Tom Ashfield

Name: Thomas Alexander Ashfield
Age: 21
Race: Human
Sex: Male

Hair: Jet-black. He has a penchant for restyling his hair but he keeps it clean and neat.
Eyes: Light blue that looks like crystalline ice.
Weight: 211 lbs
Height: 6’2”

Weapon: None.
Armor: None.

Strengths: Though he doesn’t have a behemoth’s strength, or the magical aura of an archmage, he has his charms, wits and charisma to support him; and he’s very good with it.
Weakness: He can be seen as a mere ant from characters that can lift ten elephants or change the weather—he is, after all, only a normal human being.

Skills: Abiogenesis is not considered magic but an innate skill bequeathed from one distinct bloodline. It is the ability to turn inanimate matter to living things, which is quite similar to telekinesis only it doesn’t affect living, intangible and magical objects. To Tom’s disappointment, Abiogenesis weakens when it is passed from generation after generation, thus he has the weakest by far considering he is one of the latest descendants.

He knows martial arts, and he’s good with it. The Praying Mantis, a style that utilizes defense as an offense. The style demands power than strength, agility versus speed, dexterity and timing and flexibility. The martial artist treats the battle like a mind game: he must know when the foe attacks so he could catch it and retaliate. Power must be in high control—fighter must know how to slow down his cadences of combos then when to apply a sudden burst of speed to cow enemies. Flexibility is very well used for the fighter must know some gymnastic skills to give him a safe position during combat: back handsprings, ground rolls, evasive blocking and such. Confusing and stunning characters also play a major role: through hitting critical parts of enemy’s body, he can disorient him in a way that gives Tom an open chance to strike, yet, he rarely does attacks like this because they can cause hemorrhage and death. He’s not a cold-blooded killer.

Also, Tom knows some domestic and artful skills. He can cook like a high-class chef. He can play four musical instruments (violin, piano, harp, cello). And he knows proper manners and etiquette very well.

Appearance: When you accost this man, his eyes are potently magnetizing enough to focus your whole attention unto them; they look impeccably blue and clear, like it reflects the aura he emanates—an innocent, humble gentleman. His face is considered good-looking, but not ruggedly rather of a grown man having features of a child: his nose is quite aristocratic; his lips look soft and red yet can be dangerous when provoked; his chin is strong. Originally, Tom’s skin complexion is pale and pinkish, but after the sun has had forced his skin to change, his skin has become light tan yet enough to show a burning blush. Some say Tom is like a more modest featured moving statue of Adonis, and he knows it is, as proudly as he could, a fact. Almost all of the time Tom is seen donned in formal apparels, yet his taste for clothing ranges widely.

Personality: Much of Tom’s amusement, people say he is like a saintly angel but only having a black hair instead of blond, but Tom knows that’s only what they see outside. To some selected people, they know this supposedly-gullible-looking man is actually a devil worn in sheep’s clothing—he’s playfully mischievous and cannily coquettish. A gentlemanly and gallant cad, in other words. Albeit of his high-class lifestyle, he doesn’t provoke citizens who are suffering poverty and following a frugal lifestyle, in fact, he appreciates them. He believes communism is actually a good government. He has a personal virtue for women, which is to respect them higher than men.

Though with all of that of him being nice, patient, and understanding, he does have his negative sides. Tom is quite caring and protective, which is not a problem really, until it turns into an obsession. If he loves someone truly from the bottom of his heart, he’s not afraid to show proprietorship—he’s superbly envious and overzealous. Too much of good can be bad. If he sees another man touching his lover with no amorous intention, his beautiful eyes will turn into malignant slits and that calm aura will turn into one daubed by such indignation. If the lover was actually deceitful, he’s not afraid to do dirty and drastic measures. He owns what he owns, but it doesn’t apply materially. Another thing is, Tom is constantly aware of his physical appearance and ego, it does make him a slightly narcissistic and haughty, still, it doesn’t come as his highest priority.


Autobiography excerpt:

It was the start of the days where Mother cried and cried. She hid those tears when she saw me, her smile aglow and sweet as she tried to cook a meal for both of us. Mother was not the best cook in the world, but I loved her for what she was. Cooking alone was not something to decide if Mother was a perfect mother or not. But when the plate seated on the table, her radiant smirk suddenly felt tainted by sorrow, then she hurried outside the kitchen. I was only a boy from that time, so I thought Mother must have forgotten something. I only ate and ate, my legs swinging front and back. I was a boy, oblivious of the world around me.

Father and Mother told me to always eat what was served on your plate and I had never failed such duty. I approached the door where Mother ran, found it ajar.
“Mother, are you crying?” I innocently asked.

She looked unto me, her blue eyes swollen and bleary. She shook her head and said some insect got into her eyes. I believed it willingly. I felt foolish now why I had done it without any qualms and disagreement.

Weeks poured like water from a waterfall, so easy yet with impact. Mother was so silent, so-so silent. She spent her days looking outside the window, her face etched by wistful sadness. I’d ask her what she was doing, she would only reply: “waiting for your father.”
Father, I missed him. He had gone into somewhere where people needed him. You see, Father was a chivalrous knight with a shining polished armor, and everyone always begged him of feats of risking his life to save souls, yet, even for his family, he had not given much time. At times, I hated Father, punishing me in a way that had always abashed me unspeakably, yet that muddle of ire was nothing but pure wind now. Father, with his brazen but fearless eyes had only wanted the best, the very apex of my abilities.

And weeks fleeted as a month, but Mother for each day and day would always do her ritual to look outside the window with eyes glistening with moisture. My stomach growled. I had asked Mother if there was something to eat. Her reply would be masked with a smile filled with rapport, yet it was an excuse to say our supply for nourishments was depleted. I was still a child there after all; I had not known Father was already unsighted and considered missing.

Then: knock, knock, knock—on the door.
After Mother opened it with wariness, I saw a man that I had never seen before. His hair was like silky crown of blond hair and his eyes impassive, cool, like an arbiter would yen to cow criminals. He was worn in clothing that made my eyes loom wide with curiosity and admiration. Never had I seen someone wear such clothing.
He was my uncle.
An uncle? By that time, such thought had not clawed my mind.

The rest of my years were spent in a household ostentatiously storing opulent antiquities and accommodation. It was one of the houses that my uncle owned. Mother was getting weaker and weaker, her recuperation on her bed ineffective. Tuberculosis.
I was already a young man, and as a man I should be the one now to shield Mother from any adversities she faced. But, the illness was long considered incurable. My eyes could only lower steeply with sorrow and melancholy. I was not prepared to see my beloved one perish and waste away in a ghastly manner. However, I could only look, with my two orbs. A fate that was inescapable and cruel.

And then her final breathe came, her last words lingered upon the heavy, silent room, mixing with the air that it was impossible to breathe. I cried that day, cried like I had never cried before.
Moving on was not an easy undertaking, yet I somehow managed. My uncle, reminding me of Father’s nonchalant eyes, told me I was already a man, a man that should experience the world.

I forced my step out of door, on the balcony. For years of homeschooling and training inside a house that would be considered an incarceration, that had been my first look of the outside for such a long time. I feasted the milieu with my eyes. I breathed deep, scavenging air from my lungs. I swallowed.
Then, slowly, I trod quietly.