Being a coyote on the rufus end of the scale, Persimmon has reddish and tawny fur in overlapping patterns. These reds are quite vibrant but are often are muted by dust, dirt, and in one disastrous case, the contents of a latrine ditch. Several patches on his back are tinged with premature gray, which have the effect of making him look older at a distance. These grey tips are also mixed with the more usual black especially towards the end of his tail, which is His ears are frosted at the tips with a small amount of slightly darker gray. Also, in a pattern found in coyotes the world, over he has a white underbelly and along the sides of his snout. He has a few scars, mostly three on his left flank, a fading bite-mark scar on his left shoulder, and a line leading down the left side of his mouth. All of these are very old, and only show under close examination.
The actual texture of his fur is naturally soft and silky, excluding the guard hairs, but the intensive grooming needed to achieve this texture means that most of the time while traveling, Persimmon has a fur consistency roughly somewhere between a wire brush and porcupine.
As far as stature goes, Persimmon is on the shorter side, with a wiry build composed of mostly sharp angles. In his lupus form, he is streamlined and fills to stereotype of the "skinny coyote" perfectly. His teeth are prominent and sharp in all forms.
He isn't exceptionally fond of his Secui form, which is taller but not noticeably larger than his lupus form, but his mane is thickened and red. Although he would use the words "luxurious" and "well kept." He also keeps his claws well sharpened and filed.
His optime form is just as wiry and slender as his other forms, and he isn't exceptionally tall, standing at only 5 foot, 2 inches. He keeps his long wavy red mane braided and groomed, and has a preference for formal clothing, and expensive hats even in conditions where such clothing is totally impractical. He is attractive, although not strikingly so. He is, however, somewhat vain to a degree bordering on pomposity.
Persimmon has a deep voice, it being much lower in pitch than such a small stature would seem to indicate, and his native accent is the canine equivalent of rural Appalachian, although he often changes it to whatever accent has the most prestige associated with it in the local area, or depending on local prejudices.
Persimmon generally tries to be civil, and outwardly pleasant to most that he encounters, as life is unpleasant enough, and enemies make it shorter. Loquacious to a fault, he enjoys any opportunity to show off his vocabulary, but is good enough at reading the mood of an encounter to tone it down in areas that are not as receptive to glib fast-talking strangers. His humor sits if the more dry and sarcastic side of the spectrum, which very rarely finds and audience that appreciates it, and will use deadpan humor to deflect insults and criticism. He isn't explosively angry, often responding passive aggressively to those he dislikes. Persimmon has a tendency to hold long grudges, but it takes serious hatred to inspire them. He values loyalty, and on the rare occasions that he is truly attached to someone, he will give his all for that person.
Persimmon has a mind that operates on several tracts at once, and when in the middle of an epiphany, his speech becomes disjointed and non-sequitur, although this happens far less nowadays than during his childhood. He also has tendency to forget things like personal space when excited, which can be disconcerting to some.
He has a fascination with clockwork artifacts, although he has absolutely no idea how to use them, their purpose, and his recovered specimens are often highly degraded and fragmentary. Same goes for geodes and caves in general, as rocks are something he knows quite well.
He also has a tendency to give multiple choice answers to his past, rarely telling any true details except to those with whom he is intimately acquainted. The same goes for his name, as he is loathe to admit to being named after a fruit, often introducing himself with what he perceives as a more dignified moniker.
Having been a con artist for a good deal of his adult life, Persimmon has a knack for imitating various accents and postures, and will often act a part to gain the trust or acceptance of whoever he is talking to, and is more than capable of being very charming when the situation calls for it. This is a talent he has cultivated, and is often his way of escaping suspicion or making himself seem more valuable. With his theatrics comes a love of grandeur, which leads to him conducting his faux shamanism with an eye for spectacle.
Persimmon spends most of his time on a long term quest to find somewhere that he can finally be something. Something, in his mind, is the state of being wealthy and influential, and keeping the wealth. When he drops his act, Persimmon is more highly strung, and becomes more noticeable in his deep seated fears of dying in ambiguity, as well as his issues with ostracism and failure.
This fixation on wealth and influence is often at odds with another aspect of Persimmon's personality, which dislikes senseless violence in general, and much rather prefers to avoid the whole "rape, pillage, and burn" business espoused by richer warlords altogether. It also contrasts with the hobbies and pursuits he feels are less than dignified, and keeps secret. These are his sculpture collection comprised mostly of apple-sized wood and clay representations of landscapes and canines, love of rambling intellectual debates on everything from hypothetical rabbit religions to the true function of beaks, singing, and the many love poems that he has composed. And promptly burned.
Persimmon was born one of two surviving pups in what was once South Carolina, in the Appalachian mountains, to a small pack of coyotes with very little land or material possessions in general. His mother was the local shaman, and she used a combination of crude applied chemistry and psychotropic drugs to maintain her status as a mystical liaison to the supernatural realm of spirits. Six weeks after Persimmon was born, the pack integrated into a much larger mixed community, and the mystical skills of Persimmon's mother, May-haw, were in high demand. This led to a considerable amount of prestige for both, and they lived comfortably for a while. Both Persimmon and his sister were educated by their mother in the "arts" of the shamanistic way of life, and his sister was far more taken by the admittedly nonexistent spiritual side of the job. Persimmon was far more concerned with things like faking miracles and literacy than his sister, and was also more taken by dramatics.
Things took a turn for the worse when May-haw spurned the advances of a high ranking male. It wasn't very difficult for him to spin a tale about seeing the one seemingly supernatural member of the community communing with demons and poisoning pups. This led to Persimmon, May-haw, and his sister Gooseberry being unceremoniously banished from the pack. After a hasty retreat far away from lands claimed by their former pack, They took to wandering, healing the sick or staging ceremonies in return for food, and lodging. It was education in itself, and Gooseberry developed a knack for thievery, while Persimmon got much better with knives and improvisational thinking. It was a miserable year or so of abject poverty, that ended when one day on the outskirts of the village of Buckskull in the the former land of Ohio, when May-haw didn't wake up from her nap in a snowdrift.
The siblings didn't stay together long after that day. Gooseberry was tired of nomadic life and said she was staying exactly where she was, and threatened to smash Persimmon over the head with a whisky jug if he tried to make her leave. Persimmon left without a word after that, something he still regrets to this day. He ran into a drunk dog whose face he can't remember anymore sprawled out in a ditch on the outskirts of the ruins of a city later that very day, who mentioned that there was a better life up north, in a mysterious place in Nova Scotia. Contrary to his personal rule of not taking advice from drunks, Persimmon thanked her, stole her hat, and started off in the general direction of 'Souls. He wouldn't actually learn the name of the place until he hit Freetown. That day he was able to get directions to 'Souls, which fit the definition of a better life up north at the docks. He had been selling some very sparkly and totally useless amulets, when one of his customers told him about it in passing.
He packed his things, and made it for 'Souls.