[ Age ]
23
[ Height ]
6’1
[ Weight ]
165
[ Build ]
Lean/muscular
[ Race ]
[ Sex ]
Male
[ Eyes ]
Swathed, hidden, sanctioned behind a sort of crimson cloth, one which covers
the forehead completely, intersecting the hair-line while coming down to bridge
over ones nose. ; Darkened, green hues, almost pitch black, which in the
presence of light, green pigments, fade complexly, so that only darkness
remains. -- barley notable irises, alluded with permanently dilated pupils.
Accent in dark rims, which encompass one’s sockets.
“Boy.”
“Yes, teacher?”
“Your eyes betray you.”
[ Hair-style-color ]
Straight-Black-fibers, which draped just barley against ones shoulders, hinting
the slightest waves. A silky, yet scruffy look as lochs flitter both under and
over the cloth which shields one’s sight.
[ Class ]
Free lance
[ Occupation ]
Mercenary/bodyguard/Ranger
[ Allegiance: ]
….“I follow the shiny stuff.”
“What weapon do you fancy?”
[ Weapon ]
Leaf-bladed lance, which is usually seen either as a walking stick, or thrust
through a band which quilted along one’s back. It’s shine, hidden behind cloth
which covers its curved head, slithering into a point, doubled edge and
stainless, as if never having been used, but it’s craft and polish, would
prevents any evidence from ever forming. Also, the varied assortment of
daggers and other items which might prove useful, located in a compartment at
one‘s ankle. --
~..~
[ Jewelry ]
5 gold hoop shaped earrings, Two dangling from his right ear and three his left.
their shine, starting to fade through lack of care.
“What is your name?”
“Rowen Darkleaf son of.- “
“Boy, we don’t much care about which bastard you brood from. You best be
forgetting that name, for now on you’ll be known as…” [
[ Tattoos/ markings ]
A wilted rose and the characters “III” , a form of identification, faded over
time, printed simply in gray across one’s left shoulder, an emblem, perhaps of
a vestige regency. Pale, lithe-less flesh, unnatural, or simply having never
bathed in sun‘s light, and for some reason, cold to touch, covered in various
scars, which jag wildly across one’s chest and arms, thighs, shins, and back,
though ancient now, wounds have never fully-healed. Slitting open and moments of
reminisce and nostalgia, perhaps, these wounds; not non-existent, but one
belonging to the mind.
“Those scars, I can heal them.”
“ Please… don’t.”
“Why not?”
“They’re all that I have left of the past. . .”
[ Attire ]
Hands donned in a pair of black leather gloves, dirt-stained and worn form over
use. Forearms dressed in wrapping cloth; strands (Four in all) excess fabric,
dangling low to one’s knees when arms are at side. Garnered in what seems a
black -vest, simplistic that it serves only the purpose of covering ones form,
or lack there of, split of the middle as if having at one point possessed a
means of latching together (zipper), torn also at the sleeves and ripped
along its bottom hem. Pants, viscose fabric clings tightly to ones legs, easily
showing off there form. All this covered in a dark-blood-stained- cloak, custom
fit as obviously- it clung the this male’s form, tight however, expanding out
towards the bottom and opening out, revealing legs, as well as black-boots.
.~+*+~.~+*+~.~+*+~.~+*+~.~+*+~.~+*+~.
*An excerpt from. . . --Here the words are smeared, ink blotted and no longer
readable.*
The squawking and clatter of birds could be heard clinging to the
distant winds, singing in chorus though the warm night air. The moon looms high
over these lands, its sickle-blade barley visible through the Parchment of
clouds which rolls over head, scarcely and occasionally allowing this luminous
light to pass through engulfing walls. And even more so,---To flutter upon the
darkened woodlands below. Their undulating shadows, shifting and twanging in
path along the forest floor as if a living being, writhing in the shade.
Silhouette, --leaves and branches, shadowing through the forest. . .
. . . Ancient Oak, Sage, Ash, Redwood, and Rowan.- This is their home, ivy
covered, and shelter (for those who so choose; these archaic giants, surely
reaching the peak of their height, leaving emptiness betwixt their gaps…
. . . Blackness triumphs here, where no light can flourish, -hidden in
mist- a trail, no longer traveled, save for the occasional animal. Its path,
barely visible, yet existent, subjugate to brush and growth; ( if clear of all,
one could swear, it connected from one side of the forest and out the other. )
- Clink, thud thud. - the sound permeates, the forest floor, as
if some three-legged being, treading through these lands. Two legs, and a
shorter or smaller one, which obviously produces the first of the sounds, yet
this in fact was no leg, but perhaps the shaft of a walking stick, Not just a
stick, but a lance, reaming against this path, its head bound in cloth as if a
make-shift sheath. Exuding soft vibrations, which riveted off trees, roots,
rocks, and other obstacles, giving somewhat the lay of the land; a man, not
entirely blind, but relying upon his other sense to guide him. Treading paths,
so untouched, so un-beguiled- by that of human nature.
Is this a dream: This single thought of wonderment ventures one’s mind
as they pad deeper into this wooded area. Vision, blurred and hazed. Eyes, a
milky cloud as they peered into the depths. Endless for this path seemed,
winding this way and that, -- one would believe themselves in, especial to this
nature. Clink, clud, splinter, crack~. Step, halted by this singular
monotonous tone, the beating of solid wood, its figure no more recognizable,
then drift afloat the sea. Upon splitting- - rows or termites could be seen,
crawling, bridging across its entrails. Oblivious, the male carries on, For he
was no longer standing in the ruins of some abandoned town, but the streets of
past and dream. There was some pavement now, a few stones. Trees, non-existent
where houses, once built, have crumpled to ash. This reality and that slowly
fading together in a massive blur. Trees, protruding the sides of buildings. -
Soon, bustling with life, Men, out hunting, women tending to their homes,
children at play.
Walking no more; the Male merely stands there, musing at this path. Further
ahead, where he lay witnesses: What seems to be a training session. An older
well-aged male, and younger, a kid. Teacher and student Both holding, wooden
swords -- A moment passes, as they just stare at each other, gaze, before
rushing, - the kid, sprawling forth, loosing his footing as the older, simply
stepped to the side, forcing a hand against the back of the child’s head,
felling him in a single push. . .
. . .Time elapsed
They were sitting now, at the center of their makeshift arena. The teacher,
holding something within the palm of his hands.
“Boy.”
“Yes, teacher?”
“Your eyes betray you.”
. . . The child looked doubtful; never knowing the infallibly of his own
sight. The teacher, presented a cloth wove of crimson fibers, on an over turned
hand. The boy took it gratefully, looking over it first, before raising it the
ends, betwixt, scrawny hands. .
The scene faded, the houses, the path, and lastly The teacher and his
student. Desolation, Nothing was left, save for the last remnants of this place
and the male, standing upon the path. He found that the lance he carried was no
longer within his grasp. Had it dropped it? Yet, he could no longer see. There
was something fuzzy, brushing against his cheeks, with each turn of the neck. He
could no longer see. Palm rose, aloft in the air, tracing along the side of his
head. Fabric, cloth, it was this impeding visage.
