Information

Ilias. has a minion!

Halloway the Brown Huskers

Ilias.
Legacy Name: Ilias.

The

Hydrus Paralix
Owner:

ashelisms

Age: 14 years, 5 months, 4 days

Born: November 14th, 2009

Adopted: 14 years, 5 months, 4 days ago (Legacy)

Adopted: November 14th, 2009 (Legacy)

Statistics

Level: 14
Strength: 16
Defense: 10
Speed: 10
Health: 12
HP: 11/12
Intelligence: 61
Books Read: 61
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Book Shelver

He is lost in an ocean of black coats and top hats. Though perhaps it will not be hard to notice him if you pay attention. He stoops a little, but still towers most men. Some times he is talked to by people whose heads seemingly appear above-ground, like inverse ostriches (which we know keep their heads buried underground, leaving their bodies vulnerable), and some women are so delicate in the neck that he, out of courtesy, would often sit down to make them comfortable. Though neck arthritis is overwhelmed not by his stature, nor his face, but his eyes.

Ah, his eyes. They are the only things people remember of him. Ask where Jonathan Holmer is and they will not know who that is. Ask where the blue-eyed fellow is and they will yelp in recognition and point you to a bookshop in Halifax Street. Such is the impression his eyes have made upon onlookers. Description, you ask? You won't be disappointed. Almond-shaped, with long lashes that somehow do not detract his masculinity, framed by lines and greyish shadow beneath his skin. You may wonder if he is challenged of sleep. But no, it's the colour everyone looks at and recalls. They are a bright, aqua blue. And they seem...to glow. I don't know how to put this without sounding ridiculous, but you must see it for yourself to believe me. They contain darker flecks which might have been a preview of stars in our universe. They seem to stare right into your soul directly, gleaning every story and every life out of you (nowhere to run, nowhere to hide), though in turn, he does not hide his story and life to the observant.

And his forgotten story is truly painful.

1.
A young man is coming out of a bookstore. He holds a copy of Midnight's Children in his hands, without the aesthetically-pleasing plastic bags that normally accompany such things. He is heading down the stairs into Brookham's Train Station, somewhere between the wide lanes and potted trees and the outdoor cafe, blending with the people - who are dressed in red and yellow and a myriad of fantastical colours. He is wearing black, and his sleeves are rolled up despite the weather. He is still examining his purchase. People in coats and conversation with mobile devices bump into him, disregarding him as possibly the 5th or 50th stranger they have collided into today. He pays for his ticket, which he slips between the pages of his book.

The train won't arrive in the next four minutes - when he reached the terminal, the doors had already closed, simply in protest of the train's over-consumption of the general public. He sits on the green plastic bench beside the escalator, turning his book back and forth, and reading the flattering quotes on the back-cover. He has written a book before - it's still in his laptop - but it isn't something he would admit to be a wonderfully enthralling story in comparison to the one he's flipping over in his hands. It isn't time yet for it to be published, and even so he must keep himself anonymous, because he doesn't want, and isn't supposed, to be well-known by more than a few strangers.

The second train arrives and leaves, taking more people from and spitting out more people into the crowded terminal. It doesn't matter; time is eternal for this young man, and besides the book is becoming interesting. His thick, yellow curls cascade like silk curtains over face, like a shield for fictional stories from the outside world. When he finishes page 61, the lamp posts have already celebrated the arrival of evening, and enlightened by this realisation, he boards the train, to once again be unnoticeable in the great rush of civilisation.