☠ NIKLAS AHLSTRÖM | D1 ☠ | Hunger Games: The RPG

☠ NIKLAS AHLSTRÖM | D1 ☠ Apr 16, 2015 4:39:02 GMT -5 via mobile

Post by Asteria on Apr 16, 2015 4:39:02 GMT -5

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NIKLAS AHLSTRÖM
DISTRICT ONE | SIXTEEN | MALE

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His bones are carved ivory, the skeleton sculpted into gentle slopes, eroded into sharper cheekbones, protruding knuckles that transmute into a spectrum of pastel violence. Oil-slick eyes have the rancid stare of a predatory animal on the cusp of blood, coating everything with noir consumption. Irises and pupils meld together, plaited fibers singularly holding the color of black rum. A ghost of vivid brutality, his pigment is drained, inspired by the complexions of farthest moons, his face a galaxy of small imperfections like there are stars.

His bones are a jigsaw of breaks that never did quite mend, leaving deformities and volcanoes of pain along this face if one were to press their fingers over paper skin. A once aquiline nose juts to the side and no longer curves in a parabolic arc, but simply lays flat on his face, playing with proportions. Lacking in posture but statuesque in height, his presence is neither commanding nor unknown- he is perhaps, omnipresent, his gait spectre-like. Commanding incandescence he catalyzes the otherwise mundane soul-container of flesh and blood into something extraordinarily beautiful, and simultaneously, extraordinarily ugly.

Demon – this is their radioactive insult, the word that infected and spread as a disease, repeating, branding him as an outcast, a modern retelling of a black sheep exiled from society, the a leper without a virus to spread. The poison in his youth is the antidote to his adolescence, because it’s appropriate, to an extent it’s a blessing, too. In this way, at the cost of them barricading themselves from the aberrant threat, they’re doing his work for him, providing with him the strength to amputate his ties to the mortal world upon Earth. But he’s never conformed to their predictions, never broke to their will, will never sew his lips together and vanish into a silent vigil. His spine may bend, the vertebrae fracturing, fluid replaced with blood until the red substance glazes his teeth, again becomes that familiar copper taste in his mouth.

Perhaps they are correct, he thinks- standing between a wrecking ball and a rock- perhaps he clawed his way up from hell with hands raw and skin seared crimson. Perhaps he somehow vanished so far into the human race so well he no longer remembers his immortality and reign in hell. Blue hellfire, red dwarf star. This assumption consumes his personality, his very being. He is the antagonist in his own fairytale- written with twisted ignorance, he is occult and breathing flames from chapped lips, aiming to shock.

He lives on the equation for foolish confidence, the insolent shepherd of Hellspawn standing with his posture stalwart and straight, pride that wavers off him, mingled with the hostility and the warning the growls “I will not just bite, I’ll maul you.” He is their local fallen angel; the chaste upwards turns in his lips tainted now, the innocent fascination corrupted into burning obsession, his heart closed off not to his emotions, but to the ephemeral world of humans. he dispels the illusions with the words of ghouls and torture, the unforgiving spit of ire.

A freak he may be, but for their entertainment he is not, won’t be a manic pixie to complete a boring life with adrenaline and danger. He prefers those that castigate him for his existence, calling him the Devil’s child, for at least they gift him with brutal honesty. It is rancor, or it is teenage angst, their gossip always defining him in this realm of mortality, never himself. He is the gnawing caution of his instincts, the yellow paranoia, the volcano’s eruption and the soot that comes from it. Those that believe he will not protect himself against those burdened with destroying him be warned, just as he roars at those that toy with him.

Naivety is a blessing among children; he doesn’t comprehend the shame packaged with living in a family of patchwork from how he and his sister do not look like their parents. It’s simple, it’s because they didn’t grow in their mother’s stomach like their younger sister. Ripred's little mystery, she whispers, and runs her fingers through his hair, and although for a moment his heartbeat weakens – scared, scared she’ll no longer let him cook with her or smile at him when he forgets to wipe his feet off at the door – his fear relaxes because she loves him and father loves him too. That’s why their patchwork family isn’t a voodoo doll, but a beautiful quilt.

He is young, too young, when he first sights a ghost. Billowing, black fabric falls over narrow shoulders, eyes hollow sockets and teeth raptorial, black veins of tar and the tart taste of blood on his tongue.

Real monsters stop scaring him. The anxiety, the horror, it fades within him, where he replaces it with brazen courage and hunger pangs, obsessed with the books as old as time, along with the tombs he recovers from the public library; mythology books with tears in their pages, grimoires coated with dust – books he won’t wholly understand until years from now, but he reads, he tries to understand, and he begins to snarl at any adult who tries rips him from the world he discovered. He walks around the district constantly, trying to catch another glimpse of another ghostly figure, chasing poltergeists from towering homes- people who almost don't believe what is happening to them. He hands you a card; printed in cursive:

NIKLAS AHLSTRÖM
AMATEUR GHOST HUNTER
ENQUIRE AT AHLSTRÖM MANOR
THANK YOU
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