#major characterization

Appearance: Alarming 

Technically speaking, it’s three interlocking roses in a semi-geometric style, but done in UV reactive ink. He had a little bit of a weird reaction to it, and it tends to look more like a mess of thin scars unless you know what you’re looking for. (Partially by design, in all fairness) 

The biggest rose is centered over his windpipe, while the other two curve around the sides of his throat and end just shy of his spine on both sides.

Visibility: Surprisingly low. 

It’s obviously right on, and taking up a significant portion of, his throat, but he tends to put tattoo concealer over it when he’s going out and about to reduce the number of people asking him what the hell happened.

He is twenty three and drunk on adrenaline ( on something only that is only potable by some technicality and does terrible things to his vision ) when he says “No, no, you don’t understand”

He is twenty four and gasping in the snow ( holding his guts in with one hand and watching someone debate whether he is worth the effort of making sure ) “You don’t cheat death”

He is thirty two and eating dinner with a man he is going to kill later ( or who is going to kill him. the night is still young and there are prices on both their heads )“You invite it home and set it a place at the table” 

He is every age he has ever been or will be ( when he was young he slept with munitions and knives. these days he favors monsters )“You take it to bed”

He is still in knee pants and learning about the way men come apart ( less force than it takes to crush a soda can to kill a man, a little torque in the right place to dislocate a shoulder– hold still for a moment, boy )“You learn everything you can about it”

I couldn’t find the right child meme before sending this to myself, so ya’ll are going to have to use your imagination

How old do you think he is? Ten? Eleven? He looks younger older like this, blood in his teeth from learning how men come apart. (The best way to learn is by example, after all, so be a little faster this time, boy)

He knows the names and lives of sixteen different artists, devours every book he can get his hands on, crows his way through four different languages. (You’re in luck, he only started talking to strangers last year. On the other hand, he hasn’t stopped since)

He dreams about vaulted halls and calculations, maps out scale drawings of every room he’s ever been in in red china marker on the underside of munition crates and practices his looping handwriting with letters no one else will ever read.

He wins only a little over a quarter of his fights, comes away bloody and bruised and singing under his breath even when he fails. He is learning how not to flinch and not to freeze, but laugh in the face of his own death. (Like all lessons, it hurts it leaves his bones humming for days, all restless energy and bottled violence. He is learning)