as above, so below
Rain is falling everywhere, puddling up on concrete and seeping into the wrinkled clothes of the young man lying unconscious under Cloud Gate.
His long utility coat with its many cargo pockets is thrown wide open, revealing a tear diagonally down the front of his light blue shirt that resembles a Japanese boy's high school uniform except for its colour. Beneath the torn and bloody fringe of that shirt is a wound that's already starting to heal, one that's hardly bad enough to account for his loss of consciousness. His belt, despite its many attachments, tools and bags, holds no ID and only a few unplaceably foreign copper coins, some metallic-looking tarot cards, and bits of unidentifiable plants, rocks, and explosives-- nothing of immediate use. But he clearly hasn't been mugged by any of the Chicago thugs' usual weapons: his wound, moderately severe, is the mark of a large animal's claw. A very large animal's.
Clotted blood from his shoulder and upper chest is starting to break into small globs from the rain and wash into the pale blue, pure silk ribbon tying back his very long blond hair. His face is deathly pale, his eyes closed in cold slumber, and he smells like something's beginning to rot. It's only the waterlogged supplies in his pouches and pockets, but to look at him, you wouldn't be quite sure.
Cold and delicate, Roxis looks like Sleeping Beauty. If Sleeping Beauty were dressed in a boy's clothes, mauled by a tiger and exposing an obviously flat male chest. He probably won't awaken from a kiss, though.
His long utility coat with its many cargo pockets is thrown wide open, revealing a tear diagonally down the front of his light blue shirt that resembles a Japanese boy's high school uniform except for its colour. Beneath the torn and bloody fringe of that shirt is a wound that's already starting to heal, one that's hardly bad enough to account for his loss of consciousness. His belt, despite its many attachments, tools and bags, holds no ID and only a few unplaceably foreign copper coins, some metallic-looking tarot cards, and bits of unidentifiable plants, rocks, and explosives-- nothing of immediate use. But he clearly hasn't been mugged by any of the Chicago thugs' usual weapons: his wound, moderately severe, is the mark of a large animal's claw. A very large animal's.
Clotted blood from his shoulder and upper chest is starting to break into small globs from the rain and wash into the pale blue, pure silk ribbon tying back his very long blond hair. His face is deathly pale, his eyes closed in cold slumber, and he smells like something's beginning to rot. It's only the waterlogged supplies in his pouches and pockets, but to look at him, you wouldn't be quite sure.
Cold and delicate, Roxis looks like Sleeping Beauty. If Sleeping Beauty were dressed in a boy's clothes, mauled by a tiger and exposing an obviously flat male chest. He probably won't awaken from a kiss, though.