Grandpa

Skin of deep ebony, ancient but soft - face a roadmap of gutters and ravines where each line seemed to tell a tale of times long since passed away into the fleeting realm of memory. A perfectly balded head beneath the brim of the wide-brimmed black hat without which the timeworn man would rarely be seen. Brows of bristled ivory, teeth long-since dulled in tone from decades of drink. Hands reflected the same ancientness with ebon flesh cracked and wrinkled, and soft to the gentle touch.

Attire was dapper, if worn with antiquity, clean and tidy though the wear of time and constant use was visible in minute scuffs or fades present upon the velvety coat and soft canvas trousers. A crimson jacket, gold-trimmed with a Victorian style 'puff tie' at his neck. Cream colored trousers tucked into shin-high leather boots. He stood small of stature and diminutive in height, though strode with the confidence and far-seasoned certainty of excellent health and long-wizened familiarity - and even a wispy air of wandering detachment or carefree nonchalance.

Where appropriate, he would be armed with a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun holstered at his belt. Often a pair of circular, gold-rimmed sunglasses would obscure his eyes beneath the hat.

Yet it was the eyes that seemed the most striking and fascinating aspect of the elderly man. The startling emerald green seemed at once to be both brimming with timeless youth and swelling at the abyssal depths of unimaginable age. Old eyes - far older than it seemed they could be - world-weary and yet with a spark of childlike wonder, alertness tinged with the memories of a million, million lifetimes and untold eons spanning back to the dawn of time itself. Eyes behind which only a most ancient of souls could possibly dwell - within a mind of inconceivable venerability and a virtually limitless trove of tales to be told.

And yet, despite this ancient and wizened air he would prove to be virtually intolerable in every way imaginable - to such an extent that any trace of this inconceivable venerability would be all but lost beneath the copious layers of offensive, insufferable bravado.

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His voice was high-pitched and absolutely grating, more akin to the squawking of some heinous, malcontented bird than a man. His accent was a drawl and twang and he spoke loudly with little concern for what tone or volume might be appropriate at any given time. While - mercifully - he did not appear to speak very much, typically preferring to observe until witnessing something which he deemed worthy of peanut-gallery comment - when he did speak the old man cussed like a sailor and would never withhold a word or sentiment to spare the sensitivity of others.

He was in no way a womanizer, nor was he an integrally sexual being at all - yet the old man would still prove to be something of a dirty old pervert in his persistent affinity toward young, attractive females...Particularly those clad in accentuating attire so as to bare midriff or leg.

Yet despite this, the old man would prove unflinchingly respectful and - while never failing to voice his opinions - would sooner perish than undermine the will or decency of any of the opposite gender.

And even while voicing loudly and clearly any judgement or opinion he might conjure within his inconceivable, unpredictable mind, he would prove remarkably open-minded - not one to judge - particularly in matters of sexual preference or ethnicity. There could be within him no traces of inset, stone-written ideals from some bygone era.

Aside from being generally loud and disreputable, the man who goes only by Grandpa is a hopeless alcoholic who wholly acknowledges this fact and insists upon never, ever giving it up. His drink of choice would be a fine whiskey - which he would contentedly consume straight from the bottle if and when given the opportunity. Considering this fact, plus his total acceptance of virtually any variety of drug or stimulant, it is remarkable how he manages to retain the impressive physical fitness he does.

Indeed, while his body is old, his movements are young. Perpetually weary, yet capable of physical feats typically attributed only with much younger men. An incredible stamina by the standards of a man of any age - a little old geezer with all the physical prowess of a well-trained Green Beret in the prime of their adulthood and the peak of their ability.

Yet so perplexing a creature would be incomplete without a moral compass - and the man who went only by Grandpa did not seem to have any at all.

Largely a chaotic neutral, he spends his days wandering, rambling, roving and drinking - intervening in events and forming relationships only insofar as it keeps him amused. Generally, his actions tend to lean toward the good, but this is largely by chance. He is often prone to a hot temper and a total lack of forethought - and, indeed, total disregard for the consequences of his actions. While the slight majority of his whims do trend toward the helping of others, there is nothing stopping him from being downright antagonistic should the mood become him...Even to the extent of something approaching pure malice.

Everything, after all, is quite meaningless - and contrary to initial assumption this philosophy would prove not to be merely the product of an old man's bitter life.
No, there was something more to this mysterious man, who always seemed distracted - who would often stare into nothingness with a faraway look in his emerald eyes - as if he were no longer there at all. As if he were somewhere else - another place, another time - living another life that would somehow, somehow connect forward or back to his own.

For the man who went only by Grandpa was no ordinary man.