Name: Ares Deimos
[Ares; God of War-- Deimos; A name to mean fear, terror]
The green leaf tainted with brown--- and so covered by brown paint, as to stay hidden.
Ares lives within a dark forest, surrounding the ruins of his old home. A castle, within a town full of strangers he never truly could understand, once ruled by the tyrant he was to call "father". Before the earth slid and put them all into the hands of death.
---
Sinking in deeper
And deeper
[right]Into the earth
There is something odd, almost cruel about Ares, an ironic connection to both his first and last name, just because he adorns his head with lovely little leaves it does not mean he is an angel. More like a pawn of nature itself.
He may have a sweet smile but so does the devil if it's painted on the right way. Ares fallows his own beat like a crow calling to all the people below, in scattered voices, hard to pin point... Easy to notice in all their dark feathered, special voiced perfection. His appearance is perfection, it is that of his mothers. Though, it is a freighting halt there on afterwards.
His outwardly appearance is only contrary to what is within. It is completely and utterly the opposition, his appearance is the enemy at the other line, firing canons at his personality, shooting blind insults; Let them mistake me for you...
Me, an angel and
you, a deamon.
Outside a beautiful fire of flower sits, covered in an allure they'd call royal. He let's them beleive what their own minds may manifest, from the early hours of dawn to the sun setting moonlit nights [Though he never knew when those where, just that they happened.] If they wish to see someone so lovely, with a touch similar to soft sunrays and a voice that floated on divine, let it be so.
When the time is right they will see what is true, when it's the most advantageous. Like a little plant sits and is bent by the winds control he let's them bend who he is. Their visions of him as he's sits, just like the people's as they watch little daisies wave in the forces of the wind.
It is not faking, it is just letting them think what they may, envisioning, off first sight, who he may be... That is their fault.
What created such a boy, such a man...
There are things you never understand about life. Everywhere someone is to look there is bustling and hustling and... Do they ever stop? 

Time is a creation of imagination, and unrealistic. It counts down everything we do, similar to the drawback of a ticking bomb, and that is why Ares fears it so. Though only in secret.
Just thinking about how it counts down everything that is being done--- Faster, faster, you won't make it...--- Creates the feeling that he'll not reach the end of the racetrack in time.---
If you don't make it, then, what are you?--- Never reach the end of the racetrack in time.---
Time is ticking away and you haven't done anything worth of value.--- It creates a solid depression within in, the feeling of dry concrete formed into a perfect circle within his throat, rippling up and down as he loses breath.---
You'll die without accomplishing anything. How could you when time is passing by so fast, and you are going so slow?--- His anxiety rises at the single thought of it, every grasp of air like ventilation systems.---
Every /tick/ moment /tock/ you /.../ run /tick./[/center]
It is the reason he wears leaves upon his fur. Every since his mother died, after his life had trampled on him, this was the only way to be dead without dying. Keep foliage all over him, like the ones placed upon the dead, it is his coping mechanism for the enevitable. It is the closest he will get to death and the only way to stay connected with his mother who died in her cell... oh, excuse me, her
room covered in the petals of clean, brighter than life, green yet dabbling into the dark browns of death, leaves, just a few stained with blood, overtop her mouth.
It is in his mind that if he stays far within the thorn thickets and sleeps sarounded by his flowers and leaves and their sarrounding roots that even the flickering nervousness that time brings with it's every passing secound will be diminishing. That if he get's this close to death without touching it, aquantances with memories of each others habits, then the passing won't be such a surprise or sad, which is good for him.
but he still shakes and trembles at the thought, the mention, the inclination of time. He fears that with the way time races circles around him, around all of them, that he will be left behind in it's whake, only smoke and dust to breath. His fear of time is his soft spot, the way to make him fall and crumble, become brittle to the point of breaking, the way to torture him, show the fragile delicacy of a true daisy. Or rather it's because he can't leave, the reason.... the buzzing fear is a bitting creature on his ankles, it sinks him down and drowns him. What is lonelyness? Time is too much of an eraticating thing. It is his weak point, his acheles heal, the only way to get into the hay stack and find the needle, to find anything truly within him that isn't an instant pawn.
---
Goodbye mother
Within a bed of thorns a child was born, small and blanched by the big world around it. Subtle squeals filled the air and as the forests, cricket sarounded, silence wandered in so did his silence.
Why was he here? Well, that was simple. His father was a tyrant, she wanted to... She hoped she could get away, for the sake of her baby. It would be wishful thinking to say that she died right then and there, peacefully. No, she was not so lucky the poor girl. Only wanting to do good for her young child she kept on going.
But at 12 o'clock the bells tolled and footsteps stampeded in like horses. Within the dark thicket, sarounded by deep black thorns and genteel little foliage, the young girl, the poor girl, was taken away... And with her baby she traveled back to the distant lands she had hoped to lose far behind her.
It would also be wishful thinking to say that she had escaped, she did not. Unless death counts as escapement. He has only faint memories of her. She was a scrawny woman, youthful... Just a little too young but he didn't know that. Her lovely innocence accompanying her beauty like the clouds to the sky.
He would touch the bars from one side and she from the other, their fingers held together in a way that felt like forever encased in just momentous seconds, floating off in a bottle that could make you waver on hope and just hold your breath.
He barely saw her, but they held hands. No one holds his hands now, he won't let them. Every time that they saw each other they held onto each others hands and smiled. "So, how are you my darling? Learning your A B C's like a big boy I presume?" She was street, yet she was intelligent enough to fit the concord houses. Though, she didn't need intelligence, as glorious as it was. She needed brute, harsh handed, strength. Something which she could not get. Did not get.
"My love, if you frown I will have to frown too. Do you want momma to frown?" She knew how to entice him. Whenever something had to be heard, she, at the end of her bars leaned over the cold metal like it wasn't there and stared at him, touched his face... Said something just right in her soft voice, and he complied fully.
When she died foliage; dasies, leaves, blossoms and buds, wereput upon her body, their people did this for everyone. After death, as you leave the sprinkling of daisies and leaves, something so easy to find within their dark ground, was tradition. Something to not be broken. The room was tall, she died right there, barred windows and doorway, a large enough rosette bed with roses as decourations, cement walls and flooring and a little closet like thing. Oh so cold.
First there was blood, and coughing... A lot of coughing. She bent over, then she fell back. She held onto only one thing, one little teddy toy her son and her shared, switched off every day that they could see each other. A little brown thing, a great lack of fluff yet still soft, on his stomach a little heart, that when pressed just the right way opened up a teeny little pocket.
He had grabbed it from her hands, hugged it tight and fallen asleep with his head on her corpse, wishing her chest would rise. At least that had been merciful, a quick enough death and a smile on her face. She'd watch over him, they both knew.
Leaves patterned his flesh like markings, they did not care if it was alive or dead the thing they threw their delicate foliage onto. That was the first time he had been marked by those plants, but thoughtfully not the last. He had cried and cried, screamed and yelled... then finally smiled at her beautiful, innocent, youthful face, darling face and kissed it. "It's good... You didn't frown, or I would have frowned too..." He gulped, in silence. And as if he was a mature adult he had stood, dancing lovely green leaves onto her body, his thin fingers moving overtop of the air like a beetle or a butterfly, sighed shakily and walked away.
It was miserable, pitiful, lovely.