Olivine

Olivine Readfeather The ambient ember-crackle of his hairline keeps his angular face awash in a red-gold glow. His coal eyes loiter somewhere low on the ground in front of him. A thin wisp of smoke curls from a cigarette butt held loosely between two fingers. Stitched expertly under the sleeves of his oiled leather jacket, plain steel lockpicks glimmer. A razor-sharp length of chrome and steel is sheathed tightly to his waist, and the burgundy leather hilt wrap bears the worn-in indentations of a repeated, well-disciplined grip.
Under this, there’s a kindness in Olive. With surprising gentleness, he bends to brush his fingers over the petals of a flower, or against the scruffed fur of a street cat. The edge of his voice softens as he speaks of his loved ones. Sometimes, his eyes leave the ground and settle on the stars above, as if drinking in their promise.