d8 • sisal batik

[∂αмєη]

sisal madden batik
[883333] [57443D] [948E76] [AB865A]
male. eighteen. district eight. weaver.

what you've done

He approaches the man with not a single sound, stepping up to the market stand with an apple in hand. Carefully observing amber eyes watch every movement that the shop owner makes. His lips press against the skin of the fruit, well-structured pearly whites digging into it and causing juices to explode into his mouth. The crunch of the apple brings the attention of the shopkeeper towards the boy who stood before him. They locked eyes, and a glare crossed the face of the bearded man. "Have you not done enough around these parts, boy?" There was anger that could be heard, though Sisal Batik shrugged it off immediately as it was sent his way. He cared not for the feelings of the gentleman before him; he was a mere blip on Sisal's radar. He had no time for blips. Blips were too far below him.

Stepping more into the shadows, Sisal parted his full lips to speak. A tongue smoothly darted out to moisten them as five nimbly long fingers run through the mess of brown hair atop his head. "Now now, is that the proper way to treat a customer?" His voice is deep and suggestive, almost always having a sultry tone accompanying it. Innocence does not exist within it, although he would appear to be a young innocent boy to most who see him. With a smiling and youthful face, dimples surrounding his mouth, Sisal would never be suspected to be up to tricks of any sort. How incredibly wrong could they be?

His eyes moved along the wares of the keeper, flicking up every once in a while to meet with the bearded man's. Standing nervously with fidgeting hands, he watched Sisal with an incredible amount of focus. "Sir, can I please ask you to leave the premises?" Sisal chuckled in response before looking up to him, stepping back and putting his hands up into the air. "I see you're not having the greatest of days today. I'll come back later, I suppose." With a slight bow, the young boy stepped away and wandered off in any direction.

Awaiting until he made it around the corner, he dug into his pocket and removed the pendant that had shone so wonderfully just moments before on the shop's stand. Travelling a few streets over to the next strip of stands, Sisal clutched tightly to the chain that held the symbol by a clasp. Creeping ever so slowly towards the new stall and placing the pendant amongst the other necklaces, Sisal continued on his way. Surely this will create a ruckus. It was something he was so used to doing. Stirring up the world to keep it moving. Movement meant change; change meant adjustments. Adjustments were what Sisal waited so desperately for. And he'd continue to wait until the right one came his way.

His parents passed when he was young, sending him off to an orphanage to live the majority of his childhood days. There wasn't a single member of Eight who wished to adopt him as he had always gone about with his mischievous ways. That was an adjustment he never enjoyed. Sisal had never known what it meant to belong in a group as he always kept to himself. It took a toll rather quickly, but he pushed it as much out of the way as he could and kept on with the days. Keeping up with the streets isn't exactly easy to do. The streets welcomed him as family. They welcomed it with open arms.

Worn shoes carry him through the dusty streets to the back alley behind a textile factory. His clothes are covered in dirt that he doesn't try to brush off after sneaking under a broken fence. Through the hole in the wall, he finds himself in the hall of an abandoned part of the factory building that he typically called home. Rows of bottles line the walls, as well as various lines of writing plastered on whatever he had available to draw on. He had always loved to write, having taught himself the intricacies of the language with the aid of various books. Whenever an idea came to mind he would write it wherever he could, even if it was on his own skin or on walls with whatever was nearby.

He dropped down on the bundle of fabrics he used as a bed, reaching over to grab the tobacco rolled up in paper. A match struck against the wall, lighting itself and bringing flame to the end of the smoke. His lungs took it in, burning with the feeling he loved so very much. Once finished, it wasn't long until his eyes shut closed with the familiar feeling of sleep.


-



When he awoke, it didn't take long for him to down the remains of the whiskey bottle closest to his cot. It was a typical ritual for him; the best way to wake up was with a quick shot to the gut. My life consists so much of these cycles, constantly continuing a lap that never ends. There was a party later tonight, though he would need a couple of coins to fill his pockets before he thought of going. There would be a new drug running through the streets that wasn't around last week, one that people would expect him to bring. He was known for that. The drugs. The alcohol. The party. The sex. A continuous cycle that was never ending.

He sort of wished for it to end.

what

Hi there! My name is Damen and you can find my character tracker here.

[∂αмєη]

finished!

[∂αмєη]

bump.

[∂αмєη]

and another.

[sbeeg]

Accepted!