NAME: Kenya

AGE: 5 years
GENDER: Female
EYE COLOR: Gold

APPEARANCE: 32” in height, 120 pounds, slender build, and dark chocolate in color with a black mask

IMPRINTABILITY: Yes
OOC: Kate
HAVE YOU READ THE RULES? Yes
WHAT IS OUR REQUIRED WORD MINIMUM? 200
HOW DID YOU FIND US? Previous member
BIRTHDAY: June 19

SAMPLE: He didn’t want to think, not when the lure of oblivion was slithering around in his veins. Pinpoints of aching pulse in his pale wrists and just under the edge of his sharp jaw, a direct line to the dying heart lodged in his chest. He is still made from bird bones, translucent skin – his veins a patchwork in blue. In as time passed not much changed about the Frenchman except that he is a bit more haggard, a little less careful at times when he is especially remorseful. He is still very much the boy that she would remember with his cigarettes and snarling lips, those awkward hands that were always a little too cold – that strange way he stares without meaning to and then admits it all the same. If anything he has become better at manipulating those he cares most about, turning ruthlessly into his father with each day that passes.

Three years had come and gone, slipping from between his fingers like smoke – fluttering away never to be seen again. Three years and what did he have to show for it? A trail of mangled hearts and wounds that still needed to be licked, he’s always been a dog, after all. But there was still something like hope in his dark stare, as though he believed that someday the clouds might break just for him; yet, he also knew that hope was pointless because people like him didn’t get second chances. He had thought about her a handful of times since they had last seen each other and was always an island to him, untouched by his hurricane so that he could take refuge in the idea of her – when he was lonely and sad and bitter from all the things he had done, Gael could think about Hannah.

Because she never once thought badly of him and she never once seen the wolf in his gaze, she simply let him be whatever it was that he wanted to be. She was there when he wanted something to remind him that not everyone was bad – but then she was gone without so much as a goodbye. Swept out from under him so quickly that he had not had time to beg her not to leave and he wonders quite often, if given the chance, would he have asked her to stay? Lately she had not been on his mind, he had thrown her in the closet with the rest of the monster from his life – his mother, Ivet. There was no reason to keep them cluttering about in his thoughts, it was too dangerous.

So he is at the bar, a usual bar – a bar with smoke and the scent of wood on the air. A bar that does not exactly suit him altogether with his messy hair, his jumper with the holes in the sleeves for his thumbs and along the hem line. He is out of place and absolutely does not care, tucked away in some lonesome corner without a care in the world other than the drink sitting in front of him – dripping on the sleek counter, so sleep that he can see his face in it and makes him sick to his stomach. He takes another swig before he reaches into his pocket, he needed a cigarette, something to help numb the itch in his fingertips. He’s gone crazy from the rejection lately, he’s begging to be noticed – to be taken in.

But he doesn’t know what happens exactly, when her voice whispers into his ears. He sucks in a deep breath of smoke and sputters, coughing clouds with a fist to his chest; it feels so much like dying that he resigns himself to the fact. At first he does not want to tilt his face in her direction, he is afraid, so very afraid that his addled state is playing tricks on him; he cannot wish; he cannot want. She is a ghost and nothing more.

Yet, she says his name.

Like a thousand waves crashing, like water over smooth stones – bells and chimes and tinkling sounds that are innocent. He pinches his cigarette bitterly between his long fingers as he turns to look at her and the sight of her standing there, real and alive and untouched, is almost more than he can take; it churns acid noisily in his stomach, he grits his teeth, scratches the stubble along his chin. Gael wants to so badly be the sly young man she had known three years ago and yet, with every second that passes, he knows that it cannot be so. He is not the same, as much as his appearance might say otherwise. No, this Gael is broken and condemned and hated – he is not simply an heir with daddy issues, some lonesome traveler looking for companionship as she might remember. There is something flat in his hazel eyes.

“You never wrote,” it comes out of him before he can stop it and then he takes a drag from his cigarette as if it would punctuate his point. There is a lump in his throat, he is unsure of what to do next because he had not expected to feel this way – bitter and excited and confused. He tilts his head, a dark curl falls into one of his eyes. “I didn’t know where to send letters,” is what he tells her as he picks up his drink and consumes what is left, implying that had written letters when he knew that he hadn’t. He hadn’t even tried.