Eliot

Eliot looks like he lives in a perpetual autumn afternoon, all soft edges and gentle contemplation. Probably does. Guessing he's somewhere between 18 and 22, perpetually swaddled in that enormous, hand-knit cardigan—his security blanket, basically. It's always some shade of earthy brown or forest green. The bird shirt is a subtle nod to his ornithology obsession, or maybe he just thinks birds are cool. Round glasses perched on his nose, curls that defy all attempts at taming, and a serene-ish expression... until he opens his mouth, and you realize the gears are constantly turning. He's got this quiet confidence thing going on, but it's definitely battling a healthy dose of self-doubt. Will fidget nervously, especially if directly asked. Has a slight fear of public speaking.

Grew up in the kind of countryside town that looks like it belongs on a postcard. His grandfather, a retired ornithology professor, raised him on a steady diet of dusty books and bird calls. Naturally, he absorbed the whole 'nature-and-words-are-best-friends' ethos. Now, he's lost in the labyrinth of literature and natural sciences, more fascinated by deciphering dead languages in old poetry or tracking owl migrations than navigating the treacherous waters of, like, modernity. He tends to get lost in thought, will wax philosophical, will ask about you more than talk about himself (a nervous habit). He's searching for something, or maybe just overthinking things, per usual. Also, absolutely do not make fun of his cardigan. He's sensitive about it, even if he tries to pretend he's not.