Author Games: Red Room

Hunters Four: Hansol

Only thing you have to fear is fear itself.

Name: Hansol

Sex: Male

Age: 20

Physical Appearance: Hansol resembles shadow. He curves like shade moves, his jaw like putty and his dark hair like the tangles of unknown things. He tends to walk like a spider on its web; freeform, as if calculating its next step with ease. His skin is ivory- not pale- and when burnt it shimmers. His lips are fine like porcelain, strong as asphalt, fragile of glass. They're like the vial of ink perched atop oak desks, his eyes the paint which spills upon its tipping. Then, his nose. Perhaps it's its own mountain peak, own tower and ridge, sat in the centre of an array of brilliant features.

Personality: Fine, I'll tell you. I'm the thing you fear that lurks in the dark; I'm the shadows which move when no one is looking.

Hansol is darkness, creepy and quiet. He's the door creak three floors away, loud enough for the entire hotel to hear. He's the caw of corvidae lost in the night, crawling at the edges of poetry writ on ashen paper- the sound of singing, so submerged deep in water. And he's the flicker of all the lights, shuttering off, daunting of gauntlets and gore. He's the universe of suns sent elsewhere (they're not fading, they're dead) and the touch of seaweed on the toes, wind on the ears, and everything one thinks is about to grip onto them. If anything, he's the desperate unknown, in consistent sway and constantly on the move. He's tension, and wariness, and his attacks are those of knowing something is coming, yet still afraid, death the end of all and all.

Background: Hansol grew up in the oddest of matriarchies. His mother, a crystal gemstone of an inescapable creation, was perfect in every modern way. She had beauty, articulation- she handled men like they were pieces, scapegoats, and pawns. From what he's gathered, she'd had many lovers until her death, bearing a son who's sex alone caused her hate of motherhood. She gave him nothing. Perhaps it wasn't even an abusive childhood, but an absent one, for it's difficult to be tormented when never spoken to. He learned to travel by corners, when the hallway lights needed a bulb replaced; he grew the habits of sewers and the underground, seeing in the dark like his eyes were owl's, stalking mice from the trees. It's only natural he's become somewhat of a mole, seeking out the things he shouldn't know, hear, or understand. But he understands everything. He knows what even you may never feel within yourself.