Sasha Delacour
Sasha Delacour The Wildling's Twin About
Long limbed, willowy, and lean, Sasha’s form is effused with a distinctly dream-like quality. With all the grace, airiness and carelessness of a willingly lost, forest-dwelling soul, he moves with a feathery, refined edge— as if he’s overly sure of every step he might take, as if he’s had the time to deliberate and calculate heavily. Sasha is pale. His alabaster flesh almost looks thin, shallow, and translucent. The tangled webbings of his veins might even be visible beneath his skin upon a close inspection, despite his attempts at bringing artificial colour to his features. Twisted, vine-like tattoos mark both of his cheeks, spanning up towards his eyes, and along his brows, they’re almost as pale as the rest of his flesh, but maintain an ounce of colour to distinguish themselves; they’re artistic, opulent, and deliberate— bringing with them an sting of sharpness to his otherwise velveteen features. Both of the Duskwight’s eyes are preternatural and violet, the only part of his features that seem to have any natural colour of their own. They’re overly-bright, and overly-watchful. Lightly slanted, and marked with long eyelashes, they frame his pallid flesh with a dour verge, bringing out the slight purpleness to his eyelids from a few too many hours awake, distracting a little too obviously from the softness he attempts to cultivate. His lips are full, and shapely— tinted with an edge of artificial pinkness so that at least they’re visible against his alabaster skin. His teeth are ever so slightly crooked, incisors slanted slightly forwards against his front teeth, a light imperfection he tries to disguise when possible. He rarely smiles with his teeth. Long auburn hair tumbles down to his elbows— lightly tipped feather-white at the very ends, it’s doubtful this colour is natural when the rest of him is taken into account. Parts of his hair are often woven into careful braids, and plaits, stringed through with twine, beads, and features for a dash of ostentatious wealth that doubtfully runs as deep as his lavish attire might suggest. His hair lightly waves towards the ends, and is largely left to do as it might like, though when Sasha is concentrating, reading, studying, or lost in thought, it’s often swept back into a ponytail, twined into a thick braid left to drape over his shoulder, or bundled into a bun at the nape of his neck. He rarely seems to be able to keep it bound for extended periods, and often complains of headaches when it’s been restrained for too long a time. His choice in clothing is grandiose, and palatial. Every garment he dons is fitted for his lean figure, hemmed, carefully woven, and flatteringly-laid. He favours faded colours, adamant that brightness will only wash-out what little colour his features have. He almost always wears clothes with long sleeves, or gloves that come up towards his upper arms. Both of his pointed ears have been pierced a number of times with equally grandiose earrings, studded with gleaming pearls, light quartz stones, and dangling, teardrop-shaped opals. Sasha’s left side moves with a pervasive stiffness, an inexplicable rigidity, as if he doesn’t quite have full control of his nerves. Beneath his layers of luxuriant clothing, his skin is badly disfigured. Scars twist and twine up from the palm of his left hand along the inside of his arm, and towards his shoulder. He’s loath to ever reveal these to prying eyes, preferring, instead, to flout the careful, refined posterior he’s spent so long building up; for that is - in his opinion - favourable to a disfigured, reclusive, cave-dwelling Duskwight.
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