His red eyes glower as he considers speaking. It isn’t something he does very often, particularly about himself. There’s a hesitation as he opens his mouth, as though the very words themselves are poisoned when he speaks.
“I never really had friends,” he admits quietly.
He doesn’t move. His back is straight, his arms folded neatly in front of him. Then his hand rises serruptitiously and brushes a thoughtful thumb against his lip.
“There was a time I would have liked to make a connection,” he says carefully. “When I was younger, I sought companionship, someone to share my thoughts with, to learn more from the perspective of another.”
“Looking back now…” he pauses. “I may have set my standards a little too high.”
His face doesn’t express much more than a dutiful attention, but his eyes, his firey red eyes dance with feeling as memories burn in the flames.
“On Naporar, everyone knew what they wanted to be. What they wanted to do. Almost from the minute they were born. They had a purpose. They had talent.”
“The children around me chose a specialty less than a year after being born,” he regarded. “I watched them grow all around me. Some became expert warriors, athletes. Others painted or drew or wrote or composed. Others still became knowledgable through learning. Medicine, law, engineering, economics, history…”
The corners of his mouth turn down.
“But I didn’t know what I wanted,” he says as his head tilts down and shadows spill over his face.
“So I did everything.”
“I read and I studied and I tried to physically improve myself but there was nothing I really wanted to do for the rest of my life. To improve above all else.”
“It made me depressed and bitter, resentful. Particularly when people told me what I couldn’t do.” The fire burns in his eyes, no pupils but red, glowing and menacing.
“I wanted to prove them wrong.”
“And then I realized what my talent was,” his eyes glitter with a newfound intensity, his sapphire skin almost black with shadow.
“I do what people think is impossible.”