to knock them down again.
Exhaustive, is the first word that may come to mind. How exhausting it must be; to be so loyal and loving to a dream his own father had all but abandoned, stumbling in only when the nightmarish parts had ended. But when all you have for security is the dream and the dogs, sometimes the only sensible thing you can do is to keep your eyes closed.
virtues
conscientious, incredibly loyal, level-headed, strategically oriented in thought, self-driven, practical, resolute, vigilant, endearing, quite affectionate, witty and humourous at unexpected times, extreme dog lover (he is the cat lady of huskies)
vices
can be quite harsh in his natural distrust for others (until proven otherwise), hopelessly restless, anxious overthinker, intense, indecivise as hell at times, defensive, hyper-vigilant, perfectionistic, crippling self-doubt, can't let things go easily even when he should, is at best, ambivalent towards cats
strengths
fluent bilingual ; high tolerance towards pain and the cold ; desensitized/undaunted by the prospect of hard work for many hours ; great with numbers but kind of hates dealing with them ; sharp wayfinding/tracking skills ; quick runner ; CPR trained ; working knowledge of farm and forest flora ; great analyzer of situations
weaknesses
near non-existent swimming skills ; workaholic (just doesn't know when to stop!) ; can be prone to dwelling on all the worst possible outcomes of a situation ; can suffer from near paralyzing levels of anxiety, which often translate physically into poor sleep patterns and muscle aches/tension ; biggest weakness by far are his doggos, would move heaven and earth for them
fears
Though Matt himself refuses to acknowledge it and treat it properly, the symptoms are there: a big fat checkmark for generalized anxiety disorder. Some aspects of this are far from general though, especially when it comes to large, open bodies of water such as the deep-end in swimming pools, lakes or the ocean. Or in other words, thalassophobia. Though it's fair to say that he wouldn't necessarily faint from fear from a mere of picture of deep water, the phobia does prevent him from feeling at ease near large bodies of water, much less entering one to swim.
ailments
thalassophobia ; generalized anxiety disorder
PART I
The waters are quite murky when it comes to the memories of Matt's birthplace, Trois-Rivières. Which is no surprise; one can only remember so much at four years old. But the mind, in that way, can sometimes be magic. Flashes of warm, afternoon sunlight along the sidewalks, the feeling of little fingers strumming against the aged brick of century-old French colonial buildings. The suffocating comfort of a small, lavishly upscale apartment that both his parents couldn't wait to be rid of.
Even as a small child though, Matt could say he remembered that particular sensation of upheaval. Back when greed could be mistaken as good-hearted ambition, his father, Silas Joseph Buck took the breath away with his fast talk, sharp wits and country-boy big dreams. A wild spirit, whose penchant for the outdoors took many forms: skiing, horseback riding, mountain climbing, ice hockey and dog sledding just to name a few. He barely spoke a lick of French when he met Matt's mother, but that didn't stop him from getting her to fall into the fold with him and his crazy ideas. Of course, Hélène Villeneuve was, for all intents and purposes, way above his league. She had rich, respectable, influential blood running through her veins and in many ways, her fate was sealed because of it. She had always feared it; reduced to nothing more than a trophy wife, smothered by the city, by the riches and luxuries that were and never would be made by her own hand, only that of her "husband's".
But in him, in his dream of managing a beautiful farm out in the Albertan country together, building the very first dog sledding tour business in his hometown, Hélène found her natural spark. A spark that soon turned to flame, fanning what would soon become her truest passions: a love for all things wild, rough and free. Her family were far from pleased of course, especially considering a baby had been born before rings could ever be exchanged. But it didn't matter; only weeks after Matthieu's fourth birthday, the spirited little family managed to procure a bank loan and moved back to Silas' hometown: Campton Falls.
PART II
The early years in Campton Falls were what could be described as the Villeneuve version of "calm before the storm". Like their marriage, things for the farm were done in a flurry of passion. Of course, as one would expect when creating a grassroots enterprise, things were far from easy or picture perfect. But little by little, as his mother loved to say, the bird builds its nest. Branch by branch, land and equipment were bought off the hands of an old, ailing Métis farmer, foundations were laid and partnerships cultivated with the Indigenous families who had their own businesses as tour guides. Branch by branch, a young Matthieu would increasingly spend his days learning and exploring the lay of their new acreage. Branch by branch, a chicken coop was renovated, new pastures set up, and a garden made by mother and son. An old tractor shed was renovated into what their dogs would call home. Branch by branch, with the advice and help of a few mushing enthusiast friends of his father's, trails were designed and mapped out. Branch by branch, a family of three would grow to five, then eight, then fourteen and counting. Sleds, harnesses and furballs would begin to grow in number, and so would the countless bruises and growing pains associated with learning how to love and handle them all. Finally, just weeks after Matthieu's seventh birthday, Rougarou Dog Sled Tours opened it's doors to the public.
PART III
Rougarou.
For some French communities, the loup-garou, or more commonly, the rougarou, was a monster. The devil's dog, out on the prowl for those foolish enough to wander the nighttime streets alone. In other communities, the Rougarou was no more a monster than it was a man under a terrible curse, paying for transgressions long forgotten. Some say all it takes is a lie to a loved one. Others say adultery, and still others say that dishonoring one's parents was a sure ticket to becoming the Rougarou's next victim. Hélène hadn't indulged in any of that; the version she chose to believe told of a cursed guardian. It prowled the highways for the types of men who made sport of harming young women and dragged them back to the hole it had crawled out of. As for the women, it would lead them to safety and unleash a howl that was said to be heard from hundreds of miles away.
That was what nine-year old Matt had believed, the day his mother had gone out to buy food for the dogs and never managed to come back. An evil man hit her on the road, was what he was told. An evil man was taken away - and rightfully so - but where was his mother? Gone, was the answer. But Matt knew better - the rougarou had found her and helped her. She was safe, they just needed to look harder. Or better yet, they just needed to listen - listen for the howl of the Rougarou, just like he had been, every night since they buried her. Sometimes he'd fall back asleep and be awoken by what he thought was a howl, but no. It was just the slam of the back door, signaling the return of his father. He looked for the monster Rougarou too, but could only ever find it at the bottom of a bottle.
And as the years went by, one bottle would turn to three, then five, then eight and counting. But this was barely worth blinking an eye over - Campton Falls was a small town; every Tom, Dick and Harry drank to their hearts' content, if only to keep the worst of boredom away. No, no, drinking only invites the devil, but it does not bid him to stay. The secret to that lies in intentionally turning one's head away from him, because the devil can only ever work behind your back. And while his father's back was turned, the seed of neglect grew in its shadow, its tendrils wrapping not only around himself, but the farm, the business, the dogs and most sorrowfully, his son and family.
The golden years are fading, but Matt refuses to fade alongside it. Little by little, his mother had said. Little by little, the bird makes its nest. Little by little, brick by brick, fence post by fence post, bill by bill, kind word by kind action, life will go on. And where there is life, there will always be hope.
— L'HIVER
balcony sans princesse
coded by weldherwings.
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