From far away, Matador is not so remarkable. Tall, yes, but what's the fuss about? Dark hair, light skin, a bunch of scruff, and let's be honest - he doesn't dress himself all that well. The fact is that he doesn't dress himself at all (that would be his mother's doing, and her sense of fashion is blind, deaf and dumb). You might remark upon the curl of his hair, that he looks trim and young, but these things are not so unusual in District Two, where most boys his age work in the mines.

The real beauty and puzzle of Matador is up close. It's his glossy, paler-than-the-sea eyes. In the sharp slope between his cheekbones and his chin. It's the very gentle, long curve and abrupt ending of his nose. And you would have to accept these things, to find them handsome, if anything about him is attractive. Because this is not a man who showcases his ripped body, this is not a man who smiles. You must like gravitas to find him attractive.

Some do. It's not really of much concern to Matador either way. Sometimes he does try a little harder with his appearance, sets his brows together, purses his lips. These are intimidation techniques though; he would never deign to try to make himself actually look hot. What a waste of time that would be.

Love him, or leave him, take him or break him. Matador has no use for the vast majority of people. Women, especially. It's not that he's attracted to men (not like that), but he can't imagine having so many inane thoughts at once. Mostly, his thoughts focus on the next task at hand, and he really does think about things that way, not as a metaphor. Matador is very tactile, exploring the world with his hands - his fingers, his palms, his fists. If he can't feel it, can't touch it, he's not likely to understand it.

Which is why he usually makes up part of the strong arm portion of an operation. He's not built to be a bulldozer, but there's a grace to him when he fights, and a total lack of emotion. He can absent himself from any situation, watch himself from afar, see his punch connect, watch as the flesh ripples back. It's all a sort of experiment to him, cold as cutting stone.

This also happens to make him an excellent lackey. He doesn't have the ambition to rise above his station; that was beaten out of him years ago in the bowels of the earth. He's content going along, by day mining, by evening being whatever he needs to be. A thug. An interrogator. A follower. As long as he has a job, Matador is content. Thusfar there has been nothing in this world that has made him rise above that emotion. He might not even recognize happiness if it slapped him.

Matador does take pride in one thing - his clever mind. He may not have the sharpest wit, but present him with a puzzle, and he can find he best solution, even if it is slow and ponderous. He is lazy about many things, but when it comes to riddles or games of cards, he will work hard. Otherwise, you might have to prod him to get him to leave his home.

Taurus was born the last of five Caelum children, and the only boy. His four elder sisters pampered him, as did his parents, which wasn't a very good start to life. He has always been used to getting his way. School was a rude awakening; there were other boys in his class, of course, and many of them were larger and more suited to the work of District Two. From exalted to beaten, Taurus learned the way of the world from his classmates.

He also picked up his nickname, Matador, sometime in his third year. He'd been plenty used to losing fights, but then the tables turned. He applied what he learned in school and from the other bullies to attack with speed, and found himself a rather able, if vicious, little brawler. Matador stuck, even though no one really knew the origin in the word, just the meaning within context. He found an equilibrium with the other kids, even as his teachers liked him less and less. It was clear that Matador was intelligent, but beyond lazy. He never cared a whit for his education, except that which he could use against others.

At sixteen he went into the mines, as was the case with so many others. It was harder on him though, not because he so loved the sun, but because he knew exactly what sort of terrible fate working inside a mountain was. His calculated the shortest routes, took the easiest shifts, and generally snaked his way through his time. But no matter how smart Matador was, inevitably the time down there took its toll.

Only a year later the effects are obvious. Stone dust in the lines of his hands, his nails broken, his muscles coiled and defined. This is not who he was meant to be, although he doesn't really know if there's any place for him. He's constantly looking for a way out, even if that way is straight to the Detention Center.

My Death Eater for Rosetta's plot <3