Oct. 12, 2001
by BlackRose
You would think him vain. It's a trapping that would suit his image, and he wears the shadows of it like a worn cloak.
He isn't, though. Not really. He is neat - he prefers clean to dirty, both in himself and his garments. His hair falls naturally around the bones of his face, but that is only happenstance, heavy gold strands with a texture like silk that he was gifted with at birth. He takes no great pains with it, nor with the body or face that he was likewise blessed with.
He is not unaware of his image, but neither is he vain of it. His vanity lies in other places, in an arrogance and pride of his abilities rather then the chance gifts of his physical lineage. He prefers things over which he has control.
I saw him before a mirror once. He had paused there, his own image looking back at him, painted in pale flesh and dark shadows. His eyes were dark and hooded, contemplative. I asked him what he saw.
"Nothing," he replied.
"Are you of the undead, then?" I asked in jest. "To cast no reflection?"
His eyes, within the surface of the mirror, met mine. "Need you ask, Riskbreaker?" he asked in reply, his lips turning cooly upwards.
He turned to brush past me, then. But his image within the mirror, like the afterimage of the sun upon a man's eyes, lingered with a gaze as dark as stone beside my own reflection for a heartbeat before following him.
