About: Even Worth

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Metadata
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- owl:sameAs
- Inference Rule:

About: Even Worth Sponge Permalink

An Entity of Type : owl:Thing, within Data Space : 134.155.108.49:8890 associated with source dataset(s)

No one would ever call him handsome, not really. He wasn’t overly tall, nor lean by nature. His shoulders were wide and his frame meant for more weight than he had—too few regular meals and long addiction had robbed him of fat. At some point, his nose had been broken and something had left a scar slashing his right eyebrow—a thin slice of pale skin. He was too pale to be fair, with a shock of yellow hair and no real color to his cheeks. His eyes were dark though, brown and shadowed, deep set and never still. He watched the world with the wariness of a starving lion. When he was still, when he was focused, his stare was unnerving, a predator waiting for the prey to run.

Attributes	Values
rdfs:label	Even Worth
rdfs:comment	No one would ever call him handsome, not really. He wasn’t overly tall, nor lean by nature. His shoulders were wide and his frame meant for more weight than he had—too few regular meals and long addiction had robbed him of fat. At some point, his nose had been broken and something had left a scar slashing his right eyebrow—a thin slice of pale skin. He was too pale to be fair, with a shock of yellow hair and no real color to his cheeks. His eyes were dark though, brown and shadowed, deep set and never still. He watched the world with the wariness of a starving lion. When he was still, when he was focused, his stare was unnerving, a predator waiting for the prey to run.
dcterms:subject	Characters OCs Dysfunctional Worth Family
dbkwik:elegante/pr...iPageUsesTemplate	dbkwik:resource/cT1tok3AARopN39sPbtHcg==
abstract	No one would ever call him handsome, not really. He wasn’t overly tall, nor lean by nature. His shoulders were wide and his frame meant for more weight than he had—too few regular meals and long addiction had robbed him of fat. At some point, his nose had been broken and something had left a scar slashing his right eyebrow—a thin slice of pale skin. He was too pale to be fair, with a shock of yellow hair and no real color to his cheeks. His eyes were dark though, brown and shadowed, deep set and never still. He watched the world with the wariness of a starving lion. When he was still, when he was focused, his stare was unnerving, a predator waiting for the prey to run. He dressed well for his look, monochrome and subdued, but well cut, layered. The leather jacket was no thug’s coat, but soft to the touch, smoothing the harsh lines of his shoulders. No denim, but dark slacks, no fancy shoes but steel toe cowboy boots. The scarred skin of his hands was hidden by gloves, leather in winter, cotton in heat. There was nothing about him to suggest weapons, no bulges or visible holsters. But there was something in the way he moved, in the way he didn’t move. When he was still, he was absolutely still, chest barely rising and falling with breath, eyes unblinking, watching, scanning, taking in detail. But when he moved, he knew exactly where he was in the world, liquid grace and sure speed. Weapons blossomed with a magician’s touch. There were no horsemen, he had no pale horse. But there was death, sure enough.

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