Rings of Honor

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Username:

Bezal

Groups:

Registered users

Character:

Bezal Thorn

Character Race:

Planar

Gender:

Man

Character Portrait:

Profession:

Artist

Appearance:

What makes a man?

Is it what he is born to, what he makes of himself, or what others make of him?

Questions. Questions to ask himself, questions that keep coming back. Why? So many instances of why. Why bother? Why stay? Why return? Why begin, and always - Why end? Why is the bane of every parent, and every self, sometimes.

He is a man. He's sure of that. Everything else is guesses at half-glimpsed memories. Why did he lose them? Another question. The name... that's his, or is it? He remembers a name. It's the one he uses. But was it his, before he took it? Why does it matter? They asked him where he was from. He told them Affshahla. Another name, and he doesn't even remember what it is... a world? A person? Maybe it's a street somewhere. Or maybe he was just incoherently babbling. He got it off the paperwork, when they let him go.

The physical attributes seem to be reliable, at least. Three inches over six feet tall, lean - too lean, maybe. Or maybe just not bulky. Pointed ears, so maybe he's part elf. Or all elf. Who knows?! Green eyes. Or blue. Kind of a mix. The hair got cut off once, he remembers when it was short, but it grew back. Blood-black and down to his knees, there doesn't seem to be any reason to cut it again. Besides, it would just grow back. It's usually left to do what it will, and there are frequently smears of paint in it. They fall out eventually. The piercing - well. That's new. He remembers having it done, even if he doesn't remember why. But the pieces are coming together. Slowly, one at a time, shattered fragments. Too bad it's the blank silver back of the mirror.

Clothes... well, those are whatever he puts on, whatever happens to be laying around mostly clean. But weren't there other clothes... no, no. The memory's gone, just a fractured figment he'd given away. How does he know that...? He gave it away. Maybe he doesn't know it at all.

The colors. Smearing his hands, skin, clothing. Viscous, thick color, rich and vibrant. Paints. He forgets to use the brushes sometimes, and just uses whatever comes to hand. Literally. His hands, the cuff of his shirt, whatever. They say that painting is therapeutic. They did say that, at the hospital. Besides, it's a good way to give the memories away, before they can come back.

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