Character Study
Apr. 7th, 2006 08:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
knights_say_nihJack.
Jack is a creature of impossible contradictions.
He stands at a little over five feet, and yet when one watches him one might have the impression that his arms and legs are a little bit too long for him.
His skin is white as snow, or milk--- and not a trace of veins are visible, not anywhere, and he doesn’t show bruises easily. At the same time, when a hand is held up to the light, his fingers are perfectly translucent, with a faintly blue-ish tint.
Jack is strong as he needs to be, dancing flawlessly, jumping and tumbling acrobatically. But he is brittle, too. His bones are easily crushed, birdlike, and fragile. His frame is light and more adolescent in development than adult. But when the small hand with its hollow bones draws back in anger and delivers a strike, it is always hard, sharp, stronger than a human could manage.
Innocence, the sense of it, the attitude, seems to almost cling to him, despite acts both bloody and carnal in nature, perpetrated and enjoyed with a lust you wouldn’t think such a child would possess. Moaning at the sight of blood freezing on skin, moaning at the feeling of a hand brushing down his side.
He has a powerful aversion to pain, crumpling at even the simplest of threats, even if they’re delivered in jest. He fears it, possibly because his exposure to it has been rather limited--- and still more than it should be for one of his age. At the same thing, he has a craving for the simple power of blood. He’ll wince in concern for a friend whose fingers slip on a knife and then clutch the edge of his seat till his knuckles whiten with the effort of hurling himself forward to dip his fingers into the liquid and then press his lips to the wound.
Simple thoughts, concepts, poorly developed ideas of trust, friendship, and effortless ease form a sharp contrast to the vain imaginings of a lonely child. Jack lives in a world where what he imagines, he can create. Jack dances to tunes that only he’ll ever hear. Jack understands not how the sun rises but why the sun needs to rise for him and why he smiles every time it does. Inexperience balances with innate understanding of how things are, how things must be, how things will be for all time.
Conflicting again is his sense of companionship. A wild dive into a blank world at the cost of a lifetime of trust has gifted him with an endearing need for independence, while throughout all of it he longs, longs to return to the place that had become his home and where his friends, perhaps even his family, were.
Change can’t quite touch him. He is, by now, hundreds of years old, and still childish as ever, if a little less quick to trust, a little less prone to leaping headfirst into the arms of another, to offering to help before he knows what’s going to be asked.
Sexual in nature, chaste in action. Bawdy words are quick to fall, crude jibes or observations, while it’s been seven hundred years since he last bothered to take anyone to bed with him. If asked, he’d argue teasingly that it wasn’t worth the heavy breathing. He’d be lying.
It’s his custom, nowadays, to wear dark red. It steals the colour from his skin, bleaching him white and makes his eyes look impossibly dark. “I am no innocent” is the short reply he spares for time he was asked why he no longer wore white and that one moment of seriousness was made almost absurd by the giggle and teasing comment that followed it.
Jack is a creature of impossible contradictions.
He likes it that way.
Jack is a creature of impossible contradictions.
He stands at a little over five feet, and yet when one watches him one might have the impression that his arms and legs are a little bit too long for him.
His skin is white as snow, or milk--- and not a trace of veins are visible, not anywhere, and he doesn’t show bruises easily. At the same time, when a hand is held up to the light, his fingers are perfectly translucent, with a faintly blue-ish tint.
Jack is strong as he needs to be, dancing flawlessly, jumping and tumbling acrobatically. But he is brittle, too. His bones are easily crushed, birdlike, and fragile. His frame is light and more adolescent in development than adult. But when the small hand with its hollow bones draws back in anger and delivers a strike, it is always hard, sharp, stronger than a human could manage.
Innocence, the sense of it, the attitude, seems to almost cling to him, despite acts both bloody and carnal in nature, perpetrated and enjoyed with a lust you wouldn’t think such a child would possess. Moaning at the sight of blood freezing on skin, moaning at the feeling of a hand brushing down his side.
He has a powerful aversion to pain, crumpling at even the simplest of threats, even if they’re delivered in jest. He fears it, possibly because his exposure to it has been rather limited--- and still more than it should be for one of his age. At the same thing, he has a craving for the simple power of blood. He’ll wince in concern for a friend whose fingers slip on a knife and then clutch the edge of his seat till his knuckles whiten with the effort of hurling himself forward to dip his fingers into the liquid and then press his lips to the wound.
Simple thoughts, concepts, poorly developed ideas of trust, friendship, and effortless ease form a sharp contrast to the vain imaginings of a lonely child. Jack lives in a world where what he imagines, he can create. Jack dances to tunes that only he’ll ever hear. Jack understands not how the sun rises but why the sun needs to rise for him and why he smiles every time it does. Inexperience balances with innate understanding of how things are, how things must be, how things will be for all time.
Conflicting again is his sense of companionship. A wild dive into a blank world at the cost of a lifetime of trust has gifted him with an endearing need for independence, while throughout all of it he longs, longs to return to the place that had become his home and where his friends, perhaps even his family, were.
Change can’t quite touch him. He is, by now, hundreds of years old, and still childish as ever, if a little less quick to trust, a little less prone to leaping headfirst into the arms of another, to offering to help before he knows what’s going to be asked.
Sexual in nature, chaste in action. Bawdy words are quick to fall, crude jibes or observations, while it’s been seven hundred years since he last bothered to take anyone to bed with him. If asked, he’d argue teasingly that it wasn’t worth the heavy breathing. He’d be lying.
It’s his custom, nowadays, to wear dark red. It steals the colour from his skin, bleaching him white and makes his eyes look impossibly dark. “I am no innocent” is the short reply he spares for time he was asked why he no longer wore white and that one moment of seriousness was made almost absurd by the giggle and teasing comment that followed it.
Jack is a creature of impossible contradictions.
He likes it that way.
