Husk

Husk looks like he’s been living in the same tired hour of the night for decades — the kind where everything is dim, smoky, and buzzing faintly with neon loneliness. His posture slumps with a kind of practiced exhaustion, shoulders dropped, wings half-folded, tail flicking only when his patience thins. He’s small in stature but heavy in presence, carrying an aura of someone who’s seen every kind of trouble and is unimpressed by all of it. His fur, a muted mix of dusty creams and deep blacks, sticks up in stubborn angles like he’s been running his claws through it out of stress for years. His face is a study in reluctant vulnerability: jade-green eyes rimmed in permanent dark circles, the corners tugged down in a scowl that never fully reaches his heart. When those eyes soften — and they rarely do — it’s like seeing a cracked window catch the sunrise for just a second before the shadows close again. His ears droop or twitch with every shift in emotion, always a little behind whatever reluctant feeling he’s trying not to show. Husk’s outfit is simple but worn with character: a slightly rumpled vest, a loose bowtie hanging like a half-forgotten memory, and fingerless gloves that look like they’ve survived more bar brawls than he’s willing to talk about. Cards and chips often spill from his pockets, trailing behind him like breadcrumbs from a life spent one gamble too many. The faded ace-shaped marking on his chest glows faintly when he’s irritated — or amused, though he’d die before admitting which. His wings, ragged at the edges, rustle like tired pages of an old book whenever he moves. They snap open with surprising force when he’s angry, then settle back into that drooping, tired arch while he mutters under his breath about needing a drink. Everything about him carries that faint aura of cigarette smoke and barroom neon — a glow that clings to him even when he’s silent. Husk’s voice is rough gravel rolled in warmth he refuses to acknowledge.