Vespasian Nero Minix - District 7 [DONE]

i.
Domine sancte, te rogamus liberare nos inducas in tentationem
sed non miserearis animae peccantium
iudicati sunt et comburam

|| Breathe Deep And Let Go ||

|| With Eyes Wide Shut ||

With the face of one fallen, Vespasian could easily garner sympathy from the kinder souls of the district. Short, spiky hair mussed up in every direction, the left portion of his scalp is drier and thinner than the fairly thick tufts sprouting from the opposite side. Oily and always covered in sawdust from the workshop's endeavors, it leaves the vast majority of his forehead exposed and his slightly misformed ears that have been melted and scarred. As the length is barely enough to run his fingers through, it's almost impossible to style it so the strands aren't standing on end, as if one has pumped him full of static electricity.

What we refer to was at the very beginning of his recovery. He has since made differences. Most notable is that his left eye has henceforth been removed, now a charred socket that gapes emptily out into the world. On the other face, a single charcoal eye is revealed with an almond shape, betraying his slightly Arab heritage. They show sadness when he blinks; the eyelid a scarred, bumpy mass and the eyebrows only now beginning their warped appearance back into the world.

Though it has shrunk in recent weeks, the slightly inflated hunk of tissue known as his nose has been shifted beyond normalcy. On the west side it is a mass of scarred flesh and numb skin, tendrils of the puffy tissue creeping over in tendrils to rope over the less-damaged area of their reverse side. It continues down to relatively untouched lips, though the affected portion has trouble pulling upwards into a rare smile that graces the boy's face. Inside it exposes small teeth that have not yet been all lost and a charred tongue that flops helplessly inside a pink mouth to impede speech into slurred, sometimes incoherent lines.

The skin that is stretched over his body has two sides. One is slightly abnormal; paler than usual in places, sickly looking, bumpy and ridged. But compared, mostly unscarred and fit for public viewing. Yet, another story places out on the nubile flesh of his left side - full of broken markings and raw wounds that have since healed over into ugly patches that surround his eyesocket and pull down to his cheek and over his jaw. Not even a beginning of an eyebrow is sprouting along the fine ridge of his brow - the fact that his mop even grew back is a blessing unto itself. Though the temple is still a little singed, the flat expanse pulls up to a wide forehead that mirrors the rest of his face; split in two as it is. His cheeks are slightly bloated in recovery and seem to retain that stature, despite being thin as most are in District Seven. With a snub chin and deformed ears, he's the perfect example of taken innocence.

|| Temptation Of The Flesh ||

Though his face might be something akin to a Capital tragedy, his body had mostly escaped the inferno's wrath. Pale, peeling skin is absent here, instead showcasing the typical sun-kissed color from his time outside and his natural Arabic heritage. Only the left side of his neck, sitting directly under his ravaged jaw shows significant scarring and disfigurement. With fragile bones much like a bird, Vespasian's neck holds a sunken, not yet enlarged Adam's Apple and seems to almost appear in the hollow of his throat. Cradled by a thin collarbone that seems to strain from it's fleshy confines, it makes way for slight shoulders the same honey tone as his neck.

As the lungs rise and fall, so too must the chest. While perhaps a mirror of his face, the repercussions here aren't nearly as severe. Only a slight shift in color accompanied by wavy, wrinkled patches of skin alert you to the fact that it was once burnt black and oozing. With flanks that are covered only by a small layer of rapidly diminishing baby fat, it's not only the counting of ribs that alert you to the fact that the boy doesn't eat. Indeed, the spindly quality of his arms shows his overall poor health, with non existent biceps with differing skin shades and ragged knuckles where the flesh has seared off and subsequently come back tougher. His nails are warped from the heat, tapering off from trembling fingers that touch the word with scarred palms.

A narrow back with a colorful myriad of separate patches accompany the winding expanse of his spine; red, brown, white. None escape this canvas of human body. Shoulderblades that stand stark against his scrawny frame and never seem to sink into the background, Vespasian has adopted a hunch that makes them stick out all the more. When it stops at his awkward boy-hips that still jerk with the uncertainty of youth, you can barely see the touch of the flames.

Little skeleton legs makes one think he could just float away. Like he'd bend in on himself and snap in two. The appendages that hold him anchored to reality are slim and hairless, burnt from the flames and not returning. While his right is relatively unharmed saved for mild sensitivity, his left is again as the rest of his port side. Damaged goods. Directly touching the floor are small child-esque feet; delicate and full of unbroken skin where what ravaged his form didn't manage to touch. Unlike his fingers his toenails are straight and true, covered by the same dusty brown tone apparent everywhere else.

|| Vanity Is A Sin ||

Vespasian, from all outer (and inner) perspectives, is male. Henceforth, it means that he doesn't particularly mind what he wears. Because of his scars he prefers long shirts with thick weave and dark colors, he will wear short if properly coerced. Despite the memories it perhaps accompanies, he hasn't yet gotten rid of the small clinic slip that the healer of District Seven gave him when they first wheeled him in, choosing to wear it to bed. Simple, loose fitting pants for his hips, only wearing shorts if the days are too hot. Until the frostbite nips at his heels, he wears his sandals that have long become ragged and worn; a present from his grandfather that he has neither time nor need to replace in the foreseeable future.

Cold rarely graces the seventh district, so the boy doesn't have any direct type of outer wear. Instead he simply shrugs on a bulky calfskin and thicker pants before trudging out to work, guessing that the swing of the ax will keep him warm. Black gloves worn thin are sometimes added to this ensemble, but only if he deems it frozen enough.

When Vespasian was released into the care of his grandfather, he was ashamed of the burnt remains of his face. So unwilling to go out into the world again, the boy's Pappi fashioned a wooden half-mask for him. It attaches to his features from a complicated mix of hooks and strings; padded with leather underneath for comfort. Once secure, it covers the left half of his face, with the hole for an eye filled in but able to be removed. Because his tongue is ruined and has trouble creating words, his grandfather instead went a step further. Now the grandchild can broadcast his moods by placing either a smile where the mouth is, or a sad slope of the lips. Most of the time, however, it remains neutral; a flat line. The eyes can also be changed accordingly.



ii.
unus dies, nos resurget ex favilla retributionem tuam e
laeta malorum perditionem
quod corrumpit animos iuventus

|| Why Must I Feel This Way? ||

and throughout his days in the seventh district
people have come and gone, but nonetruly stayed with him
save for his grandfather
who holds him tight when the nightmares of past lives becomes too much to bear

|| Please Don't Leave Me Alone Again ||

Throughout the years, Vespasian's upbringing has given way to many unique traits; both positive and detrimental to his total appearance. If you were to take a neutral trait and both purify and corrupt it, that would be the basis for his overall personality.
Having a family where you can do nothing but watch, it's no surprise that his core trait is attentiveness.

|| Needy and Empathetic||

This is one of the many forms coming to head. From his abandonment and special form of abuse as a child from his parents, Vespasian has developed a complex of sorts. If you show any sort of warmth to him, he will attach himself to you like a dog trotting at your heels. However; after a while of his constant companionship, he will grow more and more dependent on you if you allow it to form. His perception of the world around him allows the boy to leech off of others without bringing himself terribly under fire, watching their emotions and reactions of how best to proceed. Becoming alert to his surroundings also reflects on himself; he requires much attention and work. Being young and never knowing any better, he doesn't understand that one day he will have to stand on his own two feet, away from a doting grandfather that lets him get away with anything.

Being so in tune to the people around his own world, the little boy has created a sort of wavelength to the emotions of those around him. It doesn't take much to read body language or vocal expressions; he's grown used to watching the tells of his parents to see what they would do to him next. Doing this allows him to give great advice for somebody so young and nobody can accuse him of being cold and callous - quite the opposite, in fact - for he often gets overwhelmed by the bombardment of feelings that come his way.

|| Thoughtful and Manipulative||

[/size][/center]

Vespasian's favourite pasttime is people-watching. He finds the constant ebb and flow of different faces infinitely amusing, and wastes no time in finding a quiet place to hide and watch life scuttle by. Often he takes in the person's posture and expressions, turning them into his own story that he would paste onto a face. Always thinking things through before he executes them, and considering the pros and cons in a startling similarity to logic. Though he might only be twelve years of age, his features are usually twisted up into one of great thought - so wrapped up in his own ideas that he rarely stops to take in the suggestions of others.

Don't let those tragic eyes and puffed up cherub cheeks fool you. If Vespasian spies something he wants, he'll let his inferior size and superior perception trick you into falling for his charms. It's all about tuning in to the things they fall for; things that make them feel for the object of their attention. Often has he managed to snare an extra meal from a more sensitive Peacekeeper from playing the crippled victim - an added limp does wonders for the effects - or skip duties because he says that his face hurts long after it has healed. Perhaps this twist in his mind makes up for the lack of pride in his appearance?

|| Low Self-Confidence ||

[/color][/size][/center]

This is really the only trait that can't tie in to all the others. Ever since his skin was seared off, any thoughts he had to his appearance plummeted. The boy can barely look in a mirror without cringing, and he won't let anybody get close enough to his body to see the full extent of the damage. Though the mask hides the worst part, he's still ashamed of the other half that is bared to the world. Along his flesh, the arms and legs aren't nearly as bad as his face; he can be persuaded to wear shorts and a short sleeved shirt if the weather is hot and he's left with no other option. In crowds, his posture is hunched and defeated - he doesn't want to be noticed and drawn upon for inspection and analysis like so many often do.[/size]

iii.
ac si condemna proximus progenie igni
tum kyrie eleison super animabus
iis qui peccati

|| Ending Is Just A New Beginning ||

one day he hopes to love a girl
who will take him despite his numerous faults that stand in the way
she will take on Minix as her family name
and their child will be named Nero after his hero with whom he shares a middle name

|| I'm An Open Book With Many Stories To Tell ||

Up in the corner of District Seven was a little run down house. Nobody dared go near it, for the sounds coming from within was enough to scare most normal folk far away. Animal grunts, chanting and howls could be heard all throughout the night; indeed, the hellish people within seemed to slumber during the day. Foolish youth who dare each other to canvas the area would happen upon bodies of small creatures on an altar of sorts, with crosses painted in blood along the stone and the bodies torn asunder in a rage that most certainly couldn't be human. Some even said that there were glimpses of shrouded figures, cloaked in billowing robes and holding candles to the brutally desecrated flesh.

Inside this ramshackle haven you would in all seriousness find two people of most bizarre appearance. Scars all up their arms from appeasing the demons that ravage these lands unseen and hollow, sunken eyes from days of constant wakefulness, the couple of living ghosts share the family name of Minix. They met a fair time ago and connected instantly; for who except soulmates could equally hate these people and this life as much as they?

For years they created their own twisted religion - rejecting the Capitol's ideas and circling their worlds around the once loved Gods of old from whatever books they could salvage. Oh, how they admired Aphrodite and Hades, Venus and Apollo, Ares and Hermes! But though they took these powerful ancients and worshiped them by their own terms, Christianity was still prominent in the undercurrents of their cult. Zeus was replaced by a omnipotent being known as Adam. He was superior in every way, the father of mankind as they knew it. He bent Eve to his will and forced him unto her, creating the generations that now rot upon this Earth like a plague.

So opposed to life, they would sometimes sit watch for hours in the massive trees of the District, throwing rocks at anybody who would dare skirt near their precious coven. Nobody expected that one day, they would hear the cry of a newborn babe coming from that pit; they all prayed for its soul and sanity which was sure to be forfeit.

|| My First Tale Was The Most Tragic Of All ||

Born into a warped world of flawed perspectives and unforgiving gods, the child was doomed from the start. Almost instantly after he was pushed from the womb, they painted his forehead in blood with upside-down crosses and miscellaneous Latin words to symbolize his birthing into the religion. They ignored his cries and held him aloft to the skies, demanding the approval of their holy leaders. At that moment, a large streak of lightning illuminated the heavens and bathed the tiny body in translucent light - mouth open mid-scream. Followed moments later by a peel of angry thunder, they brought him back down to the ground and stared. What was it about this fleshy soul that they disliked so? As the rain began to pelt down upon the now shivering trio, the two new parents swore to do whatever it took to erase the sin that their deities saw within the child.

That was how his life was for early childhood. He was beat and whipped, yelled at and cursed. All for some misplaced sonic boom and electricity in the sky. He was named Vespasian as a constant reminder of when he was born - in a dark and stormy world. Though he was never taught any different, his way of thinking always made him challenge the ideals of all these different religions squashed up together, but never did he question it. Once he defied them in only a way a little five year old knew how 'why does Adam hurt so much?' and he was severely reprimanded by forcing him to watch the sacrifice of those fuzzy woodland creatures that he so loved to play with.

A few years ago, a stray goat had managed to stagger its way from the livestock District all the way to the outskirts of precious District Seven. The Minixs, so taken with the opportunity for a proper sacrifice, immediately strung it up and prepared to cut it. The head was rended from the body and the barreled chest split open along the middle. As a testament to how their upbringing of the child has erased all sin from his nubile flesh, they demanded that the eight year old eat the still shivering heart. Immediately he refused, staring into the goat's glassy eyes and crying openly. His father yanked it out and thrust it at him, but still he wouldn't open his mouth even under threats of brutal beatings. Now, his mother was in hysterics at this point; what child of hers won't show his devotion to Adam and the Gods? In her hysteria she grabbed the cup of oil usually reserved for the altar, and threw it on Vespasian. Moments later, a match was added to the mix and he went up in flames.

|| And My Ink Is Starting To Run Dry ||

His body burned like the crosses they so often set alight, the screaming coming from his throat like the chorus of Hell itself! Since most of the liquid had splashed onto his face it is where the blaze was centered; eating away at his skin to leave blistering holes. It is probable he would have died there if his guardian angel had not descended at the right time - his grandfather.

While this old man was unsure what he did to raise such a hateful daughter, he still loved her despite all her numerous faults. When he decided to visit them, he had no idea of the horrors that were to await him. When he heard the child's cries he immediately thought of the bloody altar and the countless animal corpses that always littered the area, and took off as fast as his brittle legs could carry him. Instead, the man - Nazbib - found the flailing body of his only grandson on the ground covered in bright orange flames, and his child and her wretched husband crying and laughing at the sight. Panicking, he doused Vespasian with water and took the broken bundle in his arms; the two adults were too busy in a manic trance to do anything but chant skyward. From there he set off to home, delivering the charred boy to the Healer of the District that did his best to minimize the damage caused.

His recovery was slow and painful, but eventually he could eat and walk without aid. The black, burnt flesh turned to swollen red, and finally scarred over into numb pink. Vespasian regains movement in his digits but lost his left eye; too poor to afford a glass eyeball, they instead used to wrap bandages around the socket. For the longest time he refused to emerge back into the world and try to socialize with regular society. In fact, the only person he would talk to was his grandfather, who adopted him as his own son. Neither of them talked about the house.

As he grew older and Nazbib gave him the wooden mask, the boy slowly re-emerged out of his shell. He discovered books and religions unlike the warped one he was forced to believe. Ever so slowly, the marks left on his mind from his parents disappeared. He now resides in the heart of District Seven, learning how to be useful after being nothing more than dead weight for the majority of his life.[/font]

|| Come See My World ||

codeword: odair
aliis: I'm not sure who the FC is.
Thank you for reading this tragic tale.
[And more than likely hearing me rage
about how evil Latin is.]
[/size][/color][/font]

[/color][/blockquote]