This insomniac-troubled young lad cannot escape his nightmares; be it in daylight or under the carefully watching eye of the moon.
He lives on caffeine of drunkenly dancing to the sound of silence.
Will he be set free from this curse?
Faceclaim fo...
Though, Benjamin Valentine died on the 8th of April, 1899 from a case of Tuberculosis; Louis was merely seven years old, a rather insignificant age for some though it is known as the brink of understanding. He wasn't young enough to not understand death, but not old enough to know the philosophical aspects of such a concept; merely understood its anguish. The Cherrystone Farm never seemed so bleak, a perpetual winter. Though, in 1909 he was seventeen and was not yet of age to have the deeds to this land; refusing to go to an orphanage or into another line of work, Valentine had been allowed to stay under the watchful eye of the Cherrystone gamekeeper, George Clemont. He was practically a grandfather, a magnanimous man who resembled Benjamin in his solicitude though will never live up to his goodwill. George is too opinionated and isn't so gregacious as his former superior; he enjoys the company of Louis and that is all.
"You alright there, boy?"
Clemont's affable voice arose from behind the stone bench which sat steadily amongst Louis' sentimental reflections as he stared off into the desolate prison of pine which surrounded the entire farm and protected it from the outside threat. The boy wasn't reminiscing souly about his long-dead pa, but also staring into those shockingly eerie white dots that were the only distinctive feature of The Noirs face.
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It was always there, watching him, making him shiver under it's alarming gaze; though Louis was never belligerent. He never screamed at it to leave, never roared in its face or begged on his knees. His father always used to say he had a lack of belligerence, perhaps spineless though never cowardly; Louis hated confrontation, and always sought to alleviate the issue by allaying the aggressor. Nevertheless, he has yet to find a ameliorate for his condition.
"Yes, sir."
"Stables need tending to."
Despite his affable attitude and tone, he was adorned with an exceedingly Scottish accent; born and bred in the highlands, one may listen and believe he was talking Gaelic, though Louis understood him fine after living here all of his life. It doesn't take to ask twice when it comes to the orphan, as, once again, he is not a belligerent soul.
