self indulgent 049 headcanons
He always wraps his feathers away to the point of it becoming a habit. It started as a way to protect his feathers ( and a way to hide them ), however, whenever he got to Earth, it became a habit.
He remembers Yolanda's height exactly. No her face with any great clarity, as centuries have away of softening details, but her height remains precise. She came up to his shoulder.
He has never worn a different style of glove ( with the exception of one specific century ). It has always been leather/pleather black gloves that end at the middle of his forearm.
He dislikes modern books, preferring more aged, medieval manuscripts. Of course, this is not because of anything related to knowledge, but simply visual preference. Modern books have pages that are too white, too thin, too disinteresting.
He sometimes reads with his finger trailing beneath lines of text, especially if he is multi tasking with something.
There are moments where, after curing, he has a pang of something. He tells himself its not guilt, as guilt implies error - but an echo of something he has since amputated out of his work. He ensures it passes, but if he is honest with himself, the feeling is beginning to linger longer and longer with age.
His dry wit is unintentional, however, occasionally, he does deliberately try to be funny. An understated sentence around what he deems worthwhile company is the highest he will do.
His notebook has been with him since he'd been on Earth. The binding has been replaced three times so far, remade with his own hands.
Inside his notebook is notes upon notes piled on each other, the earliest pages being so annotated they are nearly illegible, ink layering over ink. He has never shown anyone these pages until he was captured by the Foundation.
Sleeps oddly - sitting upright, back straight against whatever surface is available, hands folded in his lap. Less like a man and more like a figure.
He dreams vividly and remember none of it when he wakes up. Nightmares of tar and rotten flowers he does, but does not record them.
Physical contact from others directed at him makes him barely flinch. It's not from aversion, but more like unexpectedness. He has spent centuries being the one who reaches and acts - the reversal of the dynamic makes him short-circuit before he composes himself.
He respects ravens, but finds a sort of companionship with crows. You can guess why.
He thinks in Latin - specifically, medieval Latin. It's the first language he first articulated what the Pestilence exactly was, so it remains the language he articulates with to talk about what it is.
He doesn't exactly dislike being wrong, however, he does file away evidence and contradictions, moving on from it. It's the intellectual equivalent of plugging cracks in a dam.
His cursive writing is a holdover from his time in Alaggada. He finds the blocky, standardized typefaces of modern papers boring, and frankly, an affront.
He has a strong olfactory memory. Certain combinations of scent pulls him backwards through time with visceral immediacy that thought alone couldn't produce.
With the above in mind, he associates lavender specifically with mass graves. He finds it difficult to explain why he finds it calming with such association, but it does.
His quality of patience isn't tranquil. It's more like someone that has watched centuries unspool and concluded that very little is actually urgent. What looks like serenity is more like cultivated stilled, because the alternative ( ragged, desperate urgency of watching people die and die and die- ) was not something he could sustain and still function.
He has never addressed his grief properly, instead burying behind his work. No one has yet successfully convinced him to address said grief.
2087
kianamaiart
stormborns
areudirty
dededos
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
