Connor MacLeod
I found this in my comments while cleaning up my LJ tags into a more coherent plan, and rather than lose it again, I'm posting it here. Originally written because killabeez wanted 100 words or more about Connor MacLeod.
Sharp-edged and sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued and cutting sharper deals: the kind of trader who leaves you counting your change, and your jewelry, and then your digits. Fiercely loyal to his own and gods help you if you're not his and you cross him. Changeable as the color of his eyes to an outward glance, but running deep and true from the center, which shapes all the outward seemings, until gun-runner and patriot are so clearly different sides of one coin, and lover and fighter even more so. Shaped by his own values and not letting any one place, one time, or one person dictate those past what his own sense tells him is right -- even when it hurts like hell. It's his razor, not Ockham's, and if it cuts him too at times, that's only proof that it's sharp, not reason to be rid of it.
What Connor MacLeod never says is that he hates the Game, although he does, and although that's not enough reason to quit playing. He's chosen his side because he can't bear to let the other side win, after all.
What Connor never even lets himself admit, however, is that he loves how sharp a blade the Game has honed him into. Being clearly, completely, and utterly himself... that's a proper fate for him or anyone else. So he thinks, anyway.
Sharp-edged and sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued and cutting sharper deals: the kind of trader who leaves you counting your change, and your jewelry, and then your digits. Fiercely loyal to his own and gods help you if you're not his and you cross him. Changeable as the color of his eyes to an outward glance, but running deep and true from the center, which shapes all the outward seemings, until gun-runner and patriot are so clearly different sides of one coin, and lover and fighter even more so. Shaped by his own values and not letting any one place, one time, or one person dictate those past what his own sense tells him is right -- even when it hurts like hell. It's his razor, not Ockham's, and if it cuts him too at times, that's only proof that it's sharp, not reason to be rid of it.
What Connor MacLeod never says is that he hates the Game, although he does, and although that's not enough reason to quit playing. He's chosen his side because he can't bear to let the other side win, after all.
What Connor never even lets himself admit, however, is that he loves how sharp a blade the Game has honed him into. Being clearly, completely, and utterly himself... that's a proper fate for him or anyone else. So he thinks, anyway.