Post by Velareksil on Dec 26, 2009 13:02:12 GMT -4
Quick note: Pft, do not read this in one sitting, it's lame, it's boring, it's long, and this guy is a little bit on the 'meh, not so good,' side.
Name: Slykhiahn Velde [Sli(slick)-key-ah-n Veld]
Nickname: Most commonly known as Sky, some will call him Kaiyn
Gender: Male
Age: 14 (Fall Birthday)
Year: 2ed (oh that desperate attempt to even out uneven numbers)
Sexual Orientation: Tottering between Asexual and Bisexual. He's one of my slightly more enigmatic characters, so I'm still iffy on the concept of him falling for anybody, he might, but he would probably bash his head against a wall a thousand times over before he'd admit any feelings to be of love.
Relationship Status: Single
Religious Beliefs: No thought whatsoever
Appearance/Wardrobe:
His eyes near the pupil, are a dark grayish brown nearing on black. The outer rims are a more saturated, lighter type of brown, the two colors create a lovely gradient that give his eyes an abysmal appearance. They hold the usual almond shape. Face is doll-like in both shape and complexion. His hair is caught between dark brown and pitch black. A crisp golden brown is reflected in it when it's exposed to the sun or extremely bright lights, but it's otherwise a jet black. It's a strait, thick, and layered mass on his head, the longest end is around shoulder length, bangs hang a hair above his eyes. Long, dark eyelashes, soft eyebrows, likewise in color, moderate thickness. His lips are a light pink, barely notable, and relatively thin.
Stands at about 4'7", he'll probably grow a little bit, but for the most part he's just that short kid. He has yet to develop a manly figure, he has long limbs, though. Lacking in any notable muscle mass, obviously, because he only ever does is cut paper and chew gum (this is what happens when you deprive Vel of gum, alright?). His fingers are long, his hands graceful and delicate. So yeah, the remainder, if there is a remainder, is more or less in proportion/average/not worth noting. No real notable scars or birthmarks. He's careful with his knife so no trouble there, either.
Usually a t-shirt with a higher value color-wise, so lightly colored, one solid color, will rarely hold a design of any sort. Colder days call for a velvet hooded zip up jacket with loose sleeves, darker shades of gray mostly. Baggy jeans, decorative belt. Loose boots. He hates wearing anything that clings to him. Formal is a strange concept for him to abide by. Usually calling for traditional Chinese silk robes, sashes, and what not. Like I said, clingy clothing that limits his movement just isn't for him, even though he barely does anything outside of walk. He wears half rimmed glasses, but they're thin as his eyesight isn't horrible, but they do help as they correct the usual nearsighted problem. And then there's his mask. A half-painted, half faceless, almost traditional clay mask. It's thin, so it's light. He treats it well and usually keeps it on his back tied to him around his neck just to keep it with him.
Personality:
He's extremely passive, to say the least. For him, things come, things go, and he feels nothing for it, for that reason, he's likewise patient and doesn't count on things happening; go with the flow kind of guy. In general he's a little bit heartless, a little lacking in extreme emotions such as excitement and delight, hatred and sorrow and especially affection, somewhat insensitive, and quiet. It's rare for him to feel anything for himself, he keeps himself at peace, so to speak, he understands his existence as somebody who just is, nothing more and nothing less, another personae whose ultimate goal should be to make a footprint in the sands of time. He understands the world as a battle, people clash fake knives to play games, and true blades to call war. He believes people easily broken because they're at war with themselves, he sees no meaning and therefore keeps only tranquility within him when he's alone. Whatever else he does feel, though, reflects on his face easily, as he sees no real meaning in hiding anything that is.
He's fairly sociable, and he gets along with people well, he rarely gives voice to any opinions of his own, and he's not one to think for himself on topics he doesn't create. Put simply, he's an agreeable person who enjoys company, be a loud and rowdy or completely silent. He doesn't mind mindless chatter on a usual basis, and he'll listen to anything so long as he's not required to speak. He puts everything he is, his memories, thoughts, and any passion he's ever felt into his art. All of these things are gone from his everyday life.
He's extremely thoughtful when a good but vague prompt is given to him, and hence has formed a portion of his own world on those thoughts. In bothersome situations, he's usually extremely calm, only because he doesn't know how he's suppose to react. He's analytical, tactical, and the first thing he thinks about when he sees others panicking is the most direct escape involving the least amount of movement. The concept of danger is completely beyond him and his reaction sense is extremely off. If he saw a gun to his head, the first thing he would think is 'eh...? What's that suppose to do?' If a situation finally sinks in and he still hasn't found escape, that's when he panics. He breaks down, completely freezes, thoughts run his mind, but his lips are sealed shut, it's a situation where he'll cover his face with his mask and retreat from the world entirely. In other words, a concept kind of like save the soul and leave the vessel.
He isn't capable of understanding people very well, he has trouble comprehending why the react the way they do, he has the biological answer, the spiritual answer, the answer from the outside looking in, and yet so far the only answer he can come to is 'because they just are'. He seldom gets himself involved in the troubles of others. On the occasion in which he does, though, he'll use thoughts he's had in the past along with many many quotes to consult them, he'll never speak his present mind, as he needs quite a bit of time to consider and reconsider his words.
He rarely makes eye contact, so talking to him is a little bit hard. But at the same time, it's relatively easy in the sense that it's similar to talking to a rock. Except this rock will give feedback if it's so desired. He's especially good to bug when he's caught up in his art, because, although he rarely remembers anything he says and therefore does not end up regretting, he'll respond to anything, be it troubles or a friendly greeting. He gives any quotes that need speaking more smoothly, considers things less, and sometimes lets one or two unprocessed thoughts slip through his lips; in other words, his responses are more automatic. The only consequence is that these responses are generally short, mostly monosyllabic and come out in a low, monotonic voice, so they lack any feeling in them.
He doesn't mind silence, he definitely doesn't mind silence. If a person needs him to stand by them, he may or he may not speak, but he'll be there, quietly doing what he feels he must do, whether speaking is involved is a question of it's own. On the contrary, just because his feelings for silence are neutral, it doesn't mean he doesn't mind being alone. In fact, he's afraid to be left alone, especially in the dark. Time scares him because it doesn't stop, but he does. He has a fear of being left alone because he doesn't know which ones he'll see again and which ones have left the world entirely. He likes being able to keep tabs on people he meets, be it from a distance or up close, he doesn't care. In the said moments of fear and the occasional sadness, those moments where he says something wrong, does something wrong, doesn't answer properly, misguides. Those lengthy moments in which he returns from his art, looks about, doesn't have a location to place people, and is alone with himself, those are the moments in which failure sinks in. He'll cover his tears or expressions of negative feelings entirely with his mask and escapes until the moments pass.
His anger surrounds entirely around the tearing of his work, and unnecessary distractions; for the former it's more of a sad, distressed anger, for the latter it's just pure annoyance. He's called out of his world only by well toned chimes and bells, when he's called out he's about as cranky as they get. If it's unimportant he'll throw a fit and probably throw his knife at the person, obviously he misses, he's not going to hurt anybody, he's terrified of that thought. On the contrary, if it is important, he'll give about a minute for the person to sum it up and then decide whether or not it's worth listening to.
And holy crap. I know that's a lot to go through, but I can't help myself. Something tells me there's a ton of repetition but I don't dare take anything out, sorry.
History:
Born to a father whose work supported them all in both needs and wants. A father whose presence was by him since birth, one who found time for everything by some kind of miracle. A smart, kind, and loving man who rarely faltered. Born to a caring mother, one who fitted the ideal motherly figure in every way. Of course, she had lost the use of her legs to an injury in her spinal cord when she was younger; this didn't stop her, though, she spent much time with him, every moment that he sought her out, she would be there to speak to him in both, Chinese and English. So, as a child he was never alone. His father's hobby was creating masks, his mother's hobby Chinese paper cutting. He admired both arts, but his father was such an amazing figure that had so much impact in his life, ever since childhood, that he dared not touch his art despite his obvious willingness to teach it. Since he spent much of his time with his mother, he, of course, watched her art carefully, and then finally began to learn it, beginning in snowflakes and scissors, progressing to complex designs and a knife, and improving still, no doubt.
The first time he went to school, he was afraid, he already felt a difference, and he learned the word loneliness. Of course he had cried in his childhood years, but he had stayed mostly within the confinements of his own home, and therefore had never before been truly hurt, physically or mentally, there was always that difference. He protected himself by nature, desired a way to protect others in the same sense. As he grew older, watching other people began to sting at him, he found he didn't know what they were thinking, didn't understand them in the least, didn't know the difference between a cry and a laugh, the difference between an amused voice and a voice in agony. It pained him because he liked people, he very very much liked people as both his parents were kind, and many of his teachers likewise. He wanted to learn the difference between a true laugh and a pained cry, the difference between a forced smile and a real one.
His mother died a little less then midway through Elementary School from disease. At first he didn't understand the concept of death, and by the time he did comprehend it, she was long gone, and his being had gotten use to the concept of loneliness and so the tears he shed were minimal. It did make him think harder, though, about what life was. He never liked any of the answers he got, and so he began to examine people more carefully then he had before, trying to figure out if there really was anything to it, or it it just was.
Later in elementary school he met another kid. His polar opposite that was absolutely obsessed with windchimes. One that failed school, but understood people. He had seen through his eyes, seen that distance and that loneliness, and he came as a sort of salvation to him after he had noticed a growing sadness. He tried to teach Sky how to realize the emotions in others as well as himself and how to understand them. But he just couldn't. The effort was continued, though, and throughout it the two got closer, Sky was once again, never alone. The kid he met often times got lost in his eyes all the while lecturing on eye contact. It was awkward, so yet another lost cause that they were too stubborn to forfeit to. This one spoke a lot, too, inspirational speeches as well as a lot about himself, and from it, Sky learned to listen. This kid was probably also the one that caused him the strangest of dreams. He told spin offs of fairy tales and myths, added things, took them away, turning them into warm and precious stories that Sky etched into his paper. Obviously the kid admired his arts, but again, polar opposite, absolute klutz with anything sharp. Pretty much, this kid was the one that influenced the part of his personality that his parents did not. They parted ways at the end of Junior High as the kid had to move away. Obviously he shows up in a lot of Sky's paper cuts. They departed exactly four years upon meeting with a lifetimes worth of lessons within, they were close, too, which made the years truly seem like a lifetime, as well. At this point in time, it's pretty obvious that Sky doesn't understand time even in the slightest. Afterwards he discovered that the burden of loneliness he had once learned to cope, that thing that had been lifted, came crashing down, and he wanted to learn to sort it out again.
His father was reluctant to send him off to Four Oaks, but he insisted upon it, taking all of his previous works with him. He did leave a few he had done that related to his mother at home since the two were madly in love, and his father admired the arts deeply. In turn, his father sent him off with a knife left to Sky by his mother's will, a half painted mask that would be a symbol of a bond for his future. Pretty much, one half represents the support of his parents, and the other half, if ever painted, was to be done by the one he fell for and learned forever from. And then gave him a watch, since he requested one.
Strengths/Talents/Skills:
Chinese paper cutting, 2D, he's tried 3D but he could never preserve them therefore stopped bothering with them.
Catching physical details of people, scenes, and dreams
Flexible
Sneaking into small spaces to snatch things or just for hiding
Capable of a great amount of concentration
Half-decent grades
Repeating things word for word, so counseling people.
Socializing, two languages only (Chinese/English, because those are the only two languages that Vel's halfway fluent in.)
Excellent Listener
Good with his hands
Excellent logic, so good with Sciences and puzzles.
He's a writer, but he hates reading. Good at English but could care less about dissecting a sentence. He gets it, but he doesn't care.
He's not easily hurt
Weaknesses:
Remembering anything anybody says or does while he's cutting up paper
Finding the motivation to pay attention/focus on anything other then his works
Extremely serious
Tends to speak quietly and hates repeating things
Keeping time
He has trouble understanding the tones people take. Everything might as well be a monotone to him, if they don't tell him how they're feeling he's not going to know anything they feel, another consequence of never making eye contact.
Doesn't enjoy eye contact
Slow to comprehend situations involving him
History
Languages
Gym, he doesn't move much so he tires quickly
Unnaturally afraid of hurting other people, he views them as too delicate, and therefore does not try to get close to them.
Other:
Carries around a relatively large, old pocket watch to keep time, antique-like appearance. It's a skeleton, but the skeleton part is a little bit smaller then an average. Outer ring background is white, overall thing is silver, 24 hour, roman numeric benchmarks at 24, 6, 12, and 18 for hours, inner circle. Second/minute circle consists only of dots, remaining hours are small hash marks. All marks are, likewise, silver. The cover is carved with a long tailed bird-like creature. Average silver chain, key clip at the end along with a few charms. He'll usually write the date and time he begins his projects and the date and time in which he finishes on the back of the sheets he preserves them with. (I'm absolutely obsessed with pocket watches, no questions asked there. The described is like, my ideal pocket watch that will probably never come to me.)
Only ever uses one blade, pocket knife, ornamental handle, somewhat of an antique appearance.
He never carries around textbooks, his backpack is generally filled with paper and a booklet he uses to keep them, but it's so heavy that his teachers assume he's a diligent child.
He loves to chew gum in his boredom, his teachers rarely notice him chewing it, though he doesn't make any effort to hide it. Assume it's because he chews slowly and quietly.
Neutral with Electives, doesn't try hard enough.
Extreme pacifist.
RP example:
Skykhiahn's hand loosened from the decorative handle, his knife slipped but did not cut. Those long fingers shifted, the blade bit deeper into the final slit upon the thin, scarlet paper, it sank into the hard wooden surface of his desk just a few millimeters, leaving a light scar upon the old plane, already worn by many years of use. He looked up, the sharp blade falling from his grip completely. His calm eyes widened slightly as he stared into cold eyes, those dark, sad eyes of loneliness, it had sneaked into the room, it had embraced him when he had been lost in his art, the classroom was empty, he had been left to himself, abandoned by friend, friends too admiring to stop him; abandoned by all others, others who payed no heed; abandoned by time, as time was not his to keep. He'd been caught up, so caught up and tangled in his delicate world of paper lines as thin as strings, he hadn't heard the bell, hadn't seen his classmates leave, hadn't felt the gentle prodding of his soft and kind teacher. Nobody to blame but himself, and a dream that had left it's impression on his mind since the morning of that day.
He stared down at his large, complex work. A long haired girl leaning against a melaleuca tree, alone, on a cliff above the land, on a land above the world; the trees tips became fins, small fish emerged from thin leaves, turning to large fish that swam between the clouds. Created mythical creatures danced upon those clouds. And then a rotting world below that land, left and forgotten. A dream, a dream that was his own. Skykhiahn smiled, softly, he took his mask from behind him, retied it around his head, and forgot about loneliness entirely, forgiving himself for forgetting the world, his was too beautiful for him not to. He withdrew a thick, sketchbook sized booklet from his bag, opening it carefully to the first page, revealing a clean white sheet with a distinct gloss covering it, he set it upon his desk without a sound. Gently, he folded the paper to a smaller size, he folded the night, the bright red paper, then slid the thin, flexible sheet carefully into his palm. Holding the memory as softly as any other would hold something delicate and precious. He slid it carefully between the thin transparent covering, and the blank white page beneath it. He gazed affectionately at the piece. A new journal for him to keep things, a new segment of his life had just begun. From his pocket, he withdrew the old pocket watch, gazing at the time from behind his mask, turning the page and scribbling down the time on the back. He closed his eyes, leaning against the back of his chair, stretching out his arms, throwing his head upward, toward the ceiling, smiling to himself all the while. Finally, he could go home.
Name: Slykhiahn Velde [Sli(slick)-key-ah-n Veld]
Nickname: Most commonly known as Sky, some will call him Kaiyn
Gender: Male
Age: 14 (Fall Birthday)
Year: 2ed (oh that desperate attempt to even out uneven numbers)
Sexual Orientation: Tottering between Asexual and Bisexual. He's one of my slightly more enigmatic characters, so I'm still iffy on the concept of him falling for anybody, he might, but he would probably bash his head against a wall a thousand times over before he'd admit any feelings to be of love.
Relationship Status: Single
Religious Beliefs: No thought whatsoever
Appearance/Wardrobe:
His eyes near the pupil, are a dark grayish brown nearing on black. The outer rims are a more saturated, lighter type of brown, the two colors create a lovely gradient that give his eyes an abysmal appearance. They hold the usual almond shape. Face is doll-like in both shape and complexion. His hair is caught between dark brown and pitch black. A crisp golden brown is reflected in it when it's exposed to the sun or extremely bright lights, but it's otherwise a jet black. It's a strait, thick, and layered mass on his head, the longest end is around shoulder length, bangs hang a hair above his eyes. Long, dark eyelashes, soft eyebrows, likewise in color, moderate thickness. His lips are a light pink, barely notable, and relatively thin.
Stands at about 4'7", he'll probably grow a little bit, but for the most part he's just that short kid. He has yet to develop a manly figure, he has long limbs, though. Lacking in any notable muscle mass, obviously, because he only ever does is cut paper and chew gum (this is what happens when you deprive Vel of gum, alright?). His fingers are long, his hands graceful and delicate. So yeah, the remainder, if there is a remainder, is more or less in proportion/average/not worth noting. No real notable scars or birthmarks. He's careful with his knife so no trouble there, either.
Usually a t-shirt with a higher value color-wise, so lightly colored, one solid color, will rarely hold a design of any sort. Colder days call for a velvet hooded zip up jacket with loose sleeves, darker shades of gray mostly. Baggy jeans, decorative belt. Loose boots. He hates wearing anything that clings to him. Formal is a strange concept for him to abide by. Usually calling for traditional Chinese silk robes, sashes, and what not. Like I said, clingy clothing that limits his movement just isn't for him, even though he barely does anything outside of walk. He wears half rimmed glasses, but they're thin as his eyesight isn't horrible, but they do help as they correct the usual nearsighted problem. And then there's his mask. A half-painted, half faceless, almost traditional clay mask. It's thin, so it's light. He treats it well and usually keeps it on his back tied to him around his neck just to keep it with him.
Personality:
He's extremely passive, to say the least. For him, things come, things go, and he feels nothing for it, for that reason, he's likewise patient and doesn't count on things happening; go with the flow kind of guy. In general he's a little bit heartless, a little lacking in extreme emotions such as excitement and delight, hatred and sorrow and especially affection, somewhat insensitive, and quiet. It's rare for him to feel anything for himself, he keeps himself at peace, so to speak, he understands his existence as somebody who just is, nothing more and nothing less, another personae whose ultimate goal should be to make a footprint in the sands of time. He understands the world as a battle, people clash fake knives to play games, and true blades to call war. He believes people easily broken because they're at war with themselves, he sees no meaning and therefore keeps only tranquility within him when he's alone. Whatever else he does feel, though, reflects on his face easily, as he sees no real meaning in hiding anything that is.
He's fairly sociable, and he gets along with people well, he rarely gives voice to any opinions of his own, and he's not one to think for himself on topics he doesn't create. Put simply, he's an agreeable person who enjoys company, be a loud and rowdy or completely silent. He doesn't mind mindless chatter on a usual basis, and he'll listen to anything so long as he's not required to speak. He puts everything he is, his memories, thoughts, and any passion he's ever felt into his art. All of these things are gone from his everyday life.
He's extremely thoughtful when a good but vague prompt is given to him, and hence has formed a portion of his own world on those thoughts. In bothersome situations, he's usually extremely calm, only because he doesn't know how he's suppose to react. He's analytical, tactical, and the first thing he thinks about when he sees others panicking is the most direct escape involving the least amount of movement. The concept of danger is completely beyond him and his reaction sense is extremely off. If he saw a gun to his head, the first thing he would think is 'eh...? What's that suppose to do?' If a situation finally sinks in and he still hasn't found escape, that's when he panics. He breaks down, completely freezes, thoughts run his mind, but his lips are sealed shut, it's a situation where he'll cover his face with his mask and retreat from the world entirely. In other words, a concept kind of like save the soul and leave the vessel.
He isn't capable of understanding people very well, he has trouble comprehending why the react the way they do, he has the biological answer, the spiritual answer, the answer from the outside looking in, and yet so far the only answer he can come to is 'because they just are'. He seldom gets himself involved in the troubles of others. On the occasion in which he does, though, he'll use thoughts he's had in the past along with many many quotes to consult them, he'll never speak his present mind, as he needs quite a bit of time to consider and reconsider his words.
He rarely makes eye contact, so talking to him is a little bit hard. But at the same time, it's relatively easy in the sense that it's similar to talking to a rock. Except this rock will give feedback if it's so desired. He's especially good to bug when he's caught up in his art, because, although he rarely remembers anything he says and therefore does not end up regretting, he'll respond to anything, be it troubles or a friendly greeting. He gives any quotes that need speaking more smoothly, considers things less, and sometimes lets one or two unprocessed thoughts slip through his lips; in other words, his responses are more automatic. The only consequence is that these responses are generally short, mostly monosyllabic and come out in a low, monotonic voice, so they lack any feeling in them.
He doesn't mind silence, he definitely doesn't mind silence. If a person needs him to stand by them, he may or he may not speak, but he'll be there, quietly doing what he feels he must do, whether speaking is involved is a question of it's own. On the contrary, just because his feelings for silence are neutral, it doesn't mean he doesn't mind being alone. In fact, he's afraid to be left alone, especially in the dark. Time scares him because it doesn't stop, but he does. He has a fear of being left alone because he doesn't know which ones he'll see again and which ones have left the world entirely. He likes being able to keep tabs on people he meets, be it from a distance or up close, he doesn't care. In the said moments of fear and the occasional sadness, those moments where he says something wrong, does something wrong, doesn't answer properly, misguides. Those lengthy moments in which he returns from his art, looks about, doesn't have a location to place people, and is alone with himself, those are the moments in which failure sinks in. He'll cover his tears or expressions of negative feelings entirely with his mask and escapes until the moments pass.
His anger surrounds entirely around the tearing of his work, and unnecessary distractions; for the former it's more of a sad, distressed anger, for the latter it's just pure annoyance. He's called out of his world only by well toned chimes and bells, when he's called out he's about as cranky as they get. If it's unimportant he'll throw a fit and probably throw his knife at the person, obviously he misses, he's not going to hurt anybody, he's terrified of that thought. On the contrary, if it is important, he'll give about a minute for the person to sum it up and then decide whether or not it's worth listening to.
And holy crap. I know that's a lot to go through, but I can't help myself. Something tells me there's a ton of repetition but I don't dare take anything out, sorry.
History:
Born to a father whose work supported them all in both needs and wants. A father whose presence was by him since birth, one who found time for everything by some kind of miracle. A smart, kind, and loving man who rarely faltered. Born to a caring mother, one who fitted the ideal motherly figure in every way. Of course, she had lost the use of her legs to an injury in her spinal cord when she was younger; this didn't stop her, though, she spent much time with him, every moment that he sought her out, she would be there to speak to him in both, Chinese and English. So, as a child he was never alone. His father's hobby was creating masks, his mother's hobby Chinese paper cutting. He admired both arts, but his father was such an amazing figure that had so much impact in his life, ever since childhood, that he dared not touch his art despite his obvious willingness to teach it. Since he spent much of his time with his mother, he, of course, watched her art carefully, and then finally began to learn it, beginning in snowflakes and scissors, progressing to complex designs and a knife, and improving still, no doubt.
The first time he went to school, he was afraid, he already felt a difference, and he learned the word loneliness. Of course he had cried in his childhood years, but he had stayed mostly within the confinements of his own home, and therefore had never before been truly hurt, physically or mentally, there was always that difference. He protected himself by nature, desired a way to protect others in the same sense. As he grew older, watching other people began to sting at him, he found he didn't know what they were thinking, didn't understand them in the least, didn't know the difference between a cry and a laugh, the difference between an amused voice and a voice in agony. It pained him because he liked people, he very very much liked people as both his parents were kind, and many of his teachers likewise. He wanted to learn the difference between a true laugh and a pained cry, the difference between a forced smile and a real one.
His mother died a little less then midway through Elementary School from disease. At first he didn't understand the concept of death, and by the time he did comprehend it, she was long gone, and his being had gotten use to the concept of loneliness and so the tears he shed were minimal. It did make him think harder, though, about what life was. He never liked any of the answers he got, and so he began to examine people more carefully then he had before, trying to figure out if there really was anything to it, or it it just was.
Later in elementary school he met another kid. His polar opposite that was absolutely obsessed with windchimes. One that failed school, but understood people. He had seen through his eyes, seen that distance and that loneliness, and he came as a sort of salvation to him after he had noticed a growing sadness. He tried to teach Sky how to realize the emotions in others as well as himself and how to understand them. But he just couldn't. The effort was continued, though, and throughout it the two got closer, Sky was once again, never alone. The kid he met often times got lost in his eyes all the while lecturing on eye contact. It was awkward, so yet another lost cause that they were too stubborn to forfeit to. This one spoke a lot, too, inspirational speeches as well as a lot about himself, and from it, Sky learned to listen. This kid was probably also the one that caused him the strangest of dreams. He told spin offs of fairy tales and myths, added things, took them away, turning them into warm and precious stories that Sky etched into his paper. Obviously the kid admired his arts, but again, polar opposite, absolute klutz with anything sharp. Pretty much, this kid was the one that influenced the part of his personality that his parents did not. They parted ways at the end of Junior High as the kid had to move away. Obviously he shows up in a lot of Sky's paper cuts. They departed exactly four years upon meeting with a lifetimes worth of lessons within, they were close, too, which made the years truly seem like a lifetime, as well. At this point in time, it's pretty obvious that Sky doesn't understand time even in the slightest. Afterwards he discovered that the burden of loneliness he had once learned to cope, that thing that had been lifted, came crashing down, and he wanted to learn to sort it out again.
His father was reluctant to send him off to Four Oaks, but he insisted upon it, taking all of his previous works with him. He did leave a few he had done that related to his mother at home since the two were madly in love, and his father admired the arts deeply. In turn, his father sent him off with a knife left to Sky by his mother's will, a half painted mask that would be a symbol of a bond for his future. Pretty much, one half represents the support of his parents, and the other half, if ever painted, was to be done by the one he fell for and learned forever from. And then gave him a watch, since he requested one.
Strengths/Talents/Skills:
Chinese paper cutting, 2D, he's tried 3D but he could never preserve them therefore stopped bothering with them.
Catching physical details of people, scenes, and dreams
Flexible
Sneaking into small spaces to snatch things or just for hiding
Capable of a great amount of concentration
Half-decent grades
Repeating things word for word, so counseling people.
Socializing, two languages only (Chinese/English, because those are the only two languages that Vel's halfway fluent in.)
Excellent Listener
Good with his hands
Excellent logic, so good with Sciences and puzzles.
He's a writer, but he hates reading. Good at English but could care less about dissecting a sentence. He gets it, but he doesn't care.
He's not easily hurt
Weaknesses:
Remembering anything anybody says or does while he's cutting up paper
Finding the motivation to pay attention/focus on anything other then his works
Extremely serious
Tends to speak quietly and hates repeating things
Keeping time
He has trouble understanding the tones people take. Everything might as well be a monotone to him, if they don't tell him how they're feeling he's not going to know anything they feel, another consequence of never making eye contact.
Doesn't enjoy eye contact
Slow to comprehend situations involving him
History
Languages
Gym, he doesn't move much so he tires quickly
Unnaturally afraid of hurting other people, he views them as too delicate, and therefore does not try to get close to them.
Other:
Carries around a relatively large, old pocket watch to keep time, antique-like appearance. It's a skeleton, but the skeleton part is a little bit smaller then an average. Outer ring background is white, overall thing is silver, 24 hour, roman numeric benchmarks at 24, 6, 12, and 18 for hours, inner circle. Second/minute circle consists only of dots, remaining hours are small hash marks. All marks are, likewise, silver. The cover is carved with a long tailed bird-like creature. Average silver chain, key clip at the end along with a few charms. He'll usually write the date and time he begins his projects and the date and time in which he finishes on the back of the sheets he preserves them with. (I'm absolutely obsessed with pocket watches, no questions asked there. The described is like, my ideal pocket watch that will probably never come to me.)
Only ever uses one blade, pocket knife, ornamental handle, somewhat of an antique appearance.
He never carries around textbooks, his backpack is generally filled with paper and a booklet he uses to keep them, but it's so heavy that his teachers assume he's a diligent child.
He loves to chew gum in his boredom, his teachers rarely notice him chewing it, though he doesn't make any effort to hide it. Assume it's because he chews slowly and quietly.
Neutral with Electives, doesn't try hard enough.
Extreme pacifist.
RP example:
Skykhiahn's hand loosened from the decorative handle, his knife slipped but did not cut. Those long fingers shifted, the blade bit deeper into the final slit upon the thin, scarlet paper, it sank into the hard wooden surface of his desk just a few millimeters, leaving a light scar upon the old plane, already worn by many years of use. He looked up, the sharp blade falling from his grip completely. His calm eyes widened slightly as he stared into cold eyes, those dark, sad eyes of loneliness, it had sneaked into the room, it had embraced him when he had been lost in his art, the classroom was empty, he had been left to himself, abandoned by friend, friends too admiring to stop him; abandoned by all others, others who payed no heed; abandoned by time, as time was not his to keep. He'd been caught up, so caught up and tangled in his delicate world of paper lines as thin as strings, he hadn't heard the bell, hadn't seen his classmates leave, hadn't felt the gentle prodding of his soft and kind teacher. Nobody to blame but himself, and a dream that had left it's impression on his mind since the morning of that day.
He stared down at his large, complex work. A long haired girl leaning against a melaleuca tree, alone, on a cliff above the land, on a land above the world; the trees tips became fins, small fish emerged from thin leaves, turning to large fish that swam between the clouds. Created mythical creatures danced upon those clouds. And then a rotting world below that land, left and forgotten. A dream, a dream that was his own. Skykhiahn smiled, softly, he took his mask from behind him, retied it around his head, and forgot about loneliness entirely, forgiving himself for forgetting the world, his was too beautiful for him not to. He withdrew a thick, sketchbook sized booklet from his bag, opening it carefully to the first page, revealing a clean white sheet with a distinct gloss covering it, he set it upon his desk without a sound. Gently, he folded the paper to a smaller size, he folded the night, the bright red paper, then slid the thin, flexible sheet carefully into his palm. Holding the memory as softly as any other would hold something delicate and precious. He slid it carefully between the thin transparent covering, and the blank white page beneath it. He gazed affectionately at the piece. A new journal for him to keep things, a new segment of his life had just begun. From his pocket, he withdrew the old pocket watch, gazing at the time from behind his mask, turning the page and scribbling down the time on the back. He closed his eyes, leaning against the back of his chair, stretching out his arms, throwing his head upward, toward the ceiling, smiling to himself all the while. Finally, he could go home.
