03-03-2017, 09:15 PM
[align=center][div style="background=transparent; borderwidth=0px; bordercolor=; width: auto; font-size: 8.6pt; font-family:verdana; text-align:justify; line-height: 1.4; width: 500px"][ the last 3 paragraphs are all that matter if anyone wants to reply, but. there is no need to reply, really? it's. purely optional ]
To the outside eye, people are probably fickle beings, the sort that get themselves caught up in situations that cannot have a happy ending, willingly damned and somehow foolishly believing that this time, the outcome will be different, if just because they have hope, and hope, of course, is powerful enough to change an otherwise inevitable course. They break promises with a determination that's almost admirable, and indeed would be, if it weren't for the fact that their grit was put specifically into lodging a knife into the spines of those that had trusted them, and then, all of a sudden, that dogged pursuit of an end is nauseatingly horrific. It's worse still when these people forget to stop and comprehend the consequences of their actions, victimising themselves in an effort to make their own behaviour seem less vile, but not as awful as when they accept the blame, acknowledge their wrongs and still do nothing to alter who they are.
By nature, humans are meant to be deeply emotional, social creatures. As they grow and mature, they ought to become better at handling these emotions, pushing them further down and replacing them with well society. From that, it's to be expected that the tantrums of children are simply an expression of their inability to control themselves, and by that logic, it's to be expected that children will behave in ways that would be deemed unacceptable for anybody of a more adult disposition. Small griefs are allowed to escalate if just because that's what children do, that's what they're meant to do, and you can't blame them for their infancy, because they know nothing else, don't know any better.
On the inside, though, it feels very different it does, at least, to Damian, but that's no surprise to those that really know him, or those who think they do. There's nothing poetic about him or his own conduct. Put simply, everything feels huge, overwhelming and overbearing, but he doesn't know what to do with it all. He's been handed a thousand things and expected to carry them all in one trip, but he's not sure how to fit them all in his hands, and he's not sure how to set them all down at once without them rolling back down the hill he's convinced he's meant to climb. He's small, but the world is big, and he doesn't know how to put that into words. Doesn't know if there are any words, isn't really sure what words even are. Sounds, mainly, but when he makes sounds, people rarely seem to understand him, regardless of how desperately he gestures.
It's as though he's speaking an entirely different language (and he is, he is, only it's not a language at all, and he doesn't know, doesn't know how to shape the nebulous thoughts into something resembling English anymore, or indeed ever at all), and the longer time passes, the more alienated he feels.
There were never many that understood him to begin with, or pretended to, at the very least. There were the adults that he considered family (or some primitive variant of it, at least), and sometimes the children bothered with him. Connie seems nice, but she's so far away, so tinny when she speaks, as though there's a barrier between them or wool pulled over his ears, and his chest burns when he thinks further than that, because the connections hurt his head. But it's changed. People are changing. People are leaving, and other people are locking themselves away. He's not sure what the faceless ones are doing, those that aren't familiar enough to have distinct features, but they drift like ghosts as much as his familiars are, and Damian thinks he'd prefer to go back to a time that was warmer, with colours that weren't painfully bright, but certainly more vibrant than this.
He doesn't know the word for it, but he draws it on his skin, bright red welts in loose shapes that are covered over with repetitive scratches of frustration. There was a woman with dark hair that smelled nice. She left. He was young, still is, but not young enough to have forgotten the smog and the ash and the filthy cold of the ground beneath his cheek when he slept, the stench of wet dog that became as comforting to him as anything. The scuffed knees and elbows that just became a part of day to day life, the constant nagging sense that this wasn't right, even if he was also convinced that the woman with dark hair that smelled nice would also be coming back for him. Somehow, she'd recognise him beneath the mud and the rain and the dog, the half-feral, definitely-stray ragtag group of canines that stopped him from freezing, and in return, he used his wide eyes, still blue and alive against the dirt that painted his face, to get them food.
There's extra kindness in some people, though. Rather than offering him a blanket or a scrap of food that would ultimately be devoured by the dogs, Win took him along, gave him a home, as nomadic as that home was until they found themselves here. From the initial encounter to him leaving those dogs and that strange, broken-down town, he endured the cold a little longer, but it's not something he'd gladly return to. No doubt he would've died if he'd had to spend any longer there  these people, the ones now more associated with the light than the woman, saved him.
Win's gone, too. Left him, just like the woman. Maybe making that leap at this age is a little sudden, but he knows the feeling of being alone well, that strange, empty churn, as though his stomach, on the inside, has opened up and become something akin to a void. Every movement leaves him acutely aware that there's nothing within him, and he feels hollow, but he doesn't feel like he's meant to contain anything, either. He draws these conclusions in a wordless mass of writhing colours and pictures, pressing bruises and crescent moons into his skin and staring at them blankly. (You are not meant to be this still.) Somehow, this departure hurts more. Somehow, though, that attachment was deeper, greater. Now, though he isn't actually conscious of it, his verdict after mulling over the evidence is that people, as a whole, cannot be trusted.
They frighten him. Adults, with their long words and longer strides, are liable to forget the people at knee height and leave them behind as they chase their own agendas. He understands that now  it's just taken him a while to process it all.
Children aren't much better, with their babbling speech, breathless and far too fast. He doesn't want them to touch him, either. He'd much rather return himself to the dogs, because they aren't people, he knows they aren't people, and he doesn't have to scream for them to know what he means.
‘Titus, I don't like it.’ He brushes his hand over the shoulder of the dog, hunkers down beneath the chair, fingers gripping at loose strands of hair and pulling until it feels as though his scalp's about to give, and he stares through the burn that blurs his eyes across the room, out at the feet of the people that come dangerously close to him, too close to him, and the harshness of their steps shakes his skull. At some point, he makes a sound that resembles the throaty, growly whining of an animal he hasn't interacted with in a year, tugging at shreds of old instinct that bury whatever humanity he's been gradually learning from the people he thought he could trust.
With no paper, he becomes the canvas again, and with no pens, he makes do with what he has, bitten-down nails and scarred fingers that claw out what he thinks he's thinking. He doesn't know how to write, doesn't know what his own name looks like, or what any other name looks like, but he knows that chaos is negativity, and he knows that by turning himself into something that resembles the victim of an attack, he can heap his problems into one lump and then spread them out over his skin. At this age, anyway, children don't pay attention to the construction of words, just the arrangement of letters in things that make sense to them and them alone. He doesn't need other people to know what his senseless scratches mean, rubbing his fingers in lines over his arms and throat and legs until he's spotted with red. He doesn't need to know himself, really.
He's not sure how long he spends under that chair. Long enough for his body to become stiff and his fingers and toes to become numb, to the point where pressing the former between his teeth and grinding them into bloody pulps doesn't actually feel like anything. Long enough for Titus to fall asleep, stubbornly refusing to leave, long enough for his behaviours to deplete themselves, leaving him with his knees tucked against his chest, body rocking back and forth until he looks like the image of a stereotypical madman. Red-marked skin, gaunt cheeks, vacant eyes. It's hard to believe there's anything behind them, any semblance of sentience still residing within him, but this is okay. He's still moving, yes, but that unblinking gaze is dead; he's fast asleep, and here, he can't perceive a thing.
[spoiler=JUST GIVE ME BREATHING SPACE (UPDATED MAR. 3RD)]
GENERAL INFORMATION / BIO / PINTEREST BOARD [NEW]
& "Damian Holloway" / Original Name Unknown / [Sort Of] Accepts Nicknames
& Male / Obvious Preference for Male Pronouns / Can Tolerate Neutral Pronouns
& Unknown Sexuality / Unknown Preference / Too Young for Love; Monogamous
& Real Age and Birthdate Unknown / Appears 4-5 Years Old / Unknown Parents
& Adopted Son of Bruce / Baby + ⅙ of the Batfam [Bruce, Dick, Meg, Stevie, Cam]
POSSESSIONS, ITEMS AND PETS / EXTRA NOTES
& CLICK / [TOY] Black and Red Bat Plushie: "Bat" / STATUS: Worn, Well-Loved
& CLICK / [PET] Black Great Dane Puppy: "Titus" / AGE: 2 Months / HEALTH: 90%
APPEARANCE / REFERENCE / STATUS / DECLINING [70%]
& Refusing to eat. Scratches at his skin obsessively, mainly at his forearms, inner thighs and neck. Covered in bruises and red marks in these areas specifically. Habitually bites at his fingers, which are red and sore as a result, and hits self/pulls own hair when upset or angry.
& Damian stands at around 36" tall and weighs around 27lbs. Still fairly skinny due to a former life of abandonment and malnutrition, he's painfully small, growth seemingly stunted. Has warm, olive-brown skin and freckling on his nose; seems a little paler at the moment, however. His eyes are silver-blue, often shifting between gunmetal grey and a vibrant sapphire depending on how the light shines. Hair is a deep black, soft to the touch and styleless; relatively short, but not overtly so. Has soft, delicate, round features. Tends to wear this hoodie and semi-faded blue jeans.
 INJURIES/ILLNESSES: Malnutrition and scratches from obsessive behaviours.
PERSONALITY / LINKS WILL GO HERE
& Struggling with abandonment issues; developing obsessive coping habits as a result. Will mindlessly scratch at his skin (neck, forearms, inner thighs), bite his fingers and rock back and forth. Fixates on objects and forms emotional attachments to them. Pulls hair and hits self when stressed.
& An absolute sweetheart at this stage. Easily impressionable, overly emotional and caught in a people-pleaser stage. Cautious in the sense that he doesn't really do well with most new people, yet latched onto his family immediately. Other children are sometimes okay, but is quickly spooked by human interaction. Has an awful stutter and lisp; seemingly behind in mental and verbal development, but immensely perceptive. Quiet; communicates using sign language, most of the time, but even that is rare. Only really attempts to speak when around a few select people, and even then, he's uncomfortable with it. Still makes sound, however, it's just nonverbal. An animal lover that struggles with expressing himself; easily angered or upset, and difficult to pull out of the depths of grumpiness, but not an overtly unhappy child. Likes to listen to familiar voices and music. Inquisitive, physically affectionate and strangely gentle. Imaginative. Learning things at his own pace.
 DISORDERS: Apparent developmental issues??
COMBAT AND INTERACTION / CONFRONTATION NOTES
& Physically Pathetic (4/100) / Mentally Easy (10/100) / Completely Vulnerable.
& He's a child; he can't fight. Any attempts to harm him undefended will succeed.
& All nonviolent, friendly and/or peaceful actions can be powerplayed.
 Contact accepted from: Bruce, Dick, Meg, Stevie, Cam Animals, but only if there are no people around.
& To engage in combat, attack using bold black or bold underlined.
To the outside eye, people are probably fickle beings, the sort that get themselves caught up in situations that cannot have a happy ending, willingly damned and somehow foolishly believing that this time, the outcome will be different, if just because they have hope, and hope, of course, is powerful enough to change an otherwise inevitable course. They break promises with a determination that's almost admirable, and indeed would be, if it weren't for the fact that their grit was put specifically into lodging a knife into the spines of those that had trusted them, and then, all of a sudden, that dogged pursuit of an end is nauseatingly horrific. It's worse still when these people forget to stop and comprehend the consequences of their actions, victimising themselves in an effort to make their own behaviour seem less vile, but not as awful as when they accept the blame, acknowledge their wrongs and still do nothing to alter who they are.
By nature, humans are meant to be deeply emotional, social creatures. As they grow and mature, they ought to become better at handling these emotions, pushing them further down and replacing them with well society. From that, it's to be expected that the tantrums of children are simply an expression of their inability to control themselves, and by that logic, it's to be expected that children will behave in ways that would be deemed unacceptable for anybody of a more adult disposition. Small griefs are allowed to escalate if just because that's what children do, that's what they're meant to do, and you can't blame them for their infancy, because they know nothing else, don't know any better.
On the inside, though, it feels very different it does, at least, to Damian, but that's no surprise to those that really know him, or those who think they do. There's nothing poetic about him or his own conduct. Put simply, everything feels huge, overwhelming and overbearing, but he doesn't know what to do with it all. He's been handed a thousand things and expected to carry them all in one trip, but he's not sure how to fit them all in his hands, and he's not sure how to set them all down at once without them rolling back down the hill he's convinced he's meant to climb. He's small, but the world is big, and he doesn't know how to put that into words. Doesn't know if there are any words, isn't really sure what words even are. Sounds, mainly, but when he makes sounds, people rarely seem to understand him, regardless of how desperately he gestures.
It's as though he's speaking an entirely different language (and he is, he is, only it's not a language at all, and he doesn't know, doesn't know how to shape the nebulous thoughts into something resembling English anymore, or indeed ever at all), and the longer time passes, the more alienated he feels.
There were never many that understood him to begin with, or pretended to, at the very least. There were the adults that he considered family (or some primitive variant of it, at least), and sometimes the children bothered with him. Connie seems nice, but she's so far away, so tinny when she speaks, as though there's a barrier between them or wool pulled over his ears, and his chest burns when he thinks further than that, because the connections hurt his head. But it's changed. People are changing. People are leaving, and other people are locking themselves away. He's not sure what the faceless ones are doing, those that aren't familiar enough to have distinct features, but they drift like ghosts as much as his familiars are, and Damian thinks he'd prefer to go back to a time that was warmer, with colours that weren't painfully bright, but certainly more vibrant than this.
He doesn't know the word for it, but he draws it on his skin, bright red welts in loose shapes that are covered over with repetitive scratches of frustration. There was a woman with dark hair that smelled nice. She left. He was young, still is, but not young enough to have forgotten the smog and the ash and the filthy cold of the ground beneath his cheek when he slept, the stench of wet dog that became as comforting to him as anything. The scuffed knees and elbows that just became a part of day to day life, the constant nagging sense that this wasn't right, even if he was also convinced that the woman with dark hair that smelled nice would also be coming back for him. Somehow, she'd recognise him beneath the mud and the rain and the dog, the half-feral, definitely-stray ragtag group of canines that stopped him from freezing, and in return, he used his wide eyes, still blue and alive against the dirt that painted his face, to get them food.
There's extra kindness in some people, though. Rather than offering him a blanket or a scrap of food that would ultimately be devoured by the dogs, Win took him along, gave him a home, as nomadic as that home was until they found themselves here. From the initial encounter to him leaving those dogs and that strange, broken-down town, he endured the cold a little longer, but it's not something he'd gladly return to. No doubt he would've died if he'd had to spend any longer there  these people, the ones now more associated with the light than the woman, saved him.
Win's gone, too. Left him, just like the woman. Maybe making that leap at this age is a little sudden, but he knows the feeling of being alone well, that strange, empty churn, as though his stomach, on the inside, has opened up and become something akin to a void. Every movement leaves him acutely aware that there's nothing within him, and he feels hollow, but he doesn't feel like he's meant to contain anything, either. He draws these conclusions in a wordless mass of writhing colours and pictures, pressing bruises and crescent moons into his skin and staring at them blankly. (You are not meant to be this still.) Somehow, this departure hurts more. Somehow, though, that attachment was deeper, greater. Now, though he isn't actually conscious of it, his verdict after mulling over the evidence is that people, as a whole, cannot be trusted.
They frighten him. Adults, with their long words and longer strides, are liable to forget the people at knee height and leave them behind as they chase their own agendas. He understands that now  it's just taken him a while to process it all.
Children aren't much better, with their babbling speech, breathless and far too fast. He doesn't want them to touch him, either. He'd much rather return himself to the dogs, because they aren't people, he knows they aren't people, and he doesn't have to scream for them to know what he means.
‘Titus, I don't like it.’ He brushes his hand over the shoulder of the dog, hunkers down beneath the chair, fingers gripping at loose strands of hair and pulling until it feels as though his scalp's about to give, and he stares through the burn that blurs his eyes across the room, out at the feet of the people that come dangerously close to him, too close to him, and the harshness of their steps shakes his skull. At some point, he makes a sound that resembles the throaty, growly whining of an animal he hasn't interacted with in a year, tugging at shreds of old instinct that bury whatever humanity he's been gradually learning from the people he thought he could trust.
With no paper, he becomes the canvas again, and with no pens, he makes do with what he has, bitten-down nails and scarred fingers that claw out what he thinks he's thinking. He doesn't know how to write, doesn't know what his own name looks like, or what any other name looks like, but he knows that chaos is negativity, and he knows that by turning himself into something that resembles the victim of an attack, he can heap his problems into one lump and then spread them out over his skin. At this age, anyway, children don't pay attention to the construction of words, just the arrangement of letters in things that make sense to them and them alone. He doesn't need other people to know what his senseless scratches mean, rubbing his fingers in lines over his arms and throat and legs until he's spotted with red. He doesn't need to know himself, really.
He's not sure how long he spends under that chair. Long enough for his body to become stiff and his fingers and toes to become numb, to the point where pressing the former between his teeth and grinding them into bloody pulps doesn't actually feel like anything. Long enough for Titus to fall asleep, stubbornly refusing to leave, long enough for his behaviours to deplete themselves, leaving him with his knees tucked against his chest, body rocking back and forth until he looks like the image of a stereotypical madman. Red-marked skin, gaunt cheeks, vacant eyes. It's hard to believe there's anything behind them, any semblance of sentience still residing within him, but this is okay. He's still moving, yes, but that unblinking gaze is dead; he's fast asleep, and here, he can't perceive a thing.
[spoiler=JUST GIVE ME BREATHING SPACE (UPDATED MAR. 3RD)]
GENERAL INFORMATION / BIO / PINTEREST BOARD [NEW]
& "Damian Holloway" / Original Name Unknown / [Sort Of] Accepts Nicknames
& Male / Obvious Preference for Male Pronouns / Can Tolerate Neutral Pronouns
& Unknown Sexuality / Unknown Preference / Too Young for Love; Monogamous
& Real Age and Birthdate Unknown / Appears 4-5 Years Old / Unknown Parents
& Adopted Son of Bruce / Baby + ⅙ of the Batfam [Bruce, Dick, Meg, Stevie, Cam]
POSSESSIONS, ITEMS AND PETS / EXTRA NOTES
& CLICK / [TOY] Black and Red Bat Plushie: "Bat" / STATUS: Worn, Well-Loved
& CLICK / [PET] Black Great Dane Puppy: "Titus" / AGE: 2 Months / HEALTH: 90%
APPEARANCE / REFERENCE / STATUS / DECLINING [70%]
& Refusing to eat. Scratches at his skin obsessively, mainly at his forearms, inner thighs and neck. Covered in bruises and red marks in these areas specifically. Habitually bites at his fingers, which are red and sore as a result, and hits self/pulls own hair when upset or angry.
& Damian stands at around 36" tall and weighs around 27lbs. Still fairly skinny due to a former life of abandonment and malnutrition, he's painfully small, growth seemingly stunted. Has warm, olive-brown skin and freckling on his nose; seems a little paler at the moment, however. His eyes are silver-blue, often shifting between gunmetal grey and a vibrant sapphire depending on how the light shines. Hair is a deep black, soft to the touch and styleless; relatively short, but not overtly so. Has soft, delicate, round features. Tends to wear this hoodie and semi-faded blue jeans.
 INJURIES/ILLNESSES: Malnutrition and scratches from obsessive behaviours.
PERSONALITY / LINKS WILL GO HERE
& Struggling with abandonment issues; developing obsessive coping habits as a result. Will mindlessly scratch at his skin (neck, forearms, inner thighs), bite his fingers and rock back and forth. Fixates on objects and forms emotional attachments to them. Pulls hair and hits self when stressed.
& An absolute sweetheart at this stage. Easily impressionable, overly emotional and caught in a people-pleaser stage. Cautious in the sense that he doesn't really do well with most new people, yet latched onto his family immediately. Other children are sometimes okay, but is quickly spooked by human interaction. Has an awful stutter and lisp; seemingly behind in mental and verbal development, but immensely perceptive. Quiet; communicates using sign language, most of the time, but even that is rare. Only really attempts to speak when around a few select people, and even then, he's uncomfortable with it. Still makes sound, however, it's just nonverbal. An animal lover that struggles with expressing himself; easily angered or upset, and difficult to pull out of the depths of grumpiness, but not an overtly unhappy child. Likes to listen to familiar voices and music. Inquisitive, physically affectionate and strangely gentle. Imaginative. Learning things at his own pace.
 DISORDERS: Apparent developmental issues??
COMBAT AND INTERACTION / CONFRONTATION NOTES
& Physically Pathetic (4/100) / Mentally Easy (10/100) / Completely Vulnerable.
& He's a child; he can't fight. Any attempts to harm him undefended will succeed.
& All nonviolent, friendly and/or peaceful actions can be powerplayed.
 Contact accepted from: Bruce, Dick, Meg, Stevie, Cam Animals, but only if there are no people around.
& To engage in combat, attack using bold black or bold underlined.
[align=center]james drachen / julian devorak / damian holloway / timothy haywood
new subs being made // old ones merged
new subs being made // old ones merged