Post by ricochet on Sept 24, 2010 22:10:45 GMT -8
Name: Clint "Niyol" Allen
(Niyol: Navajo, meaning "wind")
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Heritage: Half Native American (Navajo), half Caucasian
Job Position: Presently he is a wanderer, but he is looking to ride for one of these local ranches provided they won't run him out.
Physical Description:
Hair: Dark brown, more often than not a little long from not cutting it for a little while. He prefers to keep it short though and will even cut it himself when he can get his hands on a razor. Even when he has it cut, it tends to be wavy and a bit messy, and so Clint just lets it do as it pleases. The color and texture/style of his hair, however, are usually hidden underneath his black cowboy hat.
Eyes: His eyes are of normal size, a rich brown in appearance, with flecks of red to give them an auburn hue in proper lighting.
Face: Square in shape, his cheeks, chin and upper lip are usually covered in at least a slight fuzz, from lack of shaving. Only rarely and for very special occasions, or if his arm gets twisted, will he shave now a-days.
Height: 6'5"
Body: He has a lean build but tall frame when standing upright. His right leg was badly injured from a fall, so there is now a long scar on his leg, not to mention the fact that this has forced him to walk with a limp. Speaking of scars, he has a bad one, a criss-cross shaped scar on his mid to lower back. Not that you would ever see it, he is not one to ever go shirtless if there is another breathing soul in the area.
Attire: His clothes reflects a somberness that almost really goes against his personality, but he's never really thought on it. Black jeans is what he owns, dark shirts, a black vest when he wears one, with a white undershirt. Add to that a black jacket, even when it ain't cold out.
Personality:
He has an easy smile and loves to tease, a fun-loving and easy-going person in general, easy to get along with. Outwardly he may seem put together and calm, but on the inside usually he is brooding about something or another. He enjoys making new friends and will have a drink with just about anybody, but don't ask to pick up his tab. He doesn't like having to lean on others for support, hates to feel indebted, and will try hard to avoid such situations.
When you get to the heart of the matter, he can be much more reserved, he doesn't like talking about the sticker matters of his past. He never judges on appearances and if you don't either, well sir, then you've just gained a friend for life. Clint is loyal to anyone he believes is worthy, even if you may not exactly be his friend, yet.
Past:
The son of a full-blooded Navajo woman and a causasin man, their life in the little Navajo village was not exactly a normal one. His father had won the trust of the tribe, however, and was premitted to marry the young Indian maiden he had fallen for, and their son was given two names: In the village he was known as, "Niyol," but his father had also chosen to give him a white man's name, "Clint," Allen being his father's surname.
Despite the slowly-brewing trouble that had been cooking for years between the Indians and the white men, the life found by those in this little Indian village was realtively peaceful. Sadly, things did not stay this way. One day, when Niyol was seven years old, it was early in the morning and he was outside playing with some of the other children before they were summoned for the morning meal. Unknown to them, a troup of white men were descending upon the peaceful village and they were not looking to make friends.
With such little warning, not many had managed to escape, though they had tried. Niyol had been captured along with a handful of other children; they were ripped away from their families in order to learn the ways and creeds of the white man. From this point on he was, well, forced to use only his 'white' name and ordered to forget his Native heritage. He refused, however, and though allowed and yes forever took on the name 'Clint Allen,' he would not forget his Native heritage. Nor his mother and father - he knows not what happened to them, if they were among the survivors of that massacre or not...
When it was discovered that the boy could not learn well - the letters danced around and wouldn't sit still for him, hence he couldn't read - he was sold into manual labor for a nearby farm. These next few years of his life he would much rather forget, and has told no one of the events gone on during this time. At the age of fourteen, he was able to finally escape this place on his second attempt, his first having proved quite horridly unsuccessful. He took off running and has never looked back since.
It was falling on winter now, however, and he knew in order to survive he would need extra clothing and a good shelter. Thankfully, he ran into an old cowboy named Chris Slocum at around this time. Chris took him in and helped him in whatever ways he could, Clint looking up to this man as a father-figure. Chris took on the role well, teaching Clint the ways of the cowboy, something to which the young man took like a fish to water.
Chris was a well-respected member of the local little town they lived in, and Clint was able to get work as a rider for various people. Once, when riding the range in search of strays, Clint had seen the most beautiful wild mustang mare he had ever the chance to spy on. She was a sorrel, powerfully built and, as he continued to spy on her from time to time, obviously quite intelligent a creature. As time went by and his love for her grew, he determined he had to catch her. She was becoming the interest of some of these other cowboys looking to make some easy money, and Clint wouldn't have that.
So, he set out on the mare's trail, intent on riding her back in. She seemed to know he was coming, and she avoided him at every turn, but eventually, after untold miles and countless days, Clint had finally gained the upper hand. She proved to be quite the skiddish thing, but she ate up ground like a wildfire and now she had become his horse. A bond now formed between them, something so strong that only death could sever.
When Clint returned to his hometown, it was to learn that the old man was on his deathbed. Another powerful blow, but this time he was able to say goodbye, and after the burial he hit the trail. A few towns over, he learned of a newcomer there that needed some workers and the pay was good. Jumping at this small chance for a normal life once more, Clint at once went to meet the man and his wife. He liked them both quite well, smiling because neither of them seemed to look down on him for his half-bloodedness.
Overtime he, more and more, began to notice this woman...his bosses wife. She made him smile and she wasn't afraid, her fiery disposition leading her to throw his teasing right back at him. She intrigued him to no end, but, appalled by these sudden and strange feelings for a married woman, he forced himself not to think on it and instead threw himself into his work. This worked for a while, until he would come back to the house and be forced to spend time in her company. It drove him mad, though he tried not to show it.
He knew his only course of action would be to leave, but he hated to abandon the husband, as he was a good and fair man. Before he could ponder much on this, though, it was announced that they would be leaving. Clint's heart leapt for joy but also ached in sadness at the loss of such good friends, and, fearful of himself, his short goodbyes were given that morning before he rode out. He never saw them again, but wished them both all the happiness in the world, they deserved it.
Wandering again, this time he came upon a little Indian village. Here is where he spent the next year of his life. He befriended many of the braves and many of the squaws had an eye for him, being intrigued by this friendly new comer. One of the little squaws proved to be of interest to him, and soon enough he found himself in love with her. They could only communicate in broken words, but words were of little use to him anyway, and they spoke volumes through signs and, mainly, looks.
Sadly, this too came to and end...just as he was preparing to talk to the elders about his future plans with the Indian maiden, the village was attacked by white men. These were people that Clint knew, had even been friendly with! The Indians blamed him, and ordered him to leave. With a fire in his eyes, hurt in his heart, he turned to his Indian maiden. She would not come to him. It was apparent that she, too, believed he had something to do with the attack. Brokenhearted, he mounted his horse and fled.
Later on, when she'd leaned of his bad fall and that he needed caring, she did find him again and then wished to help him better understand things, why she couldn't go with him - and to make sure of now ill will between them, something he was thankful for, but again sad to see her go.
For the next year, he would prove to be a wanderer, doing whatever little odd jobs he could along the way.
