Post by Forte on Jun 1, 2010 11:34:01 GMT -5
Name: Christopher James Wesson (Chris)
Age: 22
Gender: Male
Height: 5 10"
Physical Description:
In his way, Chris is incredibly boyish, with long arms and legs and a face that is at an intersection between angular and soft, still maintaining some of its youthful innocence even behind his usual rather rough-shod and unshaven features. His hair is unruly and shaggy, a dark brown in a way that is soft black under certain light. His complexion is tanned, rough and edgy from long exposure to the sun, even in the bleaker months never pallid. His eyes, set close around an aquiline nose, are a rather striking shade of hazel, a deep brown beset by a turbulent gray-green, wily and alert, more in expression youthful than suggested by the premature creases at the corners. Though not exactly strikingly tall, his good posture (and ever-present stetson) give him a confidence of form that it is hard to ignore.
He walks with a slight swagger that is somehow suggestive of the many saddle sore he has endured and fought. In fact, he exudes a kind of down-to-earth horsiness that could be attributed to a sort of Western romanticism that seems to cling to him. However, there is, in the line of his face and the movement of his hand, little to suggest that he is attempting to call back to the untamed west, at least intentionally. Even in his evident self-confidence and somewhat holier-than-thou bearing he is down to earth and polite in movement and speech, always with a twinkle of opinion in his eye and voice but never really letting it come out. He has a rather unhurried air, seems unable to move faster than a leisurely pace on the ground (although to see him in motion with horses or at work it would be unexpected,) and never, ever, hurries for the sake of someone else.
His clothing is simple and even boring at times, mud-spattered jeans and ragged, loose t-shirts that bear the signs of constant wear. His stetson is usually firmly on his head, and his boots firmly on his feet. There is nothing adorned or superficial about his appearance, only an undeniable earthiness. He does not wear a watch on principle, but on his wist there is a simple band of braided leather, long faded, beset by clay beads of indeterminate design and color. His voice is soft, but clear and unhesitating, capable of great tenderness and great anger, but never breaking into a louder volume at most times. There is something unshakable about his presence, a primal stillness and patience that can put him at perfect rest. He is ever-steady, his feet on the ground and his eyes fixed always ahead.
Personality:
He's quite inoffensive in most ways, perfectly unremarkable and even somewhat too quiet. There is something about him that suggests, in a totally kind and above-all polite way, that most of humanity ought to just go and fall off a cliff somewhere. Chris is not unkind, in fact he is quite social and enjoys company, it's simply an unavoidable, almost necessary kind of dislike for the average human being. He is capable of friendship, but rarely close to anyone, shadowy and vague and completely agreeable while always managing to exude the air that he would rather be doing something else. Which is probably true. He dislikes being indoors, and is even somewhat claustrophobic. In fact, he only seems truly in his element when he can see the sky and feel the breeze.
He's polite in a vaguely disinterested way, more out of habit and courtesy than real care. In fact he seems rather vapid in many ways, and nothing seems to really rile or ruffle him. He is bored by things beyond his sphere, somewhat unimaginative, and quickly tunes out of conversations in which he feels he has no place. However, if he is started on a topic that he has some interest in or is passionate about he is very opinionated and highly interesting. He has little concern for the material world, but loves music, and, of course, horses and animals of all kinds. In his element, which is on or around the horse and the cow, he is active, engaged, and aflame with a spirit that is missing in their absence. About their treatment he is opinionated and interesting, with definite experience, prowess, and a sense of justice.
As it were, he detests the BLM, mistrusts some of the more modern training techniques, and holds to the theory that most horses, be they crazy bucking outlaws or high-born show horses, really just desire an unadulterated return to horsiness. He is ashamed of and appalled by their mistreatment and the steps men have taken to remove them from their natural state. He feels bad for racking horses, for horses made to jump six foot walls in succession, for those trained to do something unnatural and who, as a result, are oftentimes neurotic, stall-weavers, cribbers, otherwise vice-ridden and unhappy beasts. He has never seen a horse more happy than those who roam in their natural packs, even when thin and harrowed; they have a kind of stability that he tries his best to bring into his own dealings with them
History:
Chris was born of the range, of the Western spirit still untamed, born in the saddle and on the grass, under a sky as open and unobstructed as is possible in this day and age. The lands owned by his father and grandfather and all of his ancestry back since the West was first settled bordered, or were very close to, a small Indian reservation, and in his connection with this he was unusual. At an early age, in a wild and rolling kindergarten youth, he would tramp the seemingly endless rolling acres with a puppy at his heels, and at some point this exploration led him into contact with a young Apache boy, about his age, and a friendship blossomed.
Even in his youth, Chris was somewhat different than the average child, a little quieter, a little more thoughtful, and very good with animals. He had few friends at school, and in this brief contact he had found his one true buddy. With that came his real education in the ways of the horse. He had always seen and ridden the little half-wild range horses that made up his father's string, but had seen them as the employees always had. They were not cruel to the ponies, and in fact the treatment of those range horses was a good bit better than that which Chris would see later in the show ring or on the race track, but the human and the horse seldom formed strong bonds. The ponies worked when they had to and were retired out onto the range afterwards.
But the horses he saw on the reservation, a small splinter tribe which had changed little in all those years, were of a different sort. They were of the same blood, the wily mustang with a few splashes of something bolder in them, some of them spotted or patched, but they lived differently. Unlike at the home range, where human affairs and those of the mostly feral herds rarely mixed, here the horses and humans seemed to exist in one society, each accepting the other. They were real partners, helping each other in any way that they could, and it was beautiful. Much of Chris's education about horsemanship came from them, taking what he felt was useful from his father's range, and slowly being molded into a useful sort with the horse.
At the age of fifteen he went out on his first, and last, round-up with his father on the little pony given to him by his native friends and trained by his own hands, and he loved it more than anything else. There was nothing greater to him than feeling that horse and man were working towards a common goal, that feeling of unity and partnership that was beautiful and potent at the same time. But that was only the high point before the fall. Soon after, the Indian land was sold off for no good reason but greed, and although Chris did his best to get the horses on the land over to his father's ranch, (they mad very fine herders) most of the stock was sold of. Chris was torn apart. The town in which he lived was undergoing a change that he could hardly understand.
Within the next two years his father was forced to close down the ranch and sell all of the stock. There was simply no money in it anymore, agribusiness had taken over the place where the herders had once reigned. Chris was distraught, even though it was agreed that his horse would not be sold and would come with them to the city. Although he railed and raged against it, Chris could do nothing to prevent the inevitable. So he came to live closer to the city, and hated every second of it. To him there was always something unnatural about being cooped up, with only a yard and no land beyond it. His horse wasn't too pleased with it either. The pastures at the stable where they boarded him were hardly a replacement for the open range.
When he was eighteen, after graduating from high school, he just up and left, taking with him all that he had saved for tuition and vanishing along with his horse, his truck, and a trailer that had also been a relic of old days. He was nowhere to be found for a year, hidden out on some other faltering ranch or something of the sort (actually, he was working at a mustang rescue that took in the older BLM mustangs). He lived apart from material needs and human company for many years, living on rice and beans and what he could scrape together, keeping his horse where he could. The horse, a faithful old patchy mustang, passed away very recently of old age, and in the emptiness of his passing Chris realized that if he ever wanted to be heard he'd have to get back into the world of horses. So, reluctantly, he has come back and is now searching for a job and some meaning to life.
Note: Yeah. Old application, but I never got to use this character. I quite like him =D. And, no, I don't always write that much x.x;
Age: 22
Gender: Male
Height: 5 10"
Physical Description:
In his way, Chris is incredibly boyish, with long arms and legs and a face that is at an intersection between angular and soft, still maintaining some of its youthful innocence even behind his usual rather rough-shod and unshaven features. His hair is unruly and shaggy, a dark brown in a way that is soft black under certain light. His complexion is tanned, rough and edgy from long exposure to the sun, even in the bleaker months never pallid. His eyes, set close around an aquiline nose, are a rather striking shade of hazel, a deep brown beset by a turbulent gray-green, wily and alert, more in expression youthful than suggested by the premature creases at the corners. Though not exactly strikingly tall, his good posture (and ever-present stetson) give him a confidence of form that it is hard to ignore.
He walks with a slight swagger that is somehow suggestive of the many saddle sore he has endured and fought. In fact, he exudes a kind of down-to-earth horsiness that could be attributed to a sort of Western romanticism that seems to cling to him. However, there is, in the line of his face and the movement of his hand, little to suggest that he is attempting to call back to the untamed west, at least intentionally. Even in his evident self-confidence and somewhat holier-than-thou bearing he is down to earth and polite in movement and speech, always with a twinkle of opinion in his eye and voice but never really letting it come out. He has a rather unhurried air, seems unable to move faster than a leisurely pace on the ground (although to see him in motion with horses or at work it would be unexpected,) and never, ever, hurries for the sake of someone else.
His clothing is simple and even boring at times, mud-spattered jeans and ragged, loose t-shirts that bear the signs of constant wear. His stetson is usually firmly on his head, and his boots firmly on his feet. There is nothing adorned or superficial about his appearance, only an undeniable earthiness. He does not wear a watch on principle, but on his wist there is a simple band of braided leather, long faded, beset by clay beads of indeterminate design and color. His voice is soft, but clear and unhesitating, capable of great tenderness and great anger, but never breaking into a louder volume at most times. There is something unshakable about his presence, a primal stillness and patience that can put him at perfect rest. He is ever-steady, his feet on the ground and his eyes fixed always ahead.
Personality:
He's quite inoffensive in most ways, perfectly unremarkable and even somewhat too quiet. There is something about him that suggests, in a totally kind and above-all polite way, that most of humanity ought to just go and fall off a cliff somewhere. Chris is not unkind, in fact he is quite social and enjoys company, it's simply an unavoidable, almost necessary kind of dislike for the average human being. He is capable of friendship, but rarely close to anyone, shadowy and vague and completely agreeable while always managing to exude the air that he would rather be doing something else. Which is probably true. He dislikes being indoors, and is even somewhat claustrophobic. In fact, he only seems truly in his element when he can see the sky and feel the breeze.
He's polite in a vaguely disinterested way, more out of habit and courtesy than real care. In fact he seems rather vapid in many ways, and nothing seems to really rile or ruffle him. He is bored by things beyond his sphere, somewhat unimaginative, and quickly tunes out of conversations in which he feels he has no place. However, if he is started on a topic that he has some interest in or is passionate about he is very opinionated and highly interesting. He has little concern for the material world, but loves music, and, of course, horses and animals of all kinds. In his element, which is on or around the horse and the cow, he is active, engaged, and aflame with a spirit that is missing in their absence. About their treatment he is opinionated and interesting, with definite experience, prowess, and a sense of justice.
As it were, he detests the BLM, mistrusts some of the more modern training techniques, and holds to the theory that most horses, be they crazy bucking outlaws or high-born show horses, really just desire an unadulterated return to horsiness. He is ashamed of and appalled by their mistreatment and the steps men have taken to remove them from their natural state. He feels bad for racking horses, for horses made to jump six foot walls in succession, for those trained to do something unnatural and who, as a result, are oftentimes neurotic, stall-weavers, cribbers, otherwise vice-ridden and unhappy beasts. He has never seen a horse more happy than those who roam in their natural packs, even when thin and harrowed; they have a kind of stability that he tries his best to bring into his own dealings with them
History:
Chris was born of the range, of the Western spirit still untamed, born in the saddle and on the grass, under a sky as open and unobstructed as is possible in this day and age. The lands owned by his father and grandfather and all of his ancestry back since the West was first settled bordered, or were very close to, a small Indian reservation, and in his connection with this he was unusual. At an early age, in a wild and rolling kindergarten youth, he would tramp the seemingly endless rolling acres with a puppy at his heels, and at some point this exploration led him into contact with a young Apache boy, about his age, and a friendship blossomed.
Even in his youth, Chris was somewhat different than the average child, a little quieter, a little more thoughtful, and very good with animals. He had few friends at school, and in this brief contact he had found his one true buddy. With that came his real education in the ways of the horse. He had always seen and ridden the little half-wild range horses that made up his father's string, but had seen them as the employees always had. They were not cruel to the ponies, and in fact the treatment of those range horses was a good bit better than that which Chris would see later in the show ring or on the race track, but the human and the horse seldom formed strong bonds. The ponies worked when they had to and were retired out onto the range afterwards.
But the horses he saw on the reservation, a small splinter tribe which had changed little in all those years, were of a different sort. They were of the same blood, the wily mustang with a few splashes of something bolder in them, some of them spotted or patched, but they lived differently. Unlike at the home range, where human affairs and those of the mostly feral herds rarely mixed, here the horses and humans seemed to exist in one society, each accepting the other. They were real partners, helping each other in any way that they could, and it was beautiful. Much of Chris's education about horsemanship came from them, taking what he felt was useful from his father's range, and slowly being molded into a useful sort with the horse.
At the age of fifteen he went out on his first, and last, round-up with his father on the little pony given to him by his native friends and trained by his own hands, and he loved it more than anything else. There was nothing greater to him than feeling that horse and man were working towards a common goal, that feeling of unity and partnership that was beautiful and potent at the same time. But that was only the high point before the fall. Soon after, the Indian land was sold off for no good reason but greed, and although Chris did his best to get the horses on the land over to his father's ranch, (they mad very fine herders) most of the stock was sold of. Chris was torn apart. The town in which he lived was undergoing a change that he could hardly understand.
Within the next two years his father was forced to close down the ranch and sell all of the stock. There was simply no money in it anymore, agribusiness had taken over the place where the herders had once reigned. Chris was distraught, even though it was agreed that his horse would not be sold and would come with them to the city. Although he railed and raged against it, Chris could do nothing to prevent the inevitable. So he came to live closer to the city, and hated every second of it. To him there was always something unnatural about being cooped up, with only a yard and no land beyond it. His horse wasn't too pleased with it either. The pastures at the stable where they boarded him were hardly a replacement for the open range.
When he was eighteen, after graduating from high school, he just up and left, taking with him all that he had saved for tuition and vanishing along with his horse, his truck, and a trailer that had also been a relic of old days. He was nowhere to be found for a year, hidden out on some other faltering ranch or something of the sort (actually, he was working at a mustang rescue that took in the older BLM mustangs). He lived apart from material needs and human company for many years, living on rice and beans and what he could scrape together, keeping his horse where he could. The horse, a faithful old patchy mustang, passed away very recently of old age, and in the emptiness of his passing Chris realized that if he ever wanted to be heard he'd have to get back into the world of horses. So, reluctantly, he has come back and is now searching for a job and some meaning to life.
Note: Yeah. Old application, but I never got to use this character. I quite like him =D. And, no, I don't always write that much x.x;