Fulin (also known as Fu)

Physical Description :

If he ate a healthier, more balanced diet—or, more simply, if he actually ate proper meals on a regular basis—Fulin would undoubtedly be a strikingly handsome male with a tall, graceful silhouette. Given his current lifestyle, however, he still manages to qualify as something of a pretty face... provided you happen to like them a little underfed, not always well-groomed, slightly disheveled, and carrying themselves with a lazy, slouching nonchalance that borders on complete indifference. His roguish charm and easy smile tend to win over the more adventurous souls, while the long forelock that usually veils half his face lends him an air of mystery that inevitably draws the curious in. Even his perpetually dull, sleep-deprived eyes seem softened by the crooked smile forever resting upon his lips... a smile that, more often than not, is entirely fabricated.

Look too closely, however, and the illusion quickly shatters. The bluish scars branching across his body become impossible to ignore, as obvious as daylight once noticed. That's precisely why he goes to great lengths to conceal his cracks beneath layers of clothing, only ever allowing them to be uncovered under the safety of the deepest darkness. Claiming to enjoy being mysterious is a convenient excuse—especially when directed at the right audience.

Some kinds of pain can only be quieted with expensive liquor and precious opiates. Fulin indulges far too heavily in both, and it shows. His lifeless, almost frozen gaze, his waxy complexion, and the permanent shadows beneath his eyes betray the truth all too easily. Fortunately, a little concealer is often enough to hide the worst of it. What can he say ?

Personality :

To those who've crossed paths with him—which, more often than not, wasn't for very long—Fulin remains a living enigma. Pleasant, charming, even remarkably friendly upon first meeting, he'll slip through your fingers in the blink of an eye, vanishing from your life as suddenly as he entered it. Deliberately so. He makes certain never to form genuine attachments with anyone. His creditors describe him as an utter disaster who never pays on time... yet somehow always settles his debts in the end. His lovers, meanwhile, are far more inclined to call him an asshole—though usually with a bittersweet tenderness lingering in their eyes. After all, if he leaves you, it'll only be after giving you the most unforgettable night of your life. Fu lies shamelessly. Just never about feelings. He will never promise you love. He will never promise you friendship. So don't make the mistake of growing attached to him. It's the quickest way to watch him disappear from your life altogether.

Selfish, you say ? Undeniably. But the reason he refuses to grow close to people has little to do with selfishness. Above all, it's an attempt to spare others the pain he knows he would inevitably cause them. He's already carrying more than enough of his own. A constant, gnawing pain. Relentless. Ever-present. One that never grants him a single moment's respite, building steadily until it becomes unbearable... and then it explodes. Quite literally. So no—there truly is nothing to gain from tying your life to someone like him. Besides, who in their right mind would willingly put up with an addict whose body is cracked from head to toe ? Let's be realistic. More importantly, Fu has no desire to depend on anyone. His only masters are alcohol and drugs, and they're demanding enough as it is. But don't worry about him. He manages just fine on his own. At least he isn't deluding himself by waiting for "true love" to magically appear like so many others do. And certainly not at the bottom of a bottle... or inside his little box of wonders.

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

That is the creed by which he lives. Tomorrow may very well be our last day on this earth, so why waste today's precious hours worrying about it ? Better to enjoy the present while it lasts.

Behind this seemingly carefree epicurean philosophy lies a man profoundly disillusioned with life—a soul burning the candle at both ends. He's resourceful, fiercely independent, and determined never to rely on anyone. Or perhaps more accurately... He's terrified of becoming dependent on someone else. Rather ironic, isn't it for a junkie hopelessly addicted to gambling, alcohol... and opium ?

History :

My story ? Oh ? You really think anyone would care enough to hear it ? Well... fine. Let's pretend I'm feeling talkative tonight.

So then... This humble fool's existence began as one colossal joke. I wouldn't dare call it cosmic—or even magical—but a joke nonetheless.

An utterly ordinary female somehow managed to catch the attention of an Elder. How ? Your guess is as good as mine. She was probably just standing in the right place at the right time.

In any case, that brief encounter produced the unfortunate creature standing before you now. A pitiful thing far too weak to bear the inheritance of his divine progenitor. And you see... of all the people paying the price for that mistake, it isn't so much the one who gave me life. It's me. Day after day. Hour after hour. Minute after minute.

Believe me, I've considered ending my life more than once. Not that I'm the sort to wallow in self-pity or endlessly lament my miserable fate—unlike some people. But the little "miracle" that I supposedly am carries his name with cruel irony. Fate, in the midst of all my misery, saw fit to curse me with outrageous luck.

Oh... would you like to hear a secret ? Fulin isn't my real name. It's the one I built for myself, and if you ask me, it suits me far better than the one chosen by that poor excuse for a mother I had to endure for an entire Cycle. Qiji. Honestly... who names their child something that sounds so ridiculously close to the name of our own species ? Gods, that's in terribly poor taste...

Do you know what the saddest part is ? She's probably still waiting for them. Four centuries later—or maybe more. I stopped counting. Still convinced they're her one true love, destined to return one day and, as she loved to repeat,"Make everything right." Pathetic. Especially after I found out the bastard had been happily expanding their little demidivine bloodline by warming plenty of other beds. Well... That's their problem. Not mine.

Devotion. Worship. Respect for our Elders. None of those have ever really been my thing. Though I suppose it's painfully obvious why, isn't it ? Ah... I see you understand. It's nice to feel understood for once. Now then... where was I ? Ah, yes. The rest wasn't exactly easy. Breaking your chains always comes at a price, doesn't it ? I only wish I'd learned certain lessons another way... Though dwelling on the past is pointless. What's done is done. Wouldn't you agree ? Besides... I learned. And I'll spend the rest of my life paying for my mistakes.

So why burden myself with even more misery ? At least I make myself useful these days. Granted, my work isn't exactly... respectable. But work is work. And services rendered deserve to be paid. I never keep any of the valuables I'm hired to acquire here and there. That would be far too dangerous. I'm already playing with enough fire through my second occupation. Cheating at shǎizi (dice) and zhǐpái (cards) happens to be far more profitable... Not to mention infinitely more exciting.

Aaaaaaah... Don't judge me, would you ? A man has to survive. And I have needs. Very expensive needs. If you think I'm proud of it... Well... I'd like to see how you'd fare in my place. Alcohol and opium are the only things capable of silencing this damned pain. Ah-ah-ah. No no no. Keep your pity. I told you already—I don't complain. Though I will admit it's becoming rather inconvenient that I'm starting to be recognized wherever I go in the Gambling Houses. I may have to pack up and disappear again before long.

...Probably for the best. I doubt Xichen would invite me to a game if we happened to cross paths. A shame, really. Who knows ? Maybe he could've granted my dearest wish. Like some sort of genie. Can you imagine ? Ha ha ha ! The owner of that establishment certainly has a wicked sense of humor.

Oh, don't worry. If I do leave, I won't be leaving anything important behind. You know I've made it a rule never to grow attached to anyone. So it really won't matter. And if loneliness ever starts creeping in... My bottle will always be there to keep me company. The finest cure for every ill. A little dose of bottled love to keep both my body and my heart warm. Even when the cold starts biting.

See ? There really wasn't all that much to tell after all. A rather ordinary story, in truth... For someone who is anything but ordinary. I'd say I've done a fairly decent job blending into the crowd and carving out my own insignificant little life among ordinary mortals.

Wouldn't you agree... my dear mirror ?

Clothing Style :

Fulin has a fondness for the long traveling robes worn by wandering scholars and drifters—simple enough to blend into a crowd, yet refined enough to suggest he once knew more prosperous days. Once crafted from fine fabrics, his garments have since faded with time, their cuffs and hems worn by years of travel. Nothing is ever truly dirty, however; he takes just enough care of his clothes to remain presentable... provided no one looks too closely. Then again, the image he projects is hardly something he concerns himself with.

His wardrobe favors muted, understated tones : soft lilac, pale powder blue, slate gray, sage green, and smoky brown, occasionally adorned with subtle embroidered motifs of clouds, snow, or bamboo. A wide sash of darker fabric keeps his robe neatly fastened, while a loose outer coat with generously long sleeves serves a dual purpose—concealing both the items he happens to "acquire" and the bluish cracks that spread across his arms.

He often wears several layers of clothing, officially because he's unusually sensitive to the cold, unofficially because they do a better job of hiding his body. A long scarf or a crossed collar frequently conceals the back of his neck and part of his chest.

His hair is carelessly gathered with nothing more than a simple wooden hairpin or a worn ribbon, invariably allowing a long, unruly forelock to fall across part of his face. As for his cloth-and-leather boots, they tell his story better than he ever would: sturdy, patched more than once, and forever carrying the dust of countless roads.

The only belongings he never parts with are a lacquered wooden hairpin engraved and hand-painted with cherry blossoms—the only keepsake he still has from his mother, one he can't quite bring himself to part with, though he'd never admit why—a burgundy velvet pouch fastened to his belt containing his "lucky" dice (loaded dice, naturally), and a lapis lazuli ring worn as a pendant, hidden beneath the folds of his hanfu. And, of course, an opium pipe.