Chrysander Tamas is a youth seemingly in his late teens. Thick, dark lashes often weigh heavily over the slate-hued orbs beneath. Framed within handsomely Old World, classically sculpted features, his eyes devour his surroundings and give little back in return. Full, wickedly sensuous lips curl at his pleasure into a warm smile, but those gestures of pleasantry rarely, if ever, seem to brush the twin moons above. His shoulder-length locks, falling loosely around his features, are dark and glossy as a raven’s plumage, and seem to be perpetually just out of place, lending to his rakish, disarming appearance. A few hairs under six feet tall, Chrysander has the slender but muscular body of a trained dancer, his movements fluid and lithe, often seeming set to some primal rhythm and beat only he can hear. A flimsy-looking pair of over-the ear style headphones are draped across the back of his neck, the earpieces resting lightly against his throat, the cord trailing down into one of his pockets. His prime physique is on display beneath a skintight t-shirt in dark hues, typically varying from black to blue to green. Dark, military-looking camouflage pants offer his movements little resistance or limitation, tucked into steel-toed combat-style boots that complete his rugged ensemble, along with the nine-inch survival knife attached at his belt. Whether in use, bound carefully across his back, or kept at his side as a stave, Chrysander is never without the six-foot long, pale cypress longbow Lunatick Fury.
… rarely far from Chrysander’ side is a monstrous dog of ultimately indistinguishable breed. While ‘mutt’ may seem the appropriate phrasing, it seems inadvisable to utter such slander within earshot of either beast or its boy. Grey fur that may more aptly be described as a silvery blue is kept cleanly groomed, though often appears in a state of irredeemable shagginess. Standing nearly as tall at the shoulder as Chrysander himself, the hound hides a sleek, muscular body beneath his disheveled fur. His ears, large and floppy, fall just beyond the edge of his powerful jaws, his muzzle slowly tapered to a blunt point. Pale blue-grey eyes observe the world with a sense of sober wisdom and restrained curiosity, his whip of a tail slicing the air when his interest is piqued.
Jocasta Tamas is a youth seemingly in her late teens. Striking orbs hewn of molten gold glower upon the world with open contempt and loathing, glittering behind wire-rimmed oval spectacles that perch precariously upon the tip of her small, delicate nose. Her haughty features could be carved of cold marble, remote and classically beautiful, yet seem somehow flawed by the wildness that smolders just beneath her surface. A gothic kabuki mask of makeup leaves her normally olive complexion nearly snow-white, offset by her heavily kohl-lined lids and darkly smudged, bruised looking eye shadow. The look is completed with a viciously sanguine, ‘fuck-me’ red lipstick that makes it almost impossible not to watch every twitch, frown, and sound made by her full, luscious lips. A brilliant halo framing her face, she is platinum blonde to a degree that in some lights her locks seem silvery-white. Cropped short at the nape of her neck, the longest strands layered towards her chin reach nearly to her clavicles, not quite hiding the flimsy set of over-the-ear style headphones draped beneath. Approximately five feet and six inches tall, the young woman seems athletically muscular while still wiry. Her movements fluctuate between smooth, feline grace, and the occasionally awkward, jerky gangliness of a long-legged bird. The headphones settled around her neck rest comfortably against the buckle of a thick, jet black collar encircling her throat, adorned with a golden D-ring at its front, from which hangs a single copper link. Nearly floor-length, an unbelted white trench whips loosely around her form as she moves like some fallen creature’s lost wings. Beneath the coat is a gold and crimson tank top, styled with flames as the colors fade into each other. The cotton garment doesn’t do much to obscure the bullet-proof vest beneath it that dampens the natural curves of her upper torso. Black bondage-style pants, scattered with a plethora of pockets (one of which into the cord of the headphones disappears into), silver studs and D- and O-rings, are belted with a pair of riveted bands that are each woven partially through her belt loops, half and half, the other side of each strap hooked above the waistline of her pants upon each hip. Mostly concealed by the baggy pants is a pair of black steel-toed combat-style boots. Slung upside-down across her back is a brilliantly shimmering white Fender Stratocaster, embossed with a golden laurel wreath, its reinforced strap crossing her chest from shoulder to hip. Kept even closer than the guitar, forming an X over her chest atop the guitar’s strap is the band of the leather sheath that bears the thick, laurel wood shortbow, Arcadia’s Dawn.