Lloyd Elsian GreedThe distilled boy
name;; Lloyd Elsian Greed
nickname;; Ebenezer
age;; Within his earlier twenties
gender;; Male
birthdate;; November 1
favorite thing about winter;;
The feeling of winter.
The chill of it in the air,
the fresh breathes that make big wight clouds
and form mist on windows.
The bright appearance,
and how it makes everything shine from the sunlight
even when people say its the season of death and coverage.
You might think them crazy, but the people that want to cry and hysterically laugh are all around us. You can see just how painful life is when you look at them and into their eyes...
Ballet dancing-- the elegance-- the beauty- the impatience-- He covered it all, his feet fluttering over the ground with a hop. Then those quick movements, can you imagine not falling as you swim like a swan, fly like a crow? He could, he had gotten so used to this. The falling the failing, the standing, the reeling. Life just comes so quickly. He could remember those days when he had just imagined these movements.
Life called for strength, insurance, endurance as you fell, as he fell. Oh yes. The hits, the bleeding, the smiles, the tearing.. Oh no. But that wasn't just it. His life as a young one wasn't something to brag about, nothing to boast about. Whenever he thought the whole thing over he shuddered at his minds memories and went back into that old lonely cottage, wooden, locked and full of shadows. It would have been dark even if you opened the window wide, because the whole thing was dark, its walls a blackening brown that glowed like a dark soul. It had an aura of blackness, inescapable. And yet he had escaped, but many memories came before that.
His mind played the memories as if they were movie clips, so horribly real. He could lean back and close his eyes and they'd be back, light flashes in darkness followed by hazy pictures and droned out voices yelling things to him that he'd rather forget. "They were always mean," his mind narrated over the memories, unappeased by what it could put into image. He wasn't sure if wanting it to stop was hopeful, useless, desperate or selfish. His parents voices would laugh at him, calling whatever he hoped for useless. There was no need... They said the meanest things sometimes. "Dreams? Dreams... What dreams?" They're laughter filled his head. Haunted him, and his mind joined along. His head and his heart reacted with a hysterical fit of emotions, like it was all normal, every time these memories rolled in. Laughing with breathes that just left him choked, with warm tears streaking down his face. Of course, this didn't happen usually. Sure, his mind tortured him at times, but who's mind didn't, and to what brink did he have to reach before walking out onto the balcony and laughing because he was above caring, and also above many lifeless streets?
He used to imagine dancing like a ballerina, becoming as graceful as a deer. When he stumbled and fell, stood up again and carefully turned to see that no one was watching, he'd feel his heart race. He'd practice far in the snow banks away from home, in little snow forts he'd built all year round. Because, at that time he was the freak without much to call his own, now what had changed? Back then he'd hide away like a turtle in its shell, whatever everyone told him was just hypocritical babble, thinking they knew just about everything. They had nothing worth listening to, he'd have rather stayed alone, by himself. It was a small village, habituated with kids of brunt force and a lack of knowledge, and with adults that held the same frugal ideals of the world. His days would be spent with them, hours upon hours by their sides. At home, at school, in the playground, it was all the same, they'd rather have sustained the old habits in the life they had, than ever change for the better. Their old brutish ways, that came from the ignorance they had been taught with since childhood, steadied their unlawful fates.
He was the frail flower in the patch of weeds, the one different one from that group. He was the one sitting by himself as the other children played, reading to himself. Every day was filled with static air, unbalanced just as life was. The usual day went and came, the villagers had their do of food and labour, as the villagers did everyday, and soon the day came to an end. With the night slipping in, along with yawn and the drowsy eyes, everything went silent.
The nights were soft, when he slept at least, with dreamless passages. The days were not the same. He remember sitting by the window when everything went dark and staring out as his parents made noise. Annoying, obnoxious noise filled the room, thrown out from their lips and bouncing around the room. And he remembered laying there in his bed, night after night, just staring at the walls and the windows and his homely trinkets. Everything seamed so much much detailed when you glanced at it for a wile, took a deeper look within the hours ticking by. Of course, the nights always seamed slow, the days were brutal and fast, not soft... But destructive.
He'd come home with a bloody, swollen nose, old scars and bruises fitting that pale outer form of his. Staggering to his old forts he'd sit and sigh, tracing his fingers on the cold snow, and think to himself. With his arm crossed against his legs he'd sit and watch the stars come up, day after day. And the days he fell asleep out there in the cold, under the blanket of stars, sarounded by snow and tree canopies was uncountable. Just as the night stars were. He'd wait, sitting there with no desire to move and no motivation for energy... but when he suddenly felt impulses he'd stand and bounce. Like a ball of fire he'd burn around each snow pile, touching his feet against the bare forest floor, and his hands to the burning cold sky. It was dawning on him that, every day for those years and years he spent out there... his emotions pushed him on, heavy, impulses, every now and then and yet his face stayed the same expressionless mess. It was dawning on him that he didn't know what to do. Every day that he went on along wih society, stood agains every punch, ran from the pain and hid in his forts... He didn't know what he was doing.
His days had changed drastically now, the spotlight of the dance was something stranger than sitting in the cold watching the stars and examining your room from top to bottom instead of sleeping, though not stranger than the feeling of not knowing what to do, or what was going on. His life had changed, yet he still moved by those impulses that pushed his light self to dance, to become a piece of the music itself. It seamed when they came he stoped thinking, which was strange; for him. His body was moving on its own and his mind didn't follow, all his wheering thoughts stoped for a moment. Still he looks up at the stars and is alone, just as he was before, and just as questioning... Unknowing of the world as he was then, he is now, still fallowed by dizziness and darkness though, still the same pale soft boy... The world around him changed frantically.
A scandal in Belgravia- SoundtrackPersonality
:
Lloyd has a pale personality, he is soft with his reactions and silent with almost everything he does. When you look at him there is a feeling you get from him, an awkward vibe of strength and defeat all in one, an aura that makes the person near him feel more odd than not. He is slow in pace as if he is half asleep, though Lloyd is extremely intellectual he is usually seen with a blank face on, and almost always spacing out. His head is always somewhere else; thinking, thinking, thinking. The whole world is contemplatable in his view, the days that pass and the people that smile and frown at one another. Lloyd is soft with his expressions, no strong emotion comes onto his face, or even stays long enough if it somehow does get pulled onto his face. He is soft with everything he does, smooth and gentle as if whatever he touches were made of thin ice and would fracture otherwise. Though his behaviour, which is unnatural to others, seams so natural looking, as if he couldn't break a thing if he tried. He is usually described by the outer world as delicate, pale... naturally calm with his behaviour. Though Lloyd is not shy, and far from bashful or timid, he is a loner beyond compare. Most don't really know him, other than knowing his name... Actually, no one really knows him. He is alone from work to rest, sarounded by people but not near any of them, by himself, alone. Lloyd is constantly tortured by his memories of the past, and can break out of his emotionless face when they get too strong. He has gotten used to it though they make his emotions a roller coaster, each feeling sitting behind the other, one by one, in their seats, attacking him; sadness, distress, fear, on and on, to start again. His impulses are his muse, when he gets these feelings his thoughts pass away slowly to. When he gets these impulses his mind stops and his body sparks.
--
The five senses;;
Appearance:
An agile, slightly longer than usual body that seams as bendable as a feather because of his flexibility. Lloyd's body is not diminutive or scraggly, though nothing near buff. He is a little on the smaller side in a petite way, because he appears to have small graceful features, and a slender build. He has a dainty, almost fragile appearance, only increased by his usual, soft, expressionless face and the bags under his eyes from a lack of sleep. Lloyd is comparative to a flower, decorative, elegant and almost effortless. He moves similarly to something drifting on the air, graceful and unnoticeably delicate.
Voice:
A soft and wispy voice coming from a strong place in his throat. Lloyd's voice comes off as silky, as easy to listen to, with strength enough, from the throat, not to make it a whisper but instead a true voice. His tone is gentle enough that if he changed the octaves it'd seam that he's singing. Lloyds speech patterns fluctuate, start of soft and go just a little stronger, then drift back to soft in an oddly viable way. Almost like a current lapping out of the water slowly, then more, to drift smoothly back in a way that you're too distracted to realize.
Scent:
Lloyds scent is a strong mix of viola flowers and vanilla. It's subtle and relaxing, with its warm milky, and comfortingly sweet, scent. Within a room it is easily noticeable, and outside has a way of relaxing the on lookers eyes. Because of his daily doses of vanilla tea, and his flower collecting, that leaves him with a few bouquets of viola flowers all inhabiting his home, he is prone to smell like this. Violas are his favorite flowers and decorate his home profusely, no matter where you turn, you will see a small hint of that soft violet and wight flower, along with small cups filled with the remains of vanila tea. This fragrance calms him like no other, and is probably the reason why he can feel most comforted within his home.
Taste:
Lloyd is not a fan of anything with a strong taste other than a few savory foods, like persimmons and pomegranate, which he adores having. His tastes are lackadaisical and routine, though he has rarely any fear of trying out a new food, though the results may end up badly. Sweet things don't count as out of Lloyds interest, considering he has a sweet tooth. It isn't a large sweet tooth, though Lloyd has one, it mostly goes towards naturally sweet things like fruits, maple syrup and vanilla. Because of his poor home style he rarely was accustomed to anything with a great or overwhelming amount of flavour, other than a few natural foods, and now is very sensitive to such strong things, to say the least. His old family life left him with some odd snack preferences, a small snack he has most often, that others find wierd, is hazelnuts and flower pollen, which are just soft enough for his liking.
Touch:
Cursed with an oddly smooth touch, Lloyds fingers have a way of gently going through or against anything, the frailest of items won't break in his hands. Considering he has handled soft snow, and easily breakable ice all of his life a smooth touch is expected, along with the fact that every day he primly cares for the flowers littering his house. He moves in such a gentle way, so it is expected that if he is to bump into you it would feel like a brush of wind, soft and smooth but surprising. Just as reserved as his expression stays his sense of contact is the same, almost like a ghost at times, you may not even notice his presence or his touch if he were to lightly tap or breath.
- - -
Past events
Stories:
[I never had enough time to finish this story. ;u; So i'm sorry if it's confusing. The next one is finished though.The day Lloyd was born was a stormy blizzard of a day, hectic. It started when darkness grew over the village like a continuous algae, the pale wight clouds wild drifters in the dark, the blizzard eating at his home town like a monster out for revenge. Way back when his parents were still madly in love, and the village was still deafeningly shadowed, though all still the same cruel one minded society, a cooing babe made his way into the world, the wind howling outside his window. "We'll name him something darling," back when his mothers voice was still soft and she still stroked her babies cheek like it was a fragile jewel. "Something special," when his fathers voice wasn't just a scary triumphant declaration of hate, turned just to hurt him, with such a bite. "What of Lloyd, it means gray.." When the snow whirl winded as it always had. "And also; shades of brown. For hoping the boy that seams like one colour is secretly many more." A name fit for hoping, a baby with a lot on his name and no sense of reality as it rested listening to the world outside. The snowflakes danced far away from him, yet he looked like he could just about become one in that hushed night. He'd wake up with pale eyelids, gray eyes looking up at the sky, from lonely home windows and from a snowy cool landscape littered with tree, fom day one. Of course, his home only had warm weather for maybe one month, rarely two... Even when the times came to Autumn, Summer or Spring there was still cold air and chilling strong snow. He'd always seen snow, ever since he was a toddling babe, old enough to explore the coolness that sarounded him. He still had memories of going out in the cold, kicking at the snow with excitment and watching it all fall down. And memories of watching by the window that was locked tight, watching the blizzard dance for him. Yet he had no memory of who had given him that old scraggly teddy bear that he always used to drag around, ever since he was four. That is... until he turned eight. It had been impossible to get it away from him, when he wrapped it in a small blanket, the soft gray old thing, and snuggled it under his arms, every day it followed him like a dog on a leash. Then a letter arrived for him, with a return address, no name and just a wavering, crinkled piece of paper with soft small words, making up less than a paragraph. "My boy, I don't think you remember me. I am the man who gave you that gray bear you have. I am your uncle from far away, and it is doubtable you remember my name. I can't be sure you still remember the silly old thing I made for you, or me for that matter, but my boy I hope it means something to you." And he, he had sent back a letter, with paper stolen from his father. After one soft dreary month. "Why did you give me it?" A soft small letter with a return address, making up less than a paragraph, with awkwardly written eight year old words and nothing more. It took half a month for him to know, half a month until the letter could be taken. "My dear boy, what a silly question. I gave it to you because I am your uncle, I love you as an uncle should. I used to see you feverishly when you were just a babe, and when I had to move far off I made it, that gray bear, for you to have something of my rememberance." -Scent of the teddy bear, a secret compartment with something he can hide inside that Lloyd he didn't know existed
a snowflake.
My life is a trepidation of snowflakes dancing
He held the book, arms crossing them close to his chest, and stared at the shop
Maybe uncle had sent him a letter today, was it the middle day of the month yet? Twice a month he spoke to his uncle. He had become more than someone who Lloyd had never seen except in blurry childish memories of his four year old self. No, he was a caretaker, even if he lived miles away and spoke to him curtiously, with caring words, over nicely folded parchment papers. He still took care of him somehow, a lucid form of giving wisdom to the swaying thinker. And a small doll or figure or stuffy, that his heart would silently cling to, that would litter his room just as all the others.
His fur glistened in the sunlight, just like if it was snow. Just as it had always done. He turned his head up and stared up at the sky, the wight sparkles falling onto the ground around him like they was unbeatable, like they covered the whole world. With strong breathes, just to see the wight fumes in front of his eyes, he raised his hands to feel the cold material on his them. Home was close and as he passed by the trees, the old forest that he loved so much inhabiting so many scraggly pines and bushes, they seamed to welcome him with their swaying in the wind. His forts rested there, in multiple numbers large wight snow castles to hide in, secrets only he knew about.
Lash
He had always been thinking of ma and da, once his uncle sent him a letter that told him of a wonderful book called; 'Poor family, abusive family, no family' along with this note, written in the most curvaceous cursive "Dear Lloyd, I suggest a book on the standpoint of a life similar to a few I knew, some that I still know." Ma and Da always talked, always made noises and yells. On and on their voices would go until he wanted to cover his ears and hide away, to scream and wish for their hysterics to go away.
Many stuffies inhabit his home--
Uncle owned a toy shop, made stuffies and figures... Sent some to him every year... He's kept everyone of them since he was a child
"It's always cold here. The winter air chills me.."
His uncle sent him a letter, "What is your favorite thing about winter"
Secretes a special liquid that makes fur shine and sparkle-- genetics
Bridge
Treated
Ravenous
--
Story of my feathers-
It was warm, pulsing and warm, bruised up and still bleeding. His top lip twitched, it dripped of the red liquid that found its way down towards it. The river of blood only reached that far, his dry lower lip didn't feel the push of the red liquid, though it did feel the constant, finicky, pressure of his tongue running across it, a nervouse continuous habit he couldn't help. Each, almost dead seaming step, made small flicks of blood fall off his lip. Behind every deep treaded crunch a small splatter of red fallowed, the whole brown path seamed like it had been nothing but marked by him. Infront of him his breathes left clouds and hazed up his soft vision. He treaded the path like no time had gone by, yet the seconds felt like minutes and each minute like an hour in that cold forest. He stood there for a moment, dizzily leaning on a tree, looking as weak as a child, and taking soft breathes. His eyes were closed, the the gentle brush of the wind through the trees, up against his fur, and the few chirps of the birds, the only things that made him sure he wasn't unconscious just yet. He didn't remember feeling this messed up when he ran away from the school, a bloody mess. Ice packs, ice packs.. Ice packs, the pain was so hard to forget when all he could think about was it, and ice was all around them in these parts. But far behind his home, in his many snow forts there was material, material that he could fill with ice and press to his throbbing face, without leaving on marks of ice and frozen black stones. With watery eyes he whiped at his face with a certain gentleness, waiting for the bleary energy to ebb away. Of course it didn't soften nearly as quickly as he would have liked, so he rested there. His back arched inward as he leaned on the tree, until he slid down its side with the rough bark leaving scratches in his flesh. The mists of drowsy senses emennated from him, stronger than the blood. And he mite have fallen asleep if not for a soft noise in the distance. A scratchy voice chirped, and above on a tree a black crow fluttered away, the noise of it's wings, brushing against the wind, echoing against the trees.
The tree in front of him, standing tall, made him dizzied, though he caught sight of something, up high in the branches of that tree that was much taller than the one against his back, high up there he saw something fall. Something that caught his eye and fallowed it down. The winds pushed by him, his eyes closing gently, though opened to glance up at what he had been fallowing. Again the wind called through the trees, echoed as it passed, and a little black feather fell from the branches... and dropped onto the ground with no noise. The cawing subsided, another feather falling like a flake over top of him. Those black feathers fluttering to the ground, how magical...
-------------
Listen to me- Xxx xxXExtras:
Fears-
"There is nothing to fear but fear itself.
"- Lloyd has consistent bouts of nightmares and a sence of discomfort when it comes to sleeping, ever since he was young he has had this fear; Hypnophobia, to fear sleep. Though maybe the discomfort now comes from the memories of being in his old room, laying in his bed and instead of sleeping examining the room and the world outside so that he didn't have to sleep. The hidden place near the forest where all his old snow forts sat, for so many years never let him go to rest distressed. He'd always find he'd slept dreamlessly there, but no where else gave him that relaxation or well-being.
Quirks-
"I'm an oddity of one, my strangeness too complicated to explain or share."- Slow eater, takes every bite with care to taste it rightfully.
- Always contemplating life, thinking 24/7 about anything, about why true questions seam so hard to understand, why others don't realize the things he does, why thy live in this society, why is it all so unsustainable and dirty... Everything.
- Owns many figures and stuffies, all inhabiting his home, mainly his room. It's his, sort of, collection because his uncle sent them to him for years, before he died that is, all hand made and he adores them dearly, in a way others would no understand.
Flaws-
"falter, flicker, and fall.
"- Has an over thinking life complex
- Has a strong fixation, an undoubtably attachment to the things his uncle has given him
- Frail
- Can be pretty indecisive
- Sensetive to very strong things
- Spacey
- Delicate
Skills-
"To be good, to be great, to be natural.
"-Agile
- Fluid
- Calm in almost all situations
- Gentle touch, voice, scent
- Flexible
- Observant
- Easily adapts to situations
