Can you give a brief description of each of the ROs? I know their names and what they look like, but who are they as people?
Hello. I sneaked past the gates of Hell (School) for a minute to hand out some more vague character descriptions, to keep you yearning. :)
She's harsh and eloquent. Brisk in getting hold of a conversation, and turning it upside down at her desire.
You can see sheer knowledge swimming behind those inky dilated pupils, covering up her charming brown eyes, flecked with spots of gold.
Her long nails brush through her hair.
Voluminous maroon locks bounce from the touch of her sharp black nails.
She flicks you a sultry smile, speaking in a suggestive tone,
She grabs a fistful of your attire, pulling you closer.
Her red lips close in on yours, hot breath awakening dormant goosebumps all over your body. In this close proximity, you can watch her long lashes flutter against her dark bronze skin.
"Cunning," she continues.
She takes her time to regard all the details of your face, eyes flitting over every part, finally ending up on your lips.
She pulls back then, pushing you away harshly, so that you lose your balance. She's tittering.
Not attempting in the slightest to prevent your fall. Merely watching you descend, hitting the ground uncomfortably.
You stare up at her towering form, hovering above you, a feral smile adorning her full lips.
She makes you feel powerless.
Just by watching. By smiling. By touching.
She shakes her mane like a lion, satisfied with the hunt. Proud of the kill.
She doesn't have to plunge her nails into your skin to assert her reign.
"And dangerously alluring," she finishes, leaving you behind in the dirt.
You only hear the sound of her ruby red dress, fluttering in the breeze, before her shadow disappears entirely.
His big hands stroke softly over fabric.
He wields the scissors in them with scrupulous skill.
His gaze is concentrated, but there's a mild hint of wonder swirling in his beautiful eyes.
The left one a mossy green, like the untamed ivy crawling up the walls of his home. Whereas a stripe of blue cuts through the right one, like a cool stream of water in a lush forest.
Excitement crawls between his ebony digits, daringly offering him to try something new, something outrageous.
Something that he will never show the world, but store deep in his own closet, concealed underneath a pile of earthy coloured garments.
Too striking for him to wear, too attention seeking.
He can't draw eyes toward him, there's nothing special to be seen there.
It would only be a mismatch of colours on him, just like his irises.
Fear shackles his hands with a tight grip, making him drop the scissors.
Why does he bother if the things he creates won't be appreciated? What does the process mean, if it's stagnant and dreary?
He picks the shears up once more, accidentally cutting his finger on the sharp metal blades.
A blotch of red glares up from the unfinished garb. Prominent. Striking.
He sets to finish the task. For his own sake only.
Sweet charity carries their voice, soft intimacy lies in their touch, and safety can be found in their embrace.
So soothing, that they could strangle you in their arms, without any alarming struggle or complain from you.
You'd simply melt further into their warmth.
Dark chocolate eyes will search for yours, tearing up with affection when they find you gazing back at them.
Brunette hair tickles your shoulders, as they lay their cheek upon it.
They're free of greed, always there to lend a hand, an ear, a word.
Never expecting anything in return.
A person so extremely caring, that they'd rather watch out for someone else, instead of taking care of their own soul.
It's quite difficult to not want to give anything back to them.
But your happiness is more than enough, they tell you. Your steadily beating heart is a song that soothes their own.
There lies grief deep within those words, plucking at your heartstrings.
They lie a hand on top of it, feeling its rhythm. Nursing its heat.
"I'm glad you're here with me," they whisper, with a smile dripping off their lips.
Though darker than usual.
The rest of the sentence remains as a barely audible movement of lips, quieter than a pin drop:
"Even though I don't deserve you."
Nonchalant and uncaring, it seems.
Though there lies passion, as well as untold stories within their songs, and the images etched underneath their skin.
A garden of Milkweed and birds of paradise wind up their arms. Quotes, lettering, critters, and silly doodles peek through their leaves.
Swallows fly a detour over their neck, wings outstretched.
Their creativity shapes whole cities, entire worlds, even.
Radiant places, filled with vivid buildings, reaching for the skies. And bustling streets, each blot of colour in them representing a person. Souls containing tall tales.
They shake their damp black hair out of their eyes, grazing the canvas with the tip of their brush in the process.
Out of annoyance from observing the invading orange line on the side of a skyscraper, now a glowing pile of rubble, extending toward the heavens.
It strikes an idea in them, their strokes picking up speed.
Do those wrecks reach for the stars?
Scrape at them, to get a taste of space dust? The Flavour of impossibility melting on their tongues.
They take a step back from the canvas, taking in a drawing, which depicts... hope, mostly. If they had to pick a word.
A reoccurring theme to be found in their creations.
And yet, whenever their dark eyes, black like ink, fall on their pieces of work after the finishing touch, there's but a pinch of yearning to be found in them.
Yearning for the world outside this town they're in, desire to lose these invisible shackles around their feet, binding them to this forsaken place.
Their hands grab the sides of the easel, throwing it to the side.
Wet paint clings to wooden flooring, as the image and restless footsteps hit the ground.
Acrylic dries on overpriced vintage clothes.
Ash hits a tray. Nicotine fills lungs.
And eyelids close reluctantly.
They look cold and brittle. Thin and tired. The bags underneath their eyes grow evermore, every day.
Development that is caused by the indifference toward concealing them.
"What for?" They'd reply, if you would ask, voice light.
Then they'd try to brush stark white hair out of their icy eyes.
Suddenly revealing their blue brilliance, surrounded by signs of fatigue, as they pluck the strands behind their pointy ears.
Knowing them, you're sure it's their way of telling you that it's alright to be tired.
It's okay to be exhausted.
They'd flick you a smile, if you'd mull over the answer. Sharp canines, usually hidden behind light pink lips, peeping through.
They're always trying to keep up a distant exterior, mysterious as the forest encircling the both of you.
Though you know well that they are as caring as can be.
Worrying deep into the night about the wellbeing of people that they love.
You can observe their deep-rooted care and patience especially well in how they tend to their father's garden.
Always patiently searching for and plucking away weeds, or assiduously watering the earth with a perfectly estimated amount of water.
With a white cloak sporting dark brown stains. Certainly one of the few times on which it isn't in an impeccable shape.
They're concerned about each being trying to prosper in such an unforgiving world. They also hold a special concern for your steady level of idiocy. Although they have learnt to become fond of it, flat out cherish it. In secret, of course.
Even so, they can not will themself to reach the same level of foolishness- dare they say 'careless freedom', as you.
For underneath the wise, hardworking, pale façade lies the mere face of a scared child.
