Tristan Beckett, Wanderer {DONE}

A daydream spills from my corked head, breaks free of my wooden neck
Left to nod over sleeping waves
Like bobbing bait for bathing cod
Floating flocks of candled swans
Slowly drift across wax ponds

( N A M E ) Tristan Jonah Beckett
( G E N D E R ) Male
( A G E ) Eighteen
( D I S T R I C T / A R E A ) Wanderer

The men all played along to marching drums
And boy, did they have fun behind the sea
They sang, “So our matching legs are marching clocks
And we're all too small to talk to God
Yes, we're all too smart to talk to God"

( A P P E A R A N C E )

It's been too long since I've seen a mirror.

The boys and I come across them on occasion, gilded frames and immaculately polished glass reflecting the darkened hallways where we do some of our best work, but it's rare for any of us to stop and gape at ourselves when there are bigger fish to fry and more valuable things to plunder. But a lifetime of fleeting glances and carefully-kept memories are enough for me to retain a decent knowledge of how I appear to others. I only have to look down at myself to remember my own build, 5'7" and on the lean side of the muscle spectrum (I was built for speed rather than power, forever my father's great personal shame that I couldn't be the hulking Career of a son he'd always wanted). Years under the sun of both District Four and now the entirety of the continent have baked my skin to a deep tan that even the winter can't seem to fade, constant exposure to the elements turning it rough and prone to calluses and dryness. My clothes haven't fared much better against the tests of the wilderness, more often than not faded and patched over in places, although I'm more than capable of snagging myself nicer outfits one one of our little... shopping trips. It's simple practicality that keeps me dressed like a pauper, and even then it doesn't matter. Carry yourself like a king and they'll treat you like one, no matter how you're dressed.

My face is something that relies more on my own memory and those momentary glances in the mirrors of the rich to be given a description. There are certain things about me that haven't changed since I last heard the roar of the ocean; angular bone structure, thin lips, a hawkish nose, wide-set hazel eyes that were cursed with nearsightedness and leave me with a perpetual squint ever since I lost my glasses Ripred-knows-how long ago. My hair's grown, though, unruly brown curls that brush my shoulders and would make my mother cringe if she saw the state of disarray I typically leave them in. The most noticeable shift in appearance, though, gleams metallic and dangerous from the place where a left hand once resided, palm roughened from work and fingers delicate and nimble. A hook wouldn't have been my first choice in all honesty, that girl tribute from One had the right idea going with her harpoon-hand, but limited resources and desperate measures more than made the decision for me. Besides, it's not as though I'm in need of a weapon when my remaining intact limb still remembers years at the training center swinging a sword around with deadly accuracy. No, as far as appearances go, it's all about intimidation, which is something I'm surprisingly good at.

I'm a product of my environment. Really, I am. It's a tried and true excuse of juvenile delinquents the world over, but its overuse doesn't outweigh its truth in any way. I'm not one to tiptoe around the facts of life (Hi, I'm Tristan Beckett. Why yes, I am holding a sword to your throat and robbing you for all you're worth. I'm a regular scoundrel, aren't I?), not one to deny things about myself that people already know. I'm a bad kid. The baddest, in fact. And unfortunately for the rest of the world, my sense of remorse died a long time ago, along with my morals and my belief that there was good hiding somewhere in the universe. After all, if you can't beat them...

I wasn't always like this, though, a prime example of a schoolyard bully gone too far. There are things at the alternate centers of who I was and who I've become that remain the same. The charisma was always there. From the time I was a toddler I realized that I had a way of making people listen to me, of getting what I wanted from them, but over the years my usage of that gift became a bit less recreational and a bit more sinister. In the end, what's a villain without henchmen? Had to round them up somehow. Even though there isn't much time for it anymore I'm still a closeted bookworm, scooping up whatever old paperbacks I stumble across on a raid and saving them to keep me company by the fire at night. There's something about the alternate worlds that draws me with an unexplained magnetism, and the times when I can be someone else and live somewhere else for even a few minutes call to me in siren song. So maybe I live vicariously through stories. It's not the worst thing I've done in my life by far.

I'm not sure how old I was when I discovered the fun in lying. It started small, a few fibs here and there to keep me out of trouble and away from the punitive force of my father's hand, but it soon grew beyond that to a force I couldn't control. Maybe it was an extension to my fantasy-lives that inhabited the pages of my books, but there was an undeniable allure to the ability to become a different person with each new acquaintance I met. New names, new histories, new identities... Lying came as easy to me as breathing, but it was far more enjoyable than that. Combined with charisma, intellect, and more than a fair dose of cunning, I was a force to be reckoned with even in my younger days.

I'll say again that I'm a product of my environment. My wrath was born of circumstance. It's one of those quietly dangerous things that simmer beneath the surface but can still be felt like waves crashing against the shore. Someone very aptly stated once that you shouldn't be worried when I yell, you should be worried when I don't because it means there's something much nastier coming. Grudges are something that have built over the years as well. I don't forgive, I don't forget, and my retribution is something to be afraid of. So maybe I'm an unsavory character. Maybe I'm a bad seed. Maybe I'm a lot of things.

People have gone as far as to call me The Boy Who Made All the Wrong Choices,