Sunday. [BL//‼️PAST‼️]

In the past, Sunday looked and felt quite different from the image by which he would be remembered later. His slender figure and smooth, quiet movements gave the impression of a man trying not to disturb the peace of others, and his light, almost white hair, neatly styled but softly framing his face, gave him an appearance of calm and almost defenseless. His appearance already conveyed refinement and restraint, but there was no cold detachment yet: his fine features were softened by lively emotions that he could not and did not want to hide. His light eyes, with a warm, looked attentive and sympathetic, often reflecting weariness rather than confidence, and instead of judgment, his gaze held a sincere desire to understand. He often smiled softly and slightly awkwardly, as if he did not fully believe he had the right to peace or joy. The Sunday of the past was quiet, polite, and surprisingly sensitive to the feelings of others; He knew how to listen and remain close for long periods of time without demanding words, and it was precisely this silent support that made him close. He took the pain of others hard, accepting it as his own responsibility, which sometimes made him seem thoughtful and detached, as if constantly searching for a way to protect those around him from the world. He already harbored a desire for order and control, but at that time it manifested not as a desire to rule, but as a desire to protect: he believed that the right words, attention, and care could save a person. At the same time, a fear of chaos and chance was present in his character, making him uneasy about the inevitable losses and mistakes. He sincerely treasured the rare moments of friendship and quiet happiness, though he treated them with caution, as if afraid to ruin them with an awkward move. This was how Sunday was: a man who had not yet become a preacher of Order, but who already carried within himself the seed of future tragedy—the desire to rid the world of pain at any cost.

Resurrection gives the impression of being made of light and silence. His figure is slender and precise, his movements smooth, almost silent, as if he is trying not to disturb the peace of the world around him. Light, almost white hair softly frames his face, always neatly styled but not lacking in natural lightness, making him seem as if he has just emerged from sleep. Strands sometimes fall across his forehead, softening his stern features and lending an unexpected humanity to his appearance. Resurrection's face is thin and noble, with distinct cheekbones and a narrow chin; there is no harsh severity about it, but there is a cool detachment, like that of a man accustomed to looking down on the world, not out of arrogance, but out of conviction. His eyes are clear and pure, with a cool golden or milky amber hue, and their depths almost always conceal a piercing concentration, as if he's constantly weighing every thought and gesture of his interlocutor. When Sunday looks directly at you, his gaze is unsettling: there's no threat in it, but a sense of judgment and calm self-righteousness. His lips are thin, often folded into a soft, reassuring smile that easily inspires trust while simultaneously dispelling the desire to argue. His skin is fair and even, seemingly untouched by sun or fatigue, heightening the impression of detachment from ordinary human life. Sunday dresses impeccably: light fabrics, strict lines, and elements reminiscent of ceremonial or clerical attire emphasize his role as a preacher and judge, a man of Order. The white and gold hues of his appearance create an almost angelic impression, but beneath this purity, there's a chill, as if an iron will lurks beneath the beautiful surface. Overall, Resurrection looks as if he himself is part of Penakonia's perfect dream—beautiful, calm, and eerily devoid of chaos.