Appearance:
Seeming by most accounts unremarkable, Alason is but another face in the crowd to most, the only distinguishing features being the beginnings of a fine beard and a rather geometrically defined nose. Beyond this, however, Alason is nothing beyond a brown-haired, brown-eyed white guy scuttling about in a suit with some rather plain, black glasses. Speaking of the suit - for those of you who actually care - on a nearly daily basis Alason wears a suit grading from grey-blue to black, always worn with a sense of business and professionalism. The beard? Perhaps four steps away from pathetic. It hardly covers the face and only barely escapes judgement as mere stubble. Still, none of this is to say that he is particularly unattractive, rather, as aforementioned and as surely will be mentioned countless times more, Alason is neither attractive nor unattractive, neither this nor that, not anything; he merely is, and is quite content in anonymity.
Full Name: Alason Iver Campbell
Nicknames/Alias/AKA: N/A
Age: 31
Gender: Male
DOB: 20 August 1984
Occupation: Civil Litigation Lawyer
Race: Quaestrum Witch
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Height and Build: About 5'10", and ideally proportioned for a human. That is not to say that he has an
optimized, hyper-athletic build, but rather that he is neither overweight nor underweight and is by all accounts an average, unremarkable, healthy male.
History/bio:
The first thing one must notice is the air of calm about her, an air which hardly dissipates when she beckons me over and dismisses the attendants.
"I want you to see everything. I want you to understand properly the things that you never could." Cryptic, but after a moment I understand. I take her hand, splay it with her palm to the ceiling, and begin to run my fingers down the fine wrinkles of her hand. I close my eyes.
The serene black is stolen from the inside of my eyelids and is immediately replaced with a blinding white. Pain, a pain that I've not felt before; it is as though my innards are retching about, churning and switching positions in some horrific game of musical chairs. A hospital. Doctors. More pain. A child. As the pain begins to give way to the sweet relaxation of endorphins, I hardly notice the passage of time before the newborn is presented to me. I know the face, and yet it is new to me. I love it. It almost takes away the bitter tinge of knowing that my husband is not here, but off doing God knows what in some filthy alley. Almost.
Sift through the fluff.
A toddler. Cute, but without identity. With the superfluous baby fat gone and the cheekbones beginning to set in properly, one can begin to see the resemblance between him and me. He plays in the yard, but again: where is the father? I head back inside and begin to brew some tea. Oh, I'm crying. My husband hasn't been home in four days, and I don't know where he is. I can't explain to the child though, no, he mustn't know that his father is a deadbeat. He mustn't know that his father is a traitor. He mustn't know that his father has all but abandoned us. He mustn't know that his father drinks, and runs off with human women, enamored by his parlor tricks, to forget. He mustn't know that his father hates his own kind, hates his own self, hates his own wife, hates his own son. He mustn't know that his father is a bastard that deserves nothing short of the stake. Oh, dash, I've accidentally torched the kitchen. I promptly put it out, of course, but cleaning it up in front my son should prove a bit awkward. Ah well, some candy and he'll forget in due time. Some day... some day I'll explain it to him.
Sift through the fluff.
My son is gone now, off studying English at a university. I'm in a hammock, reading, when I hear footsteps behind me. They do not sound unfriendly, so I turn slowly and with a smile on my face, assuming it to be a neighbor. Shock. Fear quickly bleeds into confusion as I look upon the well-groomed, nervously happy visage of my child's father, my... husband.
"Why are you here?"
"I know that I haven't been good to you. I know that. But... Lorna, I want to be a part of your life again. I want to see my son.'
I'm torn. On one hand, I can see that he means it. In proper clothes, groomed, apologetic and empathetic... How can I say no?
"No." Oh, that's how. "I'm sorry, but you had your chance. We haven't seen you in seventeen years; you chose to not be a part of his life and now you have to live with the consequences of that choice."
"But-"
"No."
Sift thro- I'm jerked out of the memoryscape, sweaty and hyperventilating. With my mother's hand on my wrist, I slow down and, after a moment, stand straight. A pause. Eye contact. I head for the door.
"Where are you going?"
I pause again. Where am I going? No sense in merely storming off because I'm angry at my father for his negligence and my mother for her stubbornness. But, after a moment of thought, that's not all I'm doing.
"I'm going to look for my father's phone number. The healer gets back from his vacation today; the flight should be in by 4:50. He'll be here by the end of the day to take care of your lung problem." I exit my mother's home without contest. She knows it would be futile.
— Two years ago
Family/Relationships:
Father: Mr. Douglass Campbell - Distant, in regular contact
Mother: Dr. Lorna Campbell - Local, in regular contact
Grandparents: All deceased
Paternal aunt: Ms. Moira Smith - Distant, in holiday contact
Maternal aunt: Mrs. Saundra Wilson - Distant, in holiday contact
Maternal aunt: Ms. Roberta Brown - Local, in holiday contact
Maternal uncle: Mr. Robert Wilson - Distant, in holiday contact
