I love designing characters for my fiction novels. Currently, I am working on designing the main character of my latest project, but I am having trouble envisioning what he really looks like, regardless of what I write down. I am posing a challenge to my fellow deviants. If you are willing, I ask you to attempt to create a drawing or illustration using any medium to depict this character through the description I give you. I am not paying you to do this. It is optional, obviously, and I will appreciate anyone who bothers to take the time to draw this character. I am not asking you to do this as a commission, or as a challenge. It is simply a hope that I will be better able to understand this character through the eyes of other readers and artists.

If you choose to take up this task, then send me a link to the finished work and I will post it in my next journal.

Here is the description of this character:
Name: Doyle
Gender: Male
Hair: appears dirty peroxide blond while homeless, but when cleaned is pure white, ragged
Body type: tall, rail-thin, lithe
Skin: sickly, pallid, almost white
Eyes: appear different shades of gray. If you look close enough, they are a polished silver shade. They are surrounded by darkness, as if blackened with coal, so they look deeply set into his head, although they are not. His eyes are small.
Face: Normally he has a gentle expression of innocence, but that can change in an instant when angered.


Here is an excerpt from the story upon which you may base your drawing:
He stared up at the clouded sky, anticipation building with each passing second. His ragged hair whipped in the wind as the sky above turned to a dark, roiling mass of ominous storm clouds. Suddenly, the coal-black skies gave way, releasing a torrent of rain, the boom of thunder, and the crack of lightning as it sliced through the air like a gleaming, razor-sharp knife.
Doyle looked down at the alley below him, watching all the tiny people on the ground scurry for cover. They reminded him of ants, each busily hurrying from one place to another, always working. One curly blond-haired woman hurried to the side-entrance of the building and disappeared inside. Doyle closed his eyes and listened to the rhythm of the raindrops as they fell to the ground. Finally, he swung over the rail of the fire escape and landed on his feet. Slowly, he set off down the alley, strolling through the deserted streets in silence as he listened to the symphony of the wild storm.

Here is another excerpt upon which you may base your drawing:

He stood across the street in front of a popular pub. The man was staring at her guitar hungrily, hands shoved into the pockets of a worn, dirty white tailcoat. His dress was so unorthodox that he would have stood out no matter where he was, but no-one seemed to notice his presence but her. In fact, people simply walked around him, completely unaware of his existence. Perhaps he was one of the Dogs, the powerful magicians that worked for the Arch-Mage; but he looked far too poor to be a wizard of such a cultured society. Perhaps only a weak hedge wizard? She looked away and tried very hard to ignore him and concentrate on her song. Moments later, she looked up and he was gone. Her watch beeped. Time for lunch.

Here is a third excerpt:

Cadence bought two chili-dogs and a bottle of precious water with the meager amount of money she had earned over the past several hours. She sat on a bench to eat, setting her guitar next to her. The bench had seen better days. The once vivid red paint faded and peeling, and the boards creaked dangerously as she sat down.
Halfway through her first chili-dog, she heard the timid note that escaped her guitar at the lightest touch of fingers to strings. She turned in surprised. There he was, the stranger who kept coming back to hear her play! He squatted close to the ground beside the bench, examining her prized guitar with deep longing.
“You hungry?” she asked cautiously.
His head snapped up in surprise as if he had only just come to realize that she was present; that he was not alone. His gaze flicked from her own back to the ground in an instant, as if he were afraid to look her in the eyes. The man seemed rather absent-minded, to be distracted by something so worthless as her beat-up old guitar. It may have magnanimous sentimental value to her, but it was nothing special.
“You can have the other chili-dog, if you want,” Cadence offered, holding out the disgusting package of meat and soggy bun all wrapped in recycled foil to keep it warm. It was probably just above D-grade meat, so if he wasn't used to fine foods he should be able to tolerate it. He nodded again, rewarding her with a tiny smile as he accepted the peace-offering. The man ate it slowly, his eyes locked upon the stringed instrument all the while. “You like music?” she asked.
He nodded reverently, avoiding looking into her soft brown eyes. “Can you talk?” he nodded again. “Why don’t you?”
“They are listening. If I whisper, no one will hear me,” he said quietly, as though it were a sin for him to speak. His voice was raspy and weak, as if he had not spoken to another human being in many months, perhaps even years.
“I will. You got a name?”
“Doyle,” he whispered after a moment's hesitation, bowing his head, “Just call me Doyle.”

Here is the fourth:

Doyle straightened. His posture made a world of difference. Suddenly he seemed well-bred, regal, and above all, strong. “Thank you for your kindness,” he stated coldly, his voice barely audible above the clashing sounds all around them. He made a hasty retreat, heading as quickly as he could toward the bustling crowd, where he could find obscurity once more.

Here is the last excerpt you may base him off of:

She trudged out to the main room, tightening her bathrobe. Doyle lay asleep upon the couch still, the blankets twisted about his lanky form. He must have awakened earlier and showered, for his hair was still wet. It was no longer a dirty peroxide blond but a wispy pearl-white. Cadence fixed herself a cup of coffee, and took the chance to finally get a look at her unconventional new friend.
He was just under six feet tall, she surmised. His skin was pallid and sickly, hinting that he had suffered a long, waxing illness. His body was obviously once lithe and powerful, but he appeared gaunt, weak from starvation. Scars and countless ugly bruises riddled his battered body. The skin beneath his eyes was black and shadowed as if rimmed with a fine dust of charcoal that only served to accent the intensity of his startling silver eyes, though at the moment they were closed in sleep.
“You've been running for a long, long time, haven't you?” Cadence murmured as she watched the wretched creature before her take long, deep breaths as he finally found peace in sleep.