Basic Info
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armoury
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full name
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Ja'rukel Swiftblade
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class (ic)
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phoenix mage
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class (ooc)
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mage
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race
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sin'dorei (blood elf)
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age
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unknown; assumed by appearances to be 13-14 but is more likely 16-17 yrs old
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gender
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genderfluid
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pronouns
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he/him/his
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orientation
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asexual, aromantic
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eyes
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yellow irises + dark yellow-green sclera (yellow chartreuse irises, citrine sclera)
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hair
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coarse and curly, white-blond (cornsilk); chin-length bob-cut; has the biggest, longest, bushiest eyebrows you ever did see, but lacks any other body hair
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skin
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the rich red-browns found in bricks or glazed terracotta clay pots; mantled in a multitude of scars; blackened feet and blackened left hand
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build
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small and slender; all long torso and lean limbs
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height
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very short, even for a young blood elf (depending on canon: somewhere around the 4'8"-4'10" range)
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weight
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approximately the weight of a soaked cat in a paper bag; his prosthetic arm only adds so much to this count
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brief
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a smol elf full of big trouble and Bigger Ideas
Profile
Imagine a kid: a boy toeing the line to adulthood. A teenager.
One who still, forever maybe, looks too young for being here. Who looks too old for his childish antics and his bright clothes, and who's full of too many stories to be doing more than just playing at soldier.
One who's too gangly and too awkward and too loud. The loudest.
Imagine a boy: one with sail-tatter ears and wild dandelions for hair. Him with his teeth that are gapped and snaggled and yellowed and a bit too sharp for someone that smiles so badly, so often, so wrong like it's to show the world he still can. Him with so many scars, and all of them made up of small little secrets. Him with red, red skin--redder than wine or bruises.
A boy who's smaller than he looks. Who's not that strong--not strong enough. Never enough. A boy who's only sometimes plenty brave. Whose movements are skittish and grasping for something, for anything, for not a thing at all--in spite of all words to the contrary.
Who stares into the sun until his eyes water. Who sometimes flinches where there's only shadows.
Think of a boy who's got only the one good arm, but sometimes there's the two, even if one's fake and one's wrong, because he's a lot bit clever and there's plenty of metal and magic to go around.
Imagine him: this boy with his face tilted to the sky and his body painted in ashes. Him, raised in a lie common to Azeroth: him, fed violence and the glory of war. Him, with stars in his eyes and the need to follow his father's footsteps.
The boy who grew up, but not really at all.
Who's measured by his failings first,
Who wants only to be weighed by his persistence to keep going--always, anyway.
He's... trying.
He's still alive.
That counts for something--right?
