the hanged man
-
went up on a mountain,
there i made my stand.
went up on a mountain,
there i made my stand.
rifle on my shoulder
and a dagger in my hand, poor boy
i been all around this world.
so hang me, oh hang me,
and i'll be dead and gone.
An enigma gusts into town in a storm of sparrows and alley cats.
Armed with a guitar at his back and a pistol in his waistband, Llewyn tries to make as little an impression as possible. He blends in with the sidewalk and brick facades, wearing a dusty old coat and a ratty old scarf and it seems like every thread on him is frayed. The sentiment is echoed in his face, which would look handsome if not for the gauntness of his cheeks and the dark circles beneath his heavily lidded, hooded eyes. There's a certain curious grey tinge to his olive complexion that goes beyond that of a nicotine addiction. This man couldn't look more tired if he tried, yet somehow he manages to remain upright, ever the epitome of exhaustion.
The stranger drags deeply on a cigarette, leaning up against the faded posters on the wall outside the venue he's due to play. The act causes the hollows of his cheeks, deep enough as they were, to give his whole face the eerie impression of a skull. When he's dug out the smoke underfoot, he pushes himself off the wall with all the stiffness of a cadaver and shuffles inside, late to the stage. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry, but walks with the aimless purpose of a self-made wanderer. -
when you mend the patches of my clothin'
you know every thread goes through my heart
guessin' that the river's gonna dry up
well, i said that's not the reason why we bard
NAME: Llewyn Castillo
PRONUNCIATION: LOU-in Cas-TEE-oh
GENDER: ♂
SPECIES: He considers "Human of Alternative Life Status" the PC term, but revenant seems accurate enough. "Undead" is pushing it, but "zombie" is just plain vulgar.
AGE: 28 at time of death.
BIRTHDAY: Mid-July.
DEATHDAY: 52 years hence, in the winter after New Year's Eve.
HOME: In life, Llewyn lived in Greenwich Village, Manhattan, the only son of a Welsh mother and Cuban father. Since passing he's wandered from town to town, criss-crossing the country, playing gigs at dives and clubs to scrape together enough cash to move onto the next place. Now he's finally made it to Louisiana. The music scene is hopping, so he figures he might settle down for the first time in half a century to pick up a little inspiration.
ORIENTATION: Deeply closeted bisexual.
STATUS: Lonely in self-martyred exile. Desperate for emotional intimacy, but hates himself too much to accept it when offered. Self loathing has cooled his passions -- and besides, he's not sure all his parts still work.
OCCUPATION: Originally just a singer-songwriter, though he's since turned to less...savory pursuits in undeath when he's short on cash. Being dead for 50 years means he's less uncomfortable with taking a life than he once was.
LANGUAGES: Only English, but he supposes he's got all the time in the world to learn Spanish and Welsh and French now.
CHARACTERISTICS: Deliberate, thinks long before he acts, pensive. Sequestered emotionally. Gets addicted to substances, ideals, and people easily. Once outgoing and inspired, now awkward in conversation and unsure of himself. Interpersonal skills take practice, and now that he has begun to put down roots once more, he may yet need all the practice he can get. -
hell above and heaven below
all the trees are gone
the rain made such a lovely sound
to those who are six feet under ground
the leaves will bury every year
and no one knows i'm gone
