Post by dulcets1 on Nov 11, 2012 5:06:56 GMT
beauty is not caused. it is.
FARIS KAIF MIRZA
faris. nineteen. male. pansexual. faerie. neutral. dulcets.
FARIS KAIF MIRZA
faris. nineteen. male. pansexual. faerie. neutral. dulcets.
ugly. he's hyper aware of the word, trickling down his spine, ghosting at the back of his neck. it's what his first had called him. his mother said that they all remember their first.
she'd been fearful of him until he fed on her, until he'd let the fear pour down his throat like ambrosia. she was beautiful, and back then, he still loved beauty in its purest form, loved how ephemeral humans were. it's surprising, really, how often the coldest emotions are associated with the brightest beauties. diamonds with cores of ice.
after he fed, he looked her in the eyes, searching for something - even now, faris is unsure what exactly - and amid the after-feeding haze that he was familiar with, something flashed there: disgust. ugly, she'd whispered, ruby lips slack. faris recoiled as if she'd spat poison at him and backed away swiftly as she slumped against the wall, blonde hair in disarray, expression dazed and vacant in the way many humans are after being drained.
ugly, he'd murmured to himself later that night when he let down his glamour and touched his reflection in the mirror with gnarled hands that were so different from his normal ones. his face was no longer young or clear or beautiful; it was warped and disfigured, more monster than man, and he'd shoved the mirror with more power than he knew he had, horrified by what he'd seen there.
it didn't end there though. for some reason, the woman's words stuck in his mind, embedding deeply within the essence of his soul. things about his life that had satisfied him earlier no longer applied; he flinched when he saw his parents, his siblings. his mind beat a staccato refrain: uglyuglyugly. faris soon found solace in other places, outside of home. he spent more time in the company of humans, other supernatural creatures that perhaps had once believed in faeries but no longer did. it was easier, then, to keep the glamour and make believe at some sort of beauty in himself. faris grew more and more disconnected with his family, withdrawing to his room - now mirrorless, for fear of catching sight of who he truly was, what he truly was - until the only time he spent with his family was the passing of them in hallways. faris would barely look at them.
he was thirteen.
when faris was fourteen, he ran.
it wasn't a spur of the moment decision, but it was one tinged by naivety and stupid youthful optimism. faris believed - truly believed - that he could be on his own, that he could live roaming the streets and away from his warm bed, his warm household. he didn't need his mother, or his father, or his sisters; he was capable - more than capable - of taking care of himself.
all it took was a brief touch of metal to send him to his knees; he returned home dejected and in cuffs that chaffed at his wrists, burned them. even after they were off and faris had been reprimanded by his teary mother, he could still feel the burn, the energy leaching from his limbs.
they asked him why he ran, why wasn't he happy there with them, what did they do? faris didn't say anything, just cast his eyes downward at his hands - if he closed his eyes, he could almost see them as he wanted to - until his mother sighed exasperatedly and ran fingers through her hair.
i don't know what you want from me, she'd said quietly, sounding on the verge of tears, and faris looked up, looked her straight in the eye.
you can't give me what i want, he'd told her before excusing himself from the room.
since then, he and his family have been in all sorts of fragmented peace; his mother refuses to speak to him except for the most perfunctory of statements, and likewise, he keeps to himself. he can't understand how they can live like this, live in such squalor appearance-wise when there's so much beauty out there, away from prying eyes. faris is neither here nor there with the stirrings in the underground; he's more or less indifferent, except that he fears for himself and his kind if humans were to know they exist, in which case his glamour would become useless.
faris also has a habit of creating new additions to his body with his glamour through tattoos; he constantly gets new ones, though of course he can't get them through traditional means; instead, he simply magicks them onto his arm. the effect is nearly instantaneous; faris is branded as a deviant, someone who flaunts the rules, and he's pleased that almost everyone he meets doesn't suspect him of being supernatural - doesn't suspect him of being different. since that first night, faris has kept his feeding to random strangers off the street at night, where darkness lends itself to hide his true forms. faris has built six inches of bulletproof glass around him, but it is a fragile glass; one thing can shatter it, and so faris tends to come off as overexaggerated, vain, and cocky - most of which is a front. the only thing that he lacks are mirrors, but that is simply because he is afraid that if he looks into one, what he see reflected back at him is his true appearance.
, please excuse my randomnessapp by kel <3
rp sample
There were few things Nikola resented. One was dog-eared pages in books. Nikola always, always used bookmarks to mark his spot before closing his favorite version of an old horror story before falling asleep at three in the morning. It preserved the quality of the book and the words, and to Nikola, there was nothing better than seeing unwrinkled pages within a book’s bindings. All of his books were in near perfect condition as a result. The seventeen year old was oddly stingy with his books as well; he rarely lent them out to anyone for fear of damage. It seemed to Nikola that if his dreams of becoming a wildly popular author fell through, he’d have a good job as a librarian, perhaps even here, at Hogwarts.
Another was true humility and unawareness. Perhaps it was because Nikola recognized the absence of that trait in himself. Nikola was aware of his cleverness, too much sometimes, and on those occasions, the knowledge went to his head (resulting in a rather long fall from the pedestal he’d put himself on, as his third place rank had shown him all too clearly). Lucy, who had clearly taken more than a few moments to register that she’d beaten him (ugh, he hated admitting it, even to himself), clearly lacked that particular trait. Others might’ve found her modesty endearing, even likeable; Nikola wasn’t so charmed. He looked at her panicked face irritably and his pout deepened into a shadow of a scowl when she finally came to the correct conclusion. “Thank you for reminding me of the ranks, I really had no idea,” he sniffed sarcastically, his pride injured at her so-obviously innocent revelation. It almost made him feel guilty that he was a sour puss. Almost. “How that speed ever got you second place, I’d like to know.” Now he was just being snappy, Nik realized, and he quickly cut his attention back to the page. His long, slender fingers flipped the page so quickly, Nik gave a funny little gasp, afraid that he’d torn the paper. If there was one thing he disliked about his eagerness to finish a book, it was the danger it posed to the page’s fragility. Some of his books still bore the marks of his enthusiasm.
At the admission of his weakness, Nikola nearly burnt a hole through the page with the force of his glare. He was mortified. No, he was beyond mortified. How could he have slipped up so badly? As he predicted, there was nothing but stunned silence from the brunette, and Nik wished that he had food before him so he could stuff something up his mouth and keep it busy chewing rather than spewing out personal information of his. For a moment, there was only silence between them and the background noise of the silverware clinking together and their peers chatting at breakfast, unaware of Nikola’s inner turmoil.
Nik was relieved when she burst out laughing. He knew she was far too clever to have missed his little mistake, and Nikola Krum felt a small stirring of respect for the girl when she said nothing of it. The last thing he needed was her to press upon that weakness. He might as well have offered up his throat, but in the laughter, Lucy had thrown away the proverbial knife that would have slit it. Nik’s pout – because he was most definitely pouting – lessened, transforming his mouth into a flat line that curled up just slightly at the corners. He had to admit, his finger had no sense of direction when he flailed it wildly around; he’d landed on what was perhaps the least interesting section in the entire book, and Nikola felt a profound sense of irony that it had been the one section he’d chosen to gush over. “Yes, didn’t you know? I find it fascinating,” he quipped sarcastically, turning to the next page. It wasn’t an ill-intended sarcasm though, unlike the one Nikola had used before. This was lighter. Better. Like how he’d speak to his friends in Ravenclaw, or Bronte even. His voice was dry, but the small grin on his lips showed that he was joking. Had he ever shown to Lucy this side of him? Nikola didn’t know. “But really, Lucy, you mustn’t knock it. I’m sure that…” Nikola craned his head to read the words on the page, “a passage from Cheering Charms for the Depressed Soul is very, very entertaining.” He glanced up at her and flashed a semblance of a grin. “You know, if you’re a trussed up middle-aged housewife who pines over her loneliness in all her wealth.”
Another was true humility and unawareness. Perhaps it was because Nikola recognized the absence of that trait in himself. Nikola was aware of his cleverness, too much sometimes, and on those occasions, the knowledge went to his head (resulting in a rather long fall from the pedestal he’d put himself on, as his third place rank had shown him all too clearly). Lucy, who had clearly taken more than a few moments to register that she’d beaten him (ugh, he hated admitting it, even to himself), clearly lacked that particular trait. Others might’ve found her modesty endearing, even likeable; Nikola wasn’t so charmed. He looked at her panicked face irritably and his pout deepened into a shadow of a scowl when she finally came to the correct conclusion. “Thank you for reminding me of the ranks, I really had no idea,” he sniffed sarcastically, his pride injured at her so-obviously innocent revelation. It almost made him feel guilty that he was a sour puss. Almost. “How that speed ever got you second place, I’d like to know.” Now he was just being snappy, Nik realized, and he quickly cut his attention back to the page. His long, slender fingers flipped the page so quickly, Nik gave a funny little gasp, afraid that he’d torn the paper. If there was one thing he disliked about his eagerness to finish a book, it was the danger it posed to the page’s fragility. Some of his books still bore the marks of his enthusiasm.
At the admission of his weakness, Nikola nearly burnt a hole through the page with the force of his glare. He was mortified. No, he was beyond mortified. How could he have slipped up so badly? As he predicted, there was nothing but stunned silence from the brunette, and Nik wished that he had food before him so he could stuff something up his mouth and keep it busy chewing rather than spewing out personal information of his. For a moment, there was only silence between them and the background noise of the silverware clinking together and their peers chatting at breakfast, unaware of Nikola’s inner turmoil.
Nik was relieved when she burst out laughing. He knew she was far too clever to have missed his little mistake, and Nikola Krum felt a small stirring of respect for the girl when she said nothing of it. The last thing he needed was her to press upon that weakness. He might as well have offered up his throat, but in the laughter, Lucy had thrown away the proverbial knife that would have slit it. Nik’s pout – because he was most definitely pouting – lessened, transforming his mouth into a flat line that curled up just slightly at the corners. He had to admit, his finger had no sense of direction when he flailed it wildly around; he’d landed on what was perhaps the least interesting section in the entire book, and Nikola felt a profound sense of irony that it had been the one section he’d chosen to gush over. “Yes, didn’t you know? I find it fascinating,” he quipped sarcastically, turning to the next page. It wasn’t an ill-intended sarcasm though, unlike the one Nikola had used before. This was lighter. Better. Like how he’d speak to his friends in Ravenclaw, or Bronte even. His voice was dry, but the small grin on his lips showed that he was joking. Had he ever shown to Lucy this side of him? Nikola didn’t know. “But really, Lucy, you mustn’t knock it. I’m sure that…” Nikola craned his head to read the words on the page, “a passage from Cheering Charms for the Depressed Soul is very, very entertaining.” He glanced up at her and flashed a semblance of a grin. “You know, if you’re a trussed up middle-aged housewife who pines over her loneliness in all her wealth.”
