![Picture](/uploads/3/9/0/9/39097339/1486143.jpg?411)
Taikatalvi Caradhras Norcross
NORCROSS HEIR
Aura Code: 33FFBB, green blue
Aura Scent: blackberry and bay
Ability: unknown
Age: 9
Kin: Loki Norcross (father), Berlin Roanoke (mother)
Tattoo: none
Silence. To his own ears, the world was silence. Faded. To his own eyes, the world was faded. Dreary. The world doesn’t look the same to his eyes. He takes a step. The sound echoes in his ears, and before his eyes, a burst of color. Red. Red like blood. A bird chirps, and a streak of blue strikes through the air. A car’s horn blares and his vision is filled with yellow. A man shouts to another, and there are small lights of soft, red orange filling the sky. At first it charmed him, entertained him. But it never ended. It overwhelmed him. Hurt him. Taikatalvi suffers in silence, both the literal and the metaphorical sort. He is battered and betrayed by his own body and bears it quietly, by himself. He was born with sound-to-image synesthesia, a mental condition that turns what he hears into images, colors, pictures that he sees. He hears with his eyes, and the nosier it gets, the more he sees. Once he loved music. It fed him. It moved him. He lived and breathed it. When he was alone and trapped in his own silence, he would play music with unbridled joy. He had a talent for it. Every song he ever heard need only be heard once before he could play and sing it perfectly. Every instrument he ever touched came alive under his talented hands. He had such a strong bond with the music he played. In the solitude and silence that was his life, his dreary world soon became shifting, dancing, living colors and images that filled his mind and took him to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. But that was then and this is now. He had been carefully nurtured and protected, kept from the outside world and all its broken promises. In his home where he was kept sheltered from loud noise, where people spoke in whispers, and the loudest thing that ever occurred was perhaps a pin dropping; there the colors came softly, gently, and not very often. He didn’t like being confined. He had seen the world through the windows of his home and h wanted to go there. Become a part of it. He didn’t like being confined. He was so curious. He was warned, oh he was warned, but he did not listen. He stole away in the dead of night when no one was paying him any mind. Now he was out there, alone and unprotected in the world. It was too much, far too much. The sights, the sounds, the colors! He was completely assaulted by them. All at once. It tormented him. Violent. Intense. Insane. After that day, things changed. Events occurred and situations arose that sent Taikatalvi’s carefully structured world spiraling out of control. He was taken from his home and sent elsewhere, to live with people who didn’t understand him. He was forced to live a normal life, but he wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. He couldn’t explain to others what he saw or how he perceived the world. He was thrown into society and had to learn of things like currency and transportation and social skills. He had been taught simple, gentle things by loving, beautiful people, and he was ill prepared for the cruelty, the violence, and the noise of the outside world. The stress and shock of it nearly killed him. He could not function and could not adapt. He was too weak for the world; weak in body, spirit, and mind. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was a struggle, a war against his will. The pressure nearly broke him. Nearly. He was weak but his will was strong. He clawed and crawled his way back to sanity and stability. It took him years, but he finally made it. He finally managed to change. The delicate glass butterfly had become an uncut diamond. Pretty, but hard and unrelenting. The state of solitude in his psyche altered into anti-social personality disorder. He cannot understand others and seeks to keep others from understanding him. They don’t understand him as it is and he will only make it harder for them to. He will lash out when angered, and become all levels of nasty and ill tempered, yet barely feels any remorse if none at all. He can be a tormentor, but gains no pleasure from it. He gains pleasure from nothing these days. He shuts himself up inside. He won’t explain himself or let himself feel anything. He controls his feelings and silences his consciousness. He tries and for the most part, he succeeds. But there are days when all his hypocrisy overwhelms him. He longs for the days when everything was simple and silent. He longs for the times when he was innocent. These times are few and far between, and he is such a vulnerable spirit when they do occur. Instantly his walls are leveled and he seeks anything or anyone to give him comfort and peace of mind. What a pathetic creature he is. No, he is more than pathetic. He’s a mite of a despicable child as well. Everything loving and beautiful about him on the inside has been twisted into some nasty, wretched being, and it surely is what is on the inside that counts. He hates and accuses, looking down on every living creature with undisguised disgust. It matters not who or what they might be. Just their mere existence is enough cause in his eyes for his hatred. He cares not for others, and it goes beyond his mere personality disorder. He is exclusively selfish, a greedy, needy child and a miser at heart. He wouldn’t give anyone the time of day if it inconveniences him and always puts his own, personal needs above the needs of others. He doesn’t believe in the collective, only survival of the one. If others begin to get in his way or cause him to be distracted from his focus, he will brutally tear them down until nothing remains. If someone is his enemy, with or without cause for them to be matters not, he will not rest until he has irreversibly destroyed them to some degree, whether in an emotional, physical, mental, or social sense. This form of selfishness overcomes any form of care or kindness he may show during those odd moments when he seems to be genuinely helpful or caring. He is never genuine about anything, definitely not anything good, though he can have all the appearances of it. Despite his aloof air and the way he remains estranged from all contact, he also has violently shifting patterns in this behavior of his. It’s not nearly as clear cut or as easy to label him as that. Not to make him appear overtly complicated, but he does have some flaws in the carefully structured personality he has transformed to, and these flaws are more apparent in his general behaviors. It was mentioned earlier that he enters into a pathetic state of weakness on occasion in which he longs for those simpler days when all was love and innocence bonded together. In these moments, he also demonstrates this odd form of imprinting on people he meets. The moment is fleeting but eternal. When he clings to one person, he is impossible to pry off. He randomly picks someone to bond to, to love and follow and look up to, and these people he will follow to the end of his days. These people he tends to be rather strange to. He acts much younger than his age and becomes utterly obsessed wit the object of his affection, to the point of terrifying these people. His imprinting behavior turns more people off to him than his normally hateful demeanor. Hatred is something many people can deal with. They can take that hateful person and set them in a box and say, “This person is hateful. I can choose to try and love them, hate them back, or simply ignore them.” Hateful people can be packaged perfectly, but not obsessed people. The obsessed defy the norm and are full of unexpected surprises. They follow, they live, they breathe the air of their obsession and they can never be gotten rid of. Like the hydra, they just keep reappearing every time they are struck down. Then, like an opposite reflection in a mirror, he can have violently murderous intentions to some. These also can come from his rather fragile states when his mind isn’t totally right. He turns people into the pure embodiment of all his hatred, his suffering, and everything that may have wronged him in the past. He sets these people aside as targets that he must destroy. He has never actually killed anyone yet, but he has come very close to it multiple times. On that darker note, Taikatalvi also seems to be attracted to blood. Not just the color or smell, but the taste. He never shies from the sight of blood, rather it lures him in. He will touch it, taste it, drink it if the opportunity presents itself. His love of blood seems to stem from a bizarre fear that he doesn’t have enough in his body. It is not a totally irrational or unexplained fear. One would think the boy’s list of problems would have ended by now, but no. Taikatalvi came down with lung cancer when he was ten years old. The illness has progressed to later stages, and he is often racked with terrible bouts of coughing up blood, occasionally followed by vomiting blood as well. Taikatalvi is absolutely terrified of the disease, and so stemmed from it the sudden urge to drink blood, believing he is replacing the blood he loses. Of course, drinking blood does not agree with him at all, and he finds this strange urge of his disgusting. Yet another factor in his self-loathing. Yet he does not try to stop himself, already having accepted it as an irreversible part of him. And if the abnormalities of this child couldn’t possibly end there, Taikatalvi suffers also of narcolepsy. It is possibly the lesser of all evils. Though it is a chronic disorder, he doesn’t experience all the downsides it has to offer. He will drop to the ground and fall asleep instantaneously, or perhaps awake fully alert at the most impromptu times. He often undergoes automatic behavior: a period where he continues to function (talking, putting things away, etc.) during sleep episodes, but awakens with no memory of performing such activities. He occasionally experiences hallucinations, especially if he hasn’t slept for a long time, but these are expected to fade as he gets older. From everything described of him, from his strange past, his sufferings even as a child, to his unexpected behaviors, one could almost have pity for him. But they are warned not to be fooled. He is a child beyond help, beyond hope. It would take years, maybe decades, to right all the wrong that has poisoned his mind. But he doesn’t have years or decades. He’s running out of time. He can feel it. Death calls to him, and though he fears it and fights to live, a part of him has come to await it. Taikatalvi looks rather fine despite his conditions and his abnormal side. He once had soft, silky blonde hair, the pale yellow color of the sky before dawn, but the stresses turned his hair stark white, with none of its former color remaining. It lies flowing yet downy on his head, always in a pleasantly ruffled, tousled style that seems to suit his youthful age without making him appear to wild. His eyes are electric, powerful. Neon oculars of an opalescent blue-green color, more green than blue really. His eyes speak more than he ever will, always swirling with torrential floods of unexpressed thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. Eyes are windows to the soul after all, and his remains caged and despairingly violent against his barred windows. He is everything cold and winter, from those eyes and hair to his soft, pale skin. It is not a sickly pale that whitens his entire body, rather a frosty, delicate pale that compliments rather than disgusts. His once flawless skin is now laced with violent, twisted scars, though most have faded over time or blend in with his skin, the rest continue to mar his body. Some are self inflicted, an experiment. The rest are larger, more pronounced, the results of terrible accidents. Yet Taikatalvi does not seem to care about any accidents or the scars, in fact he seems mostly unaware of them for the most part. One may ask where he attained a scar and he will simply not remember. Not for the sheer quantity he possesses but merely because he honestly does not know. He happens to have been born with CIPA: a defect that prevents the user from feeling or registering any pain. Therefore he can be injured by the smallest or largest of things and won’t even notice until someone points it out, or perhaps later if he notices blood or if something seems out of place. Truly then, he won’t know where he received most of his scars. He is ice in his face and form, a rigid, cold demeanor that epitomizes ferocity in every angle and contour, yet his every move is hypocrisy. He has all the balance and grace of a prima donna, a dancer, a ballerina. Something soft, strong, and gentle. He hovers and glides across rooms as though his feet never touch the ground. He is light on his feet and silent as the grave. He can creep and crawl and none shall know he was ever there. A mere shadow that flits o’er the walls. It’s almost mesmerizing. He torments himself almost as often as he torments others, by drowning out the world and its noise in his music. He hates music now. He hates it because music is emotion and the language of the soul. He swears he has no soul. He swears he isn’t human anymore, but the music does not care for what Taikatalvi believes and it will pour from that soul and show him that he indeed bears humanity inside, and suffers for it terribly. His aura is a soft, angelic green-blue color and his aura smells of blackberry and bay: the smell of innocence.
NORCROSS HEIR
Aura Code: 33FFBB, green blue
Aura Scent: blackberry and bay
Ability: unknown
Age: 9
Kin: Loki Norcross (father), Berlin Roanoke (mother)
Tattoo: none
Silence. To his own ears, the world was silence. Faded. To his own eyes, the world was faded. Dreary. The world doesn’t look the same to his eyes. He takes a step. The sound echoes in his ears, and before his eyes, a burst of color. Red. Red like blood. A bird chirps, and a streak of blue strikes through the air. A car’s horn blares and his vision is filled with yellow. A man shouts to another, and there are small lights of soft, red orange filling the sky. At first it charmed him, entertained him. But it never ended. It overwhelmed him. Hurt him. Taikatalvi suffers in silence, both the literal and the metaphorical sort. He is battered and betrayed by his own body and bears it quietly, by himself. He was born with sound-to-image synesthesia, a mental condition that turns what he hears into images, colors, pictures that he sees. He hears with his eyes, and the nosier it gets, the more he sees. Once he loved music. It fed him. It moved him. He lived and breathed it. When he was alone and trapped in his own silence, he would play music with unbridled joy. He had a talent for it. Every song he ever heard need only be heard once before he could play and sing it perfectly. Every instrument he ever touched came alive under his talented hands. He had such a strong bond with the music he played. In the solitude and silence that was his life, his dreary world soon became shifting, dancing, living colors and images that filled his mind and took him to unbelievable heights of ecstasy. But that was then and this is now. He had been carefully nurtured and protected, kept from the outside world and all its broken promises. In his home where he was kept sheltered from loud noise, where people spoke in whispers, and the loudest thing that ever occurred was perhaps a pin dropping; there the colors came softly, gently, and not very often. He didn’t like being confined. He had seen the world through the windows of his home and h wanted to go there. Become a part of it. He didn’t like being confined. He was so curious. He was warned, oh he was warned, but he did not listen. He stole away in the dead of night when no one was paying him any mind. Now he was out there, alone and unprotected in the world. It was too much, far too much. The sights, the sounds, the colors! He was completely assaulted by them. All at once. It tormented him. Violent. Intense. Insane. After that day, things changed. Events occurred and situations arose that sent Taikatalvi’s carefully structured world spiraling out of control. He was taken from his home and sent elsewhere, to live with people who didn’t understand him. He was forced to live a normal life, but he wasn’t normal. Not normal at all. He couldn’t explain to others what he saw or how he perceived the world. He was thrown into society and had to learn of things like currency and transportation and social skills. He had been taught simple, gentle things by loving, beautiful people, and he was ill prepared for the cruelty, the violence, and the noise of the outside world. The stress and shock of it nearly killed him. He could not function and could not adapt. He was too weak for the world; weak in body, spirit, and mind. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was a struggle, a war against his will. The pressure nearly broke him. Nearly. He was weak but his will was strong. He clawed and crawled his way back to sanity and stability. It took him years, but he finally made it. He finally managed to change. The delicate glass butterfly had become an uncut diamond. Pretty, but hard and unrelenting. The state of solitude in his psyche altered into anti-social personality disorder. He cannot understand others and seeks to keep others from understanding him. They don’t understand him as it is and he will only make it harder for them to. He will lash out when angered, and become all levels of nasty and ill tempered, yet barely feels any remorse if none at all. He can be a tormentor, but gains no pleasure from it. He gains pleasure from nothing these days. He shuts himself up inside. He won’t explain himself or let himself feel anything. He controls his feelings and silences his consciousness. He tries and for the most part, he succeeds. But there are days when all his hypocrisy overwhelms him. He longs for the days when everything was simple and silent. He longs for the times when he was innocent. These times are few and far between, and he is such a vulnerable spirit when they do occur. Instantly his walls are leveled and he seeks anything or anyone to give him comfort and peace of mind. What a pathetic creature he is. No, he is more than pathetic. He’s a mite of a despicable child as well. Everything loving and beautiful about him on the inside has been twisted into some nasty, wretched being, and it surely is what is on the inside that counts. He hates and accuses, looking down on every living creature with undisguised disgust. It matters not who or what they might be. Just their mere existence is enough cause in his eyes for his hatred. He cares not for others, and it goes beyond his mere personality disorder. He is exclusively selfish, a greedy, needy child and a miser at heart. He wouldn’t give anyone the time of day if it inconveniences him and always puts his own, personal needs above the needs of others. He doesn’t believe in the collective, only survival of the one. If others begin to get in his way or cause him to be distracted from his focus, he will brutally tear them down until nothing remains. If someone is his enemy, with or without cause for them to be matters not, he will not rest until he has irreversibly destroyed them to some degree, whether in an emotional, physical, mental, or social sense. This form of selfishness overcomes any form of care or kindness he may show during those odd moments when he seems to be genuinely helpful or caring. He is never genuine about anything, definitely not anything good, though he can have all the appearances of it. Despite his aloof air and the way he remains estranged from all contact, he also has violently shifting patterns in this behavior of his. It’s not nearly as clear cut or as easy to label him as that. Not to make him appear overtly complicated, but he does have some flaws in the carefully structured personality he has transformed to, and these flaws are more apparent in his general behaviors. It was mentioned earlier that he enters into a pathetic state of weakness on occasion in which he longs for those simpler days when all was love and innocence bonded together. In these moments, he also demonstrates this odd form of imprinting on people he meets. The moment is fleeting but eternal. When he clings to one person, he is impossible to pry off. He randomly picks someone to bond to, to love and follow and look up to, and these people he will follow to the end of his days. These people he tends to be rather strange to. He acts much younger than his age and becomes utterly obsessed wit the object of his affection, to the point of terrifying these people. His imprinting behavior turns more people off to him than his normally hateful demeanor. Hatred is something many people can deal with. They can take that hateful person and set them in a box and say, “This person is hateful. I can choose to try and love them, hate them back, or simply ignore them.” Hateful people can be packaged perfectly, but not obsessed people. The obsessed defy the norm and are full of unexpected surprises. They follow, they live, they breathe the air of their obsession and they can never be gotten rid of. Like the hydra, they just keep reappearing every time they are struck down. Then, like an opposite reflection in a mirror, he can have violently murderous intentions to some. These also can come from his rather fragile states when his mind isn’t totally right. He turns people into the pure embodiment of all his hatred, his suffering, and everything that may have wronged him in the past. He sets these people aside as targets that he must destroy. He has never actually killed anyone yet, but he has come very close to it multiple times. On that darker note, Taikatalvi also seems to be attracted to blood. Not just the color or smell, but the taste. He never shies from the sight of blood, rather it lures him in. He will touch it, taste it, drink it if the opportunity presents itself. His love of blood seems to stem from a bizarre fear that he doesn’t have enough in his body. It is not a totally irrational or unexplained fear. One would think the boy’s list of problems would have ended by now, but no. Taikatalvi came down with lung cancer when he was ten years old. The illness has progressed to later stages, and he is often racked with terrible bouts of coughing up blood, occasionally followed by vomiting blood as well. Taikatalvi is absolutely terrified of the disease, and so stemmed from it the sudden urge to drink blood, believing he is replacing the blood he loses. Of course, drinking blood does not agree with him at all, and he finds this strange urge of his disgusting. Yet another factor in his self-loathing. Yet he does not try to stop himself, already having accepted it as an irreversible part of him. And if the abnormalities of this child couldn’t possibly end there, Taikatalvi suffers also of narcolepsy. It is possibly the lesser of all evils. Though it is a chronic disorder, he doesn’t experience all the downsides it has to offer. He will drop to the ground and fall asleep instantaneously, or perhaps awake fully alert at the most impromptu times. He often undergoes automatic behavior: a period where he continues to function (talking, putting things away, etc.) during sleep episodes, but awakens with no memory of performing such activities. He occasionally experiences hallucinations, especially if he hasn’t slept for a long time, but these are expected to fade as he gets older. From everything described of him, from his strange past, his sufferings even as a child, to his unexpected behaviors, one could almost have pity for him. But they are warned not to be fooled. He is a child beyond help, beyond hope. It would take years, maybe decades, to right all the wrong that has poisoned his mind. But he doesn’t have years or decades. He’s running out of time. He can feel it. Death calls to him, and though he fears it and fights to live, a part of him has come to await it. Taikatalvi looks rather fine despite his conditions and his abnormal side. He once had soft, silky blonde hair, the pale yellow color of the sky before dawn, but the stresses turned his hair stark white, with none of its former color remaining. It lies flowing yet downy on his head, always in a pleasantly ruffled, tousled style that seems to suit his youthful age without making him appear to wild. His eyes are electric, powerful. Neon oculars of an opalescent blue-green color, more green than blue really. His eyes speak more than he ever will, always swirling with torrential floods of unexpressed thoughts, feelings, hopes, and fears. Eyes are windows to the soul after all, and his remains caged and despairingly violent against his barred windows. He is everything cold and winter, from those eyes and hair to his soft, pale skin. It is not a sickly pale that whitens his entire body, rather a frosty, delicate pale that compliments rather than disgusts. His once flawless skin is now laced with violent, twisted scars, though most have faded over time or blend in with his skin, the rest continue to mar his body. Some are self inflicted, an experiment. The rest are larger, more pronounced, the results of terrible accidents. Yet Taikatalvi does not seem to care about any accidents or the scars, in fact he seems mostly unaware of them for the most part. One may ask where he attained a scar and he will simply not remember. Not for the sheer quantity he possesses but merely because he honestly does not know. He happens to have been born with CIPA: a defect that prevents the user from feeling or registering any pain. Therefore he can be injured by the smallest or largest of things and won’t even notice until someone points it out, or perhaps later if he notices blood or if something seems out of place. Truly then, he won’t know where he received most of his scars. He is ice in his face and form, a rigid, cold demeanor that epitomizes ferocity in every angle and contour, yet his every move is hypocrisy. He has all the balance and grace of a prima donna, a dancer, a ballerina. Something soft, strong, and gentle. He hovers and glides across rooms as though his feet never touch the ground. He is light on his feet and silent as the grave. He can creep and crawl and none shall know he was ever there. A mere shadow that flits o’er the walls. It’s almost mesmerizing. He torments himself almost as often as he torments others, by drowning out the world and its noise in his music. He hates music now. He hates it because music is emotion and the language of the soul. He swears he has no soul. He swears he isn’t human anymore, but the music does not care for what Taikatalvi believes and it will pour from that soul and show him that he indeed bears humanity inside, and suffers for it terribly. His aura is a soft, angelic green-blue color and his aura smells of blackberry and bay: the smell of innocence.
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Ciel Everette Norcross
Loki's Bodyguard
Aura Code: 66AAFF, sky blue
Aura Scent: warm fur and cold grass
Ability: unknown, has to do with leopards
Age: appears 24
Kin: unknown
Tattoo: Norcross demon skull insignia over his heart
Ciel Everett Norcross: no one knows what to make of him. He's a puzzle. A big puzzle with tiny pieces, maybe a thousand of them. They make a pretty big picture. The box says there's no age limit, only a reccomandation that your IQ is over 120. The picture itself seems far too complex to complete, and when you look at how many pieces there are, you might just give up hope already. But if you choose to strive forward, then maybe you can finish off a small section or two, but never the whole thing. One little section is his age. Sadly all the pieces have odd little corners and shapes, so even if you did manage to get parts of that section together, you'd only be confused. A young man of possibly sixteen or seventeen years of age, he not only acts older than he really is, but if anyone bothered to ask, he'd just lie. His appearance is the easy part. The pieces in that section start off large with perfectly matching adjoiners. He is male. He has tan skin. He has spiky red hair that hangs down close to his shoulders. His soul piercing eyes are a ghostly golden hue, faded at first glance, but if one looks long enough, they seem to flash and flicker like the flame of a candle. But then the pieces of that side of the puzzle get small and oddly shaped again. A mystical blue color that fades and flickers, and there is a scent there; a faint smell of warm fur and cold grass. He has a mask on his face. Not the striking mask of a samurai warrior, or the shadowy face covering of an expert ninja assassin, but rather the cumbersome and disheartening breathing mask that you'd normally find in a post-apocalypse movie. What lies underneath? And his body? He's always wearing long sleeved shirts and jackets, long legged pants and tall boots. Is it to hide scars? is he simply insecure about his body? Covering up strange tattoos? Those pieces won't fit and don't even appear to belong together, so you abandon that section and try another one. Ahh, yes. This section is most complicated; his personality. The pieces are all wrong and have the strangest color combinations, lines, and shapes. One of the pieces looks like an eye: he is insightful, clever, and very observant. A book: he is curious, studious, and enjoys reading, literature, history, and the sciences. Black pieces: he is a loner, antisocial, he prefers solitude. A red handprint? How curious. He is dangerous maybe, untrustworthy. Perhaps he is capable of killing. Several pieces fit together, though it is difficult putting them together; they make up a bird in a cage. What could that mean? He's trapped, scared, enslaved? Afraid? Of what? Why is there a bird trapped in a cage? It looks so sad and lonely in there. Is that how he feels? Is he that bird? Or... or is he the cage? Trapping the bird, causing it pain and misery, taking away its freedom and its desire to sing. Move on. There's no more you want to see there. Yes, yes, you want to see more, but who knows what you will find. Go back to it later. Wait, what's this? What is all this? This is a mess! His history. There's really nothing you can do about it is there. And why does a leopard keep appearing? There are lots of leopards, even in the other places of the puzzle. What could leopards possibly have to do with him? He is around them a lot to be sure. Are they protecting him? Is he protecting them? Are they friends? Enemies? Animal guides? Spirit guides even? Do they merely represent something of him in a symbolic manner? Are they another part of him? Or are they just plain old leopards? He has abilities. How strange. This part of the puzzle seems quite intriguing. Sadly, the pieces aren't fitting together properly. Well that is very frustrating. We know he has some kind of powers, but what are they exactly? Maybe they have something to do with the leopards...
Loki's Bodyguard
Aura Code: 66AAFF, sky blue
Aura Scent: warm fur and cold grass
Ability: unknown, has to do with leopards
Age: appears 24
Kin: unknown
Tattoo: Norcross demon skull insignia over his heart
Ciel Everett Norcross: no one knows what to make of him. He's a puzzle. A big puzzle with tiny pieces, maybe a thousand of them. They make a pretty big picture. The box says there's no age limit, only a reccomandation that your IQ is over 120. The picture itself seems far too complex to complete, and when you look at how many pieces there are, you might just give up hope already. But if you choose to strive forward, then maybe you can finish off a small section or two, but never the whole thing. One little section is his age. Sadly all the pieces have odd little corners and shapes, so even if you did manage to get parts of that section together, you'd only be confused. A young man of possibly sixteen or seventeen years of age, he not only acts older than he really is, but if anyone bothered to ask, he'd just lie. His appearance is the easy part. The pieces in that section start off large with perfectly matching adjoiners. He is male. He has tan skin. He has spiky red hair that hangs down close to his shoulders. His soul piercing eyes are a ghostly golden hue, faded at first glance, but if one looks long enough, they seem to flash and flicker like the flame of a candle. But then the pieces of that side of the puzzle get small and oddly shaped again. A mystical blue color that fades and flickers, and there is a scent there; a faint smell of warm fur and cold grass. He has a mask on his face. Not the striking mask of a samurai warrior, or the shadowy face covering of an expert ninja assassin, but rather the cumbersome and disheartening breathing mask that you'd normally find in a post-apocalypse movie. What lies underneath? And his body? He's always wearing long sleeved shirts and jackets, long legged pants and tall boots. Is it to hide scars? is he simply insecure about his body? Covering up strange tattoos? Those pieces won't fit and don't even appear to belong together, so you abandon that section and try another one. Ahh, yes. This section is most complicated; his personality. The pieces are all wrong and have the strangest color combinations, lines, and shapes. One of the pieces looks like an eye: he is insightful, clever, and very observant. A book: he is curious, studious, and enjoys reading, literature, history, and the sciences. Black pieces: he is a loner, antisocial, he prefers solitude. A red handprint? How curious. He is dangerous maybe, untrustworthy. Perhaps he is capable of killing. Several pieces fit together, though it is difficult putting them together; they make up a bird in a cage. What could that mean? He's trapped, scared, enslaved? Afraid? Of what? Why is there a bird trapped in a cage? It looks so sad and lonely in there. Is that how he feels? Is he that bird? Or... or is he the cage? Trapping the bird, causing it pain and misery, taking away its freedom and its desire to sing. Move on. There's no more you want to see there. Yes, yes, you want to see more, but who knows what you will find. Go back to it later. Wait, what's this? What is all this? This is a mess! His history. There's really nothing you can do about it is there. And why does a leopard keep appearing? There are lots of leopards, even in the other places of the puzzle. What could leopards possibly have to do with him? He is around them a lot to be sure. Are they protecting him? Is he protecting them? Are they friends? Enemies? Animal guides? Spirit guides even? Do they merely represent something of him in a symbolic manner? Are they another part of him? Or are they just plain old leopards? He has abilities. How strange. This part of the puzzle seems quite intriguing. Sadly, the pieces aren't fitting together properly. Well that is very frustrating. We know he has some kind of powers, but what are they exactly? Maybe they have something to do with the leopards...
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Phage
FALCONER
Aura Code: FFF2FF, white with the barest of pink tinges
Aura Scent: thick fog
Ability: unknown
Age: 12
Kin: unknown
Tattoo: a heart crossed out with three parallel lines in the middle, located on the back of his neck
Phage is a very odd individual. He never fits with the norm, both inside and out. To begin: his ridiculously outlandish appearance that contradicts with his introverted self. He has shoulder length, straight hair the color of strawberry milk. His eyes are narrowed with gold irises. He has very, very dark circles under his eyes that create a sunken, dark effect to his usually haunted look. He has gently sloping features and an average face that makes him look unintentionally handsome. He never smiles, probably a negative bonus to his relatively appealing visage. Phage always wears a mix of white, pale pink, and navy blue. He typically wears boots as he finds them more versatile than shoes. And he constantly hides his head, hair, and face with hoods. Phage is the youngest falconer the Norcross have ever had. He began work at around age ten, when his genius was first discovered. Despite his age, he has proven to be very efficient in crisis situations, having the cool logic of a computer and the hardened resolve of a military general. He has a ridiculous IQ and a particular gifting towards anything related to strategy. He has a sort of innate eagle eye, able to watch and judge movements and predict actions based on what he sees. Phage never really hunts. Being so young and still at such a low level of training physically, he gets underfoot more often than not. While something of an expert on movement, there is a difference between knowledge and application, and he tends to still need plenty of work done concerning the latter. Being up high, observing, watching, waiting, plotting: that is his element. Take him out, and he’s like a fish out of water. He is always working. He never rests. An object in motion wants to stay in motion. When he gets going, there’s very little that can slow him down. When not on the front lines, he’s curled up in the kennels or in some other nook or cranny of the house with the various dogs, typing away furiously on his laptop or writing things out in one of his many notebooks. He not only manages things from the safety of rooftops during the excursions, he is always keeping himself up to date on battle plans, mission briefings, and training regimes. He wants to get to know his hunters on a more intimate level: their personality, opinions, physical abilities, special abilities: everything. Then he can better use them when they are tossed into the fray. It just works out better for him that way. If he does not know their intricate workings, how can he possibly use them to their potential when they are called to fight? He seems to be in a lot of places at once and have his fingers in too many pies, but he manages just fine. If he isn’t, he puts up a decent front of doing so. He has to be in the know about everything. Honestly, he can get too obsessed with his hunters. Analyzing them down to their minuscule details, taking everything around him and processing it repeatedly: it’s tedious, obsessive work that would drive any normal person insane. But he feels like he has to. If he miscalculates, he could get people killed. He actually cares a lot about people, even if he doesn't always say. He could never treat people cruelly. It's not in his nature. He also gets emotionally invested in people to a point that he would be very upset if even a mere acquaintance dies. Which seems very hypocritical considering that he is suspicious of absolutely everyone, and hates human contact. He gets very freaked out if people get near him, or God forbid, if they touch him! Yet, somehow, he takes time out of his day to get to know them well enough to make the best use of them to prevent their deaths, and if they die, he is extremely distraught. Phage is kind of like a shadow you neither want nor expect. He is extremely quiet and alone. He can follow people soundlessly for hours, and then just ignore people when confronted about such odd behavior. He gets to know them, but never speaks of himself. His personality is bizarre. Only severe brain damage or retardation could explain the inane way he talks and thinks, but he exhibits no signs of having either. He is just weird and disturbing. But maybe Phage likes it that way. Maybe he likes being left alone and hated. He certainly seems unbothered by it all. All of his weirdness aside, there is definitely more to him than meets the eye.
he does not have a falcon. he is annoyed by most birds
He can be rather philosophical, and he tends to speak his mind at random times, which can throw some people off.
he will follow people like a shadow, but he will never say why or answer questions when confronted about it
he never sleeps, or at least, no one ever sees him sleep
he hates anything and everything sweet, except fruits. he maintains a very healthy diet, but will binge on salty snacks when working. if someone is around, he will ask them to taste test his food, but never his snacks. speaking of, he seems to always have a snack stashed somewhere on his person. he likes to dip carrot sticks in barbecue sauce. he does not like to eat normal carrots, only prepackaged baby carrots, though if you cut up a carrot small and peel it, he might consider eating that.
he is usually carrying a sharpie around. occasionally he will draw or write stuff on bathroom walls. or sleeping people's faces
has developed personalities for every type of fruit and often comments about it
he often addresses people by their last name and sometimes refers to himself in the third person
he refers to his emotions as types of weather
often mentions that even if nobody else believed in Pluto, he still did, and that "Pluto still believes in you."
FALCONER
Aura Code: FFF2FF, white with the barest of pink tinges
Aura Scent: thick fog
Ability: unknown
Age: 12
Kin: unknown
Tattoo: a heart crossed out with three parallel lines in the middle, located on the back of his neck
Phage is a very odd individual. He never fits with the norm, both inside and out. To begin: his ridiculously outlandish appearance that contradicts with his introverted self. He has shoulder length, straight hair the color of strawberry milk. His eyes are narrowed with gold irises. He has very, very dark circles under his eyes that create a sunken, dark effect to his usually haunted look. He has gently sloping features and an average face that makes him look unintentionally handsome. He never smiles, probably a negative bonus to his relatively appealing visage. Phage always wears a mix of white, pale pink, and navy blue. He typically wears boots as he finds them more versatile than shoes. And he constantly hides his head, hair, and face with hoods. Phage is the youngest falconer the Norcross have ever had. He began work at around age ten, when his genius was first discovered. Despite his age, he has proven to be very efficient in crisis situations, having the cool logic of a computer and the hardened resolve of a military general. He has a ridiculous IQ and a particular gifting towards anything related to strategy. He has a sort of innate eagle eye, able to watch and judge movements and predict actions based on what he sees. Phage never really hunts. Being so young and still at such a low level of training physically, he gets underfoot more often than not. While something of an expert on movement, there is a difference between knowledge and application, and he tends to still need plenty of work done concerning the latter. Being up high, observing, watching, waiting, plotting: that is his element. Take him out, and he’s like a fish out of water. He is always working. He never rests. An object in motion wants to stay in motion. When he gets going, there’s very little that can slow him down. When not on the front lines, he’s curled up in the kennels or in some other nook or cranny of the house with the various dogs, typing away furiously on his laptop or writing things out in one of his many notebooks. He not only manages things from the safety of rooftops during the excursions, he is always keeping himself up to date on battle plans, mission briefings, and training regimes. He wants to get to know his hunters on a more intimate level: their personality, opinions, physical abilities, special abilities: everything. Then he can better use them when they are tossed into the fray. It just works out better for him that way. If he does not know their intricate workings, how can he possibly use them to their potential when they are called to fight? He seems to be in a lot of places at once and have his fingers in too many pies, but he manages just fine. If he isn’t, he puts up a decent front of doing so. He has to be in the know about everything. Honestly, he can get too obsessed with his hunters. Analyzing them down to their minuscule details, taking everything around him and processing it repeatedly: it’s tedious, obsessive work that would drive any normal person insane. But he feels like he has to. If he miscalculates, he could get people killed. He actually cares a lot about people, even if he doesn't always say. He could never treat people cruelly. It's not in his nature. He also gets emotionally invested in people to a point that he would be very upset if even a mere acquaintance dies. Which seems very hypocritical considering that he is suspicious of absolutely everyone, and hates human contact. He gets very freaked out if people get near him, or God forbid, if they touch him! Yet, somehow, he takes time out of his day to get to know them well enough to make the best use of them to prevent their deaths, and if they die, he is extremely distraught. Phage is kind of like a shadow you neither want nor expect. He is extremely quiet and alone. He can follow people soundlessly for hours, and then just ignore people when confronted about such odd behavior. He gets to know them, but never speaks of himself. His personality is bizarre. Only severe brain damage or retardation could explain the inane way he talks and thinks, but he exhibits no signs of having either. He is just weird and disturbing. But maybe Phage likes it that way. Maybe he likes being left alone and hated. He certainly seems unbothered by it all. All of his weirdness aside, there is definitely more to him than meets the eye.
he does not have a falcon. he is annoyed by most birds
He can be rather philosophical, and he tends to speak his mind at random times, which can throw some people off.
he will follow people like a shadow, but he will never say why or answer questions when confronted about it
he never sleeps, or at least, no one ever sees him sleep
he hates anything and everything sweet, except fruits. he maintains a very healthy diet, but will binge on salty snacks when working. if someone is around, he will ask them to taste test his food, but never his snacks. speaking of, he seems to always have a snack stashed somewhere on his person. he likes to dip carrot sticks in barbecue sauce. he does not like to eat normal carrots, only prepackaged baby carrots, though if you cut up a carrot small and peel it, he might consider eating that.
he is usually carrying a sharpie around. occasionally he will draw or write stuff on bathroom walls. or sleeping people's faces
has developed personalities for every type of fruit and often comments about it
he often addresses people by their last name and sometimes refers to himself in the third person
he refers to his emotions as types of weather
often mentions that even if nobody else believed in Pluto, he still did, and that "Pluto still believes in you."