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The Hound

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  1. Good luck in your life, Tyler.
  2. That awkward moment when your houndlings reject you. WHY CAN'T WE BE FRIENDS!

    1. Avvercus
    2. The Hound

      The Hound

      I HATE IT WHEN OUR KIDS REJECT US

  3. Things started to move too quickly for his taste. He felt the hot sting of a smack on his ass, and stood straight up with a comically surprised expression on his face before he realized who did it. Over the last few months of cohabiting with his band members, Luke had managed to almost remember all of their names. There was the guitarist, Leon, whom he had met in jail. There was the bassist, who always swore to him he wasn’t a figment of his imagination. (Although he was.) There was the bunny girl who also played the guitar, standing at ready as some kind of green energy-- runes, a coherent whispers at the back of his mind reminded him-- surrounded her and summoned forth her guitar. He heard the masked woman’s challenge toward their band leader, and he felt the excited spikes of adrenaline surge through his bloodstream as he got ready to do the one thing that still gave his life meaning. And then he noticed it. In one careless, fluid motion the man known as Drunken Drummer dropped into a squatting position and lost his balance, falling flat on his ass. Quietly, he began to look around the assorted people on the stage and a frown began to form. There was Mama Leon, who took care of all of them… There was the prostitute she had picked up somewhere and who never had left… There was his imaginary friend, B.G., looking like he had been built out of all the sparklies…. But someone was missing. As his frown set and began to darken his otherwise childlike, cherubic features, the drunk looked at Leon and arched an eyebrow as he asked him to count them down. “Shutupshutupshutup!!!” He said, his voice slowly rising in pitch as he threw his fists carelessly against the floor, causing small tremors as his fists left their indentations against the thick wooden planks. “Where. Is. MaeMae!!” He howled indignantly, shooting an accusatory glance toward Leon before he scanned the audience. Eerily his eyes began to glow beneath the darkened shades he was always seen wearing, different shades of purple almost burning through his glasses. Any who had known Luke Strixx knew that he was working himself into an honest to god temper tantrum. As all traces of the ridiculous drunken man began to leave his feature, replaced by the wrathful, alcohol-fueled anger of a man who realized one of the few important things to him were missing. Quietly, he began to scan the audience as the bubbling anger in his chest began to clear his mind. Where was she? Was she okay? This was just like the fucking war-- || Did I miss something? || Before anything else, it was her voice that hit him and soothed away the worries brewing. Once again, he began to scan the crowds, this time more carefully. It was then that he spotted her. Masked with a raven’s visage although she may be, Luke would’ve recognized Virmaeda anywhere. As quick as it had come, the frown on his face gave way to a wide, toothy smile as he waved his hand foolishly toward his friend. Sparing a guilty looking glance toward Leon the drunk impulsively got back up on his feet and sprinted off of the stage, jumping forward and muttering a few words in a lost, ancient tongue. As he began to fall down toward the crowd, Luke’s sandals began to glow softly with a warm silver light, and he caught himself as he stood mid sky, swaying for a moment before he took off in a swift sprint. Flashes of silver appeared on the air with each step he took toward the tall, shapely figure of his friend Virmaeda. Jumping down from the air into the ground, Luke willed the power from the boots and landed squarely in front of her. Moments stretched as he stared down at the raven-masked female, barely moving…. Before he flashed her yet another toothy, goofy smile and moved toward her swiftly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her toward his shoulder before he picked her up and activated his shoes again, sprinting toward the stage. Gently placing her down on her feet, Luke was completely unmindful of the pink wisps of cotton candy now stuck on his hair. Moving toward his usual spot behind the band, the drummer unlatched his drumsticks from the inside of his cloak and twirled them with surprising adeptness. Clearing his mind of all the distractions but the task at hand, Luke turned his head toward Leon and raised his sticks over his head. “One, two, ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUUUUH!” He called out the numbers, beating his drumsticks together with each number he called. Closing his eyes, the drunk took a moment and felt the world around him. The scents of the crowd, the soft caress of the wind around him, and the comfort he drew from his comrades surrounding him. Power seemed to thrum around his figure as he opened his eyes and felt the words bubbling from his tongue as he whispered words he no longer understood. “Ρυθμός του αέρα” Moving his drumsticks to either side of his body, the man began to slowly establish a rhythm in mid air. The places where the ornately carved heads of his drumsticks struck in the air changed colors for a moment, ranging from silver to a dark gray depending on how hard he struck, and the tone he intended. This, he did almost without thought as he lost himself in the moment. To him, nothing else existed anymore. There was him, there was the band’s rhythms…. And there was his purpose. Twirling the drumsticks between his fingers again, the Drunken Drummer set himself to purpose and began playing an intricate introduction solo before Leon called out the band’s beginning song, lighting the air before him several hues. @Avvercus @Trexasle @TheWilySpookster @-Lilium-
  4. City Name:Port Caelum. Regent: Akako Akari Population: 10,000 Criminal Activity: Low Risk Assessment: Low to Average In the days to come, the chimera would find himself wondering how just full of bollocks the intel he had received was… Or whether his mark just had a propensity for getting herself into more difficult situations. He had been observing the woman for a while, and he could not help but to feel as if the diminutive woman that his employer had paid him to follow was nothing but a magnet for trouble. Over the last few months he had quietly disposed of most threats that were intent on causing her harm, and he found that each of them had a soliloquy ready to be delivered about why they were justified, why she was the villain, or what the bloody hell ever had created their vendetta. To Rowan it was all the same droll, ridiculous speech that he had not been paid enough to listen to. Really, they sounded like the damn Yanks in his world with their own sense of entitled self-importance. To him, their worth was simple: A bullet apiece. Everybody had their motives for acting the way they did; Everybody had their burdens, and everybody had their past. It helped, however, when one had absolutely no idea what those burdens were. All that he knew was the mission at hand, and that he had been picked out as “uniquely suited” to protect a particularly volatile individual from a distance. His orders had been clear: Keep away from her, dispose of threats quietly, and do not make contact unless it was absolutely necessary. That had suited him just fine as it gave him time to study and understand her, and so it went. Over the last three months, he followed her from town to town, receiving the occasional message from his employers in order to give him a better lay of the land. Intel had said that his mark had come for her friend’s coronation and something called a “festival of faces”, which had puzzled Rowan for a while… Until he saw the gaggle of beauties, beasts, and lunatics that were traipsing around the town’s square. Squinting his orange eyes, the man sighed to himself as he donned his suit’s finely tailored coat and headed toward the door. Hesitating for a moment, the man picked up his heavy black travel cloak, adjusting it over his broad shoulders and raising the cowl as to hide his face before walking out of his rented room. Closing his eyes, the man easily picked up the soft scent of jasmine and oranges that he had memorized after he was told to follow the young lady. With a deep breath the chimera felt the stirrings of the Tunisian Desert Ant DNA within him, and he began his path with orange eyes slightly aglow. A few steps later, the erstwhile soldier turned bodyguard stopped and gripped the side of his head. Wincing slightly as a multitude of smells from alcohol, to foods, to the unwashed masses bearing intense perfumes assaulted his nostrils, the chimera worked to block everything out but the scent of jasmine and oranges. Sufficiently satisfied, the man resumed his walk at a brisk pace, artfully managing to slip by people while managing to avoid the more crowded areas. In no time at all, he found that the scent had led him toward the castle’s banquet hall. Orange eyes began to do a sweep of the hall, cataloguing some of the more interesting figures as he followed the scent and found her. Slim and petite, upon first seeing the woman clad in the tight red dress one might’ve mistaken her for a fragile flower.But months of observing her from afar, and even seeing her in action a time or two had swiftly disabused Rowan out of that notion. With the corners of his lips tilted upward in the ghost of a smile, he nodded in approval as he finally made out what the mask was supposed to be: Dragoness, indeed. Taking a sip of the bastardized monstrosity these monsters served and dared call tea Rowan began to make his rounds around the room. Greeting people in a nearly perfect local accent, he nodded in his hooded “mask” and made noncommittal noises as people attempted to guess who he was. Lost in the sea of people and bombarded with questions from left and right, the chimera had missed the exact moment in which the woman had left the room. Closing his eyes and tuning everybody out, Rowan Knight forced everything out but the scent of jasmine and orange. Snapping his eyes open, the man began to push people out of his way with his right arm as his left hand left toward the holster on his hip. Breaking out from a fast walk into a run, the man began to follow the woman’s scent, feeling almost as if the bottom of his stomach was about to fall out. Rationally, he had no reason to be apprehensive. The animal DNA inside of him, though, screamed that their prey was being predated upon by another. Rounding the corner, Rowan felt the scent grow stronger as he approached a closed door. Slowing his gait, the chimera lowered the cowl from his face and eyed the surrounding area. Swiftly, his mind began to come up with some sort of cover story in case he was merely interrupting some kind of indiscretion. She was a fairly attractive bird, to be fair, so an illicit affair wasn't an entirely-- "GRYYERRRAAAHH!" The visceral sound of Raven’s scream cut through his thoughts and stopped him where he stood. Suddenly, the whirling of thoughts that had been in his mind died, as did any expression that had been on his face. This wasn’t to rely on thought. Just instinct. With three brisk steps, Rowan came to stand before the door and let out a soft, muted growl. Lifting his leg, he felt the Bombardier Beetle DNA strengthen his limbs as he laid down a swift, hard kick against the door near its’ lock. With a surprisingly sonorous THUMP, the door blew out of its hinges and fell on the floor. Wasting no time, the chimera walked into the room and pulled out his gun. For a second, his eyes widened by the sight of his naked prey, held by another predator. A bubbling growl of challenge came out of his lips as he watched the dagger’s hilt travel down toward Raven’s nether regions. Without needing to be further prompted Rowan raised his gun and pointed it at the enemy’s elbow and squeezing the trigger. Shoving his left hand forward, the man turned his wrist toward the unconscious woman. With a soft hiss, silver-gray liquid shot from a small opening from his wrist, attaching itself against Raven’s stomach and solidifying. Gripping the hardened web in his palm, Rowan pulled the female easily through the air, wrapping one arm around her waist and turning his body so that he stood in between the females. Raising his trusted Smith & Wesson Model 500 level toward the other female, the chimera’s orange eyes almost seemed to light up with intensity. ‘Sorry luv.” He said in a surprisingly deep, resounding basso as he placed his finger against the trigger and waited. “This one’s mine. Y’try to harm her again, and I will bugger you with that dagger. I’ll give you three bloody seconds to leave. Should you elect to stay, you will find yourself quite dead in fact.” He stated coldly, no hint of emotion in his voice. “Gonna be a good lass?” @Deus Ex Aizen @Warlock
  5. Even as he sang, the incubus found that nothing could deviate his eyes from the adoring gaze of his lover. Through their bond, the incubus could feel the swell of emotion that seemed to wash over her, and a rosy blush that matched her own rose in his unusually pale cheeks. With hands set to his purpose and his voice bringing the rehearsed song to life, the incubus still found time to marvel at the source of his inspiration. It had been six months to the day since he had met her, and yet he felt almost as if he had known her for his whole life. Not for the first time this morning, even, he wished he had been given a mortal life to spend with her. In his mind’s eye, he picture himself growing old along his beloved, surrounded by a gaggle of children and laughter and happiness. Internally, he felt his demon’s slight reproach and for once managed to block the voice out completely even as he finished the song. For a moment silence reigned in their household as he awaited for her reaction almost apprehensively… But he was not left hanging for long. He barely had time to register the pure shot of life that lit up her face before he his guitar was lifted from his hands and placed against the table, and he tasted the sweetness of her plump pink lips against his cold, pale ones. Wrapping his arms around her, the incubus lifted her easily off her feet and deepened the kiss, dipping her lightly as he attempted to somehow communicate exactly what he felt for her. As the minutes passed, Arkadia held her and smiled onto the kiss as he finally let her go, disentangling their bodies. Taking a step back, the incubus lifted an uncharacteristically trembling hand and brushed her cheek. “You have nothing to thank me for, pulse of my heart.” Arkadia said huskily, his voice deepening a few shades as his gray eyes looked into her vivid green ones. “If my song struck a chord with you, it is only because it was your beauty reflected through me. You are perfect, Branwen… You are the one woman in this entirely unyielding world who has moved my heart.” He smiled and leaned forward, kissing her forehead and sighing as his personal manservant approached them carrying a tray. Without looking, the incubus motioned with his left hand for Archibald to approach. Disentangling himself from the woman who had so utterly won his heart, Arkadia offered her an impish smile as the old man lifted the cover from the tray, revealing a large golden key with the Archleone symbol emblazoned upon it. Stepping to her side, Arkadia offered her his arm at the same time as the manservant offered her the tray, bowing his head and muttering words so softly that they lost their meaning even as they were spoken. “Walk with me, my Queen.” Arkadia said softly, offering his arm to her once more as he flashed his pearly white teeth. “Time for your next surprise.”
  6. Sitting in his quarters, the wizard grumped to himself as the cacophonous sounds of a city in celebration filled his ears. Glancing around the lavishly adorned room, Leandros couldn’t help but to snort to himself: Not even three months ago, he was sure that he’d be living under some bridge somewhere in Hell’s Gate or Last Chance. And now… He was a queen’s (spurned, kicked around, apparently uneede--he really needed to take a deep breath and get over his abandonment issues.) bodyguard, living in the lap of luxury and with enough resources that he could perform his experiments. As far as people he had worked for, he found himself of the opinion that the would-be Queen was one of the more reasonable employers that he could’ve chosen… Even if she kept him incredibly busy. The last few months had been a nightmare; On top of being charged with keeping the queen and her apprentice safe, Leandros had also been tasked to do run several errands in order to help with preparations for the Festival of Faces, not the least of which was figuring out the mask system that Red had become fond of… And then finding people who were intelligent enough to be able to craft the proper runes in the leather, run the durability spells, blah blah blah-- In general, it was a pain in the ass. Eyeing the black box that sat atop of his workbench, the wizard shook his head and eyed the crimson contents of the glass he had been nursing. It was then that he heard a knock on the door and felt his eye twitch slightly. Someday, some glorious day, he would unionize wizards everywhere. Tilting his head back and downing what little wine he had left in his glass, the wizard eyed the door mutinously as he pushed himself to his feet and sighed. Today was supposed to be his day off, where he’d spend the evening nattering away at different royals and acting as the royal arm candy/escort to Lysandra. Feeling a blush creep on his cheeks, the wizard shook his head disgustedly and attempted to clear his mind. It had been more than three months since he had met the elven beauty and even now the wizard could hardly think of her without regressing to the awkward teenager he had been. Looking down at himself, he rubbed his smoothly shaven cheek and frowned as he came to the conclusion he hadn’t hit puberty again. As the knocks grew more incessant, the wizard began to move toward the door with steadier purpose and a set, professionally disdainful scowl. “No matter how hard you know, my door is spelled to NOT go down to fists you know. No matter how much you huff and you puff, you can’t knock the door down.” Leandros remarked in a dry, casual voice as he swiped his hand over the doorway and deactivated his wards. Pulling on the handle casually, the wizard leaned against the doorframe and cast his best disinterested glance toward the man who had been knocking. “May I help you, soldier.” “Beg your pardon, Wizard Kostikos.” The man said nervously, struggling to attempt and pronounce his last name as Leandros barely managed to suppress a roll of his eyes. No matter how many times he told some of the newer soldiers, they still insisted on maintaining a modicum of decorum toward him. “We just wanted to report and get you to come down to the courtyard. You see, there’s a gryphon an--” “I’m going to stop you right there… Borislav, was it?” The wizard said, standing at his full height and staring at the man with steely lavender eyes. “I strongly suspect you did not come here to tell me that gryphon wings are being served as the banquet… Not only because they’re endangered and quite difficult to cook, but because we also set the menus last week. Besides, I’m not that big of a fan of white meat.” The wizard continued, flashing a brief smile as the soldier’s demeanor broke and he chortled. “That leads me to believe that you’re here because someone messed with Red, and there’s a gryphon loose-- Which would definitely be great of you to do. Any other day. But today is my day off. Furthermore, if I cancel on Lady Lysandra again because of some inane emergency you guys could’ve handled, she’s going to have me shishkaballed.” “But sir-- Um..--” The soldier spluttered, torn between laughter and indignation before he fell back a step. Seeing his cue come up, the wizard smiled at him and took a step back and he escaped into the privacy over his own room, motioning his hand sharply against the door and effectively cutting off the source of the complaint’s voice. “Your voice will return in roughly five minutes, soldier. I recommend you don’t stick around long enough to find out what my mask looks like.” He warned in the same collected tone as he made his way toward the workbench. Perching himself in the comfortable overstuffed chair he had chosen for his room, the wizard set to work and began to add another layer of varnish to his brand new staff. Minutes passed, and Leandros found himself continuously more impatient for the time he and his lady had agreed upon. He peered at the workbench before him with lidded eyes, and sighed. His copper rings had been freshly polished. The leather gauntlet had been oiled hours ago, and was ready for use, and his staff was finally ready. He looked at the remainder of the older, well worn staff he had wielded for almost 20 years and sighed. The newer staff, although certainly more well-crafted and a better conduit, was much gaudier than his old one, what with the gigantic rounded emerald that served as its head. Donning his equipment once more, the wizard glanced at the rings on his right hand and the gauntlet on his left as he contemplated for a moment… Before opening his drawer, and bringing out what other people would’ve classified as a veritable hand cannon. Almost mechanically, the wizard checked over the gun’s safety and made sure it was loaded before placing it in the freshly acquired holster beneath his coat and attached to the back of his belt. Eyeing the clock once more, the wizard felt a little jolt in his chest. It was almost time. Eyeing the black box that had been, the wizard felt a smile light up his face as he unlocked it and pulled out his mask. He felt the pull of the mask’s spellwork in his stamina almost instantly, and he knew that his theorycrafting spellwork had been good as he stared at the mirror. Covering his entire body, he found layers and layers of black vines that seemed to move as he did. Parts of his body had become covered in black and silver foliage, and his black gloved fingers seemed to become entirely comprised of roots. His hair, usually worn free and to his shoulders was bound in a tight ponytail, and displayed a range of whites and gray. The only thing that identified him as the wizard was, of course, the staff he carried, and the gauntlet. Sufficiently satisfied with his mask’s spellwork, Leandros stepped out of his quarters and began to make his way toward the area of Red’s Palace that had been reserved for the beautiful woman whom he had the honor to accompany to the ball. Rounding the corner, the wizard felt his smile widen as he came across one of the few hulking figures that could boast of towering over him. Standing at an even 7’0” and built like a bull, the man appeared every inch the capable warrior. With dark hair that fell to his back and a beard to match, the man’s face was a study of serene seriousness. Garbed in the simple black outfit he had picked out for his squad and armed with nothing but his own fists, he noted that the man’s visage was almost perfectly human with an internal note of smug satisfaction. Out of the thousands of masks that had been distributed for the festival, Gustav’s masks had been one of the few he had bothered to handcraft himself, and it was noticeably one of the more realistic. He would pass as human upon close scrutiny, which was precisely his goal as he had made the flesh golem’s mask. Without a word, the wizard shifted his staff onto his gauntleted hand and clapped the man’s shoulder solidly as a way of greeting before he headed toward Lysandra’s door and knocked. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, with hair so fine. Come out your window, climb down the vine.” He called out in a warm and perhaps a bit intimate tone as he leaned against the doorframe and awaited for his date. “I’d put a spring in your step, Lyra, before another errant soldier decides that my day off needs to be interrupted again.” He said in mock seriousness as laughter threatened to overcome his carefully placed somber demeanor. @Red the Ambivalent @Frostborn
  7. “Ring ding diddle diddle i de o… Ring di diddle i o dill... I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath their kilt.” A muffled, sleepy voice that was both clear and entirely too slurred could suddenly be heard from underneath the stage, muffled by the solid layers of wood that had gone into building the stage, suddenly interrupted by a loud, ferocious yawn as the drunken man stretched. Groping blindly around himself, the despondent young man began to hum disjointedly as he attempted to remember the song he was singing. With a little moue of happiness and a loud “AH-HA!” The drunk found the little silver container that he somehow--somewhere always seemed to keep with himself. Taking a long pull from the precious amber liquid therein, the drunk hiccupped and scratched his head as he tried to remember where he was, and why he was there. Turning his head toward the ground, the man took another swig from the silver flask and squinted his eyes, blessedly protected from the sun rays passing through the wooden floorboards by his rather large sunglasses. It was clearly daytime, which meant he had spent the night… Somewhere. And ended up underneath the stage. With a groan of distaste, Luke laid back down on the ground and turned his head, taking in the heady scent of grass, wet dirt, and… People that seemed to permeate the floor. There were people around, and lots of people at that. Somewhere in his mind, the man remembered the guy he hung out with talking about a job or something where people would finally listen to them play music… Festival of… Fascists? Something like that. It still didn’t explain why he had been boxed up. Maybe he was dead? Frowning to himself at the distress those thoughts caused, the son of a Maenad pushed himself swiftly into a standing position… crashing his head against the stage’s floor. For a moment all he could see where spots and stars, before the pain brought back his vision and the realization that perhaps his self-made reports of his own demise were premature. Rubbing his head with a grimace, the relief that had just been budding within the man’s chest was replaced by a fierce indignation as he glared at the offending wooden boards. Slowly pushing himself back to his feet, the man lifted his glasses and squinted as he took yet another long, slow pull from his flask and went to go place it in his back pocket… Only to realize he wasn’t wearing any pants. Freezing for a moment, Luke looked down at himself and began to laugh. What the hell happened last night? Clad only in his colorful patchwork cloak, his silver laurels, his usual sandals and shackles, and a rather scandalous hot pink pair of ladies’ undergarments, the drunk bent down to pick up his flask and swayed for a moment before he settled himself back into a standing position. Sipping on the flask, the man turned his eyes once more toward the offending floor and wound his fist back, ready to blow a hole into the stage in revenge for hurting his head… Until he heard them. A couple of familiar voices, an annoyed edge that was usually reserved for when he was being spoken to… And music. As swiftly as his mood had changed from relieved to angry, excitement began to fill Luke’s chest as a wide smile stretched his mouth into a rather vulpine expression. “B.G., Find our bandmates. Let me have this…alright?” Taking a long pull from his flask, Luke looked up back at the floor pensively and reached a hand up, tentatively knocking on the wood before he attempted to feel a spot where there was no resistance or the telltale vibrations of footsteps. Finding a place a bit towards the back of the stage, the drunk nodded to himself satisfiedly before bringing his flask back out, taking another gulp, and wrapping his colorful cloak more tightly around his body. Crouching down, he bowed his head in cognizance that this was possibly his worst idea lately, and used his enhanced strength to burst through the stage’s floor as he jumped up. Hearing the sound of cloth tearing, Luke grimaced as he looked down at his cloak and sighed as he landed on his feet unsteadily, nearly falling through the hole he had just created. Looking up between the man in the stage and the… female robot in the crowd, Luke started heading toward the guitar-toting female and offered her a wide grin as he waved one of his hands excitedly. “Pap--- I mean… Mama… Leon? I dunno whether to be scared or aroused...” Luke’s brows furrowed slightly as he headed toward the stranger, his head tilting as he opened his cloak wide and revealed his nearly nude visage as he brought out his drumsticks. Scratching his head with one of the sticks (which produced sparks), the drummer stopped at the edge of the stage, barely noticing the fact he nearly fell off. “I thought you were a boy…. But… Wha?” He said to himself quietly before turning his eyes toward the audience and offering them a wide smile. “Good evening, ladiesanjentelmen!” He said, slurring his words as he flashed his colgate-white smile around the crowd. “Today we are here to play some music for you all. Mama Leon is our boss, and we are Frolicking with Fate-- wait… Tha’s not quite right… Or is it? Anyway!” Banging his drumsticks together, Luke turned toward the male on stage and smiled. “And who’re you?” He asked, squinting his eyes beneath his sunglasses as he pulled his cloak up and offered the actual Leon a courtly bow, showing his ass to the audience. “I’m Luke Strixx… Here at your ser… Ser…” Frowning slightly for a moment, the man’s features brightened slightly as the word finally came to him. “Cervix! I’m at your cervix!” He said excitedly with an ever present smile. @Trexasle @TheWilySpookster @Kasai Uchiha
  8. He's a compadre of going on ten years, 'Los. I've been pestering him to join us for a bit now!
  9. Welcome to the website, old friend! It's VERY nice to have you around again, and I'm looking forward to us getting back to our old shenanigans!
  10. Welcome in, pal.
  11. Arkadia's favorite food is Billy @Song Sprite
  12. Personal History Basics: Birth Name: Alastor Creed Legal Name: Alastor Creed Alias: Cannibal Al, The Bloody Grin Butcher Alignment: Chaotic Evil Personality: Upon first conversing with Alastor, most people would think him to be charming, smooth, and a sincere soul. A born sociopath, any of his displays of warmth, joy, love, and compassion are usually feigned rather than experienced. Outraged by seemingly insignificant matters, Alastor still remains unmoved and cold by what would upset a normal person. His abilities to persuade and lie are very well practiced, which makes him convincing and able to pass most lie detector tests. In truth, Alastor's inability to empathize with others and his grandiose sense of self makes him feel entitled to what he does and unable to understand the moral implications of killing and eating people. He feels no remorse, guilt, or even shame because he does not see others as people, just as victims and accomplices who sooner or later will become someone else's victims. Alastor has also never truly felt fear, which causes him to recklessly live on the edge in order to satisfy his craving for adrenaline. Extremely cunning and versatile, the man has no problem changing his plans up mid execution, as long as there is a good reason for it. He has a deep fondness, however, for trapping his victims and watch them as they squirm in their own helplessness. Appearance: True Age: 57 Apparent Age: 25 Race: Scion of a skinwalker and a human female Height: 6’0” Weight: 190 lbs Skin Color: White Eyes: Gray Hair Color: Midnight Blue/Black Hair Style: Short and neatly cropped Build: Slight and muscular Tattoo: None Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous Biographical Information Date of Birth: March 25th City of Birth: Tia Hobbies: Carving, Burning things, Art, Orchestra Music, Reading, Psychology Current Occupation: Barber Associations: Formerly the Dead Current Location: Unknown Companion: Nara-- This white crow is a curious thing, having been following Alastor for longer than he could remember. Even more curious is the fact that nobody else but he seems to see it. Abilities and skills Camouflage: Extremely adept in blending in and disguising himself, it is very rare for Alastor to be physically recognized in a crowd. A master of disguise and deception, this skill was a primary key in aiding him in the continuation of his murder spree. Additionally, even when undisguised he is a hard man to recognize amongst a crowd, due to his abilities to act and change everything from his voice to his way of walking to the cadence of his words. Blade Expert: Since his early childhood years, Alastor has had a fascination with sharp objects, and an exceptional skill with them. During his years in the armed forces he honed that skill with deathly precision, cutting life away with a disturbing ease. As a barber, he was always able to give someone the smoothest shaves they'd experience due to his accuracy. Martial Artist: After several years of self-disciplined practice, Alastor has adapted several moves from different schools of fighting to his own abilities and uses. Relying mainly on his speed and flexibility, the man's fighting style mainly relies on his ability to confuse his opponent with his swift moves and completely random fluidity. Superhuman: Due to his close relation to a skinwalker, Alastor Creed's body is different than a normal human being's, albeit his appearance remains the same. Naturally stronger, faster, and more enduring than most human beings, these traits were a vital part in his crimes. Additionally, his body can survive on little to no sleep and very little food, even being able to break down most poisons. Curiously, however, is that these abilities only become more prominent upon the scion's consumption of human flesh, but when he does not feed on other human beings for extended periods of time he becomes weaker and his body dwindles to a normal human's level. Sight: Another skill passed on from his father, the Sight is a passive ability that allows Alastor to see the flow of energy around him, although it can be turned on and off. Additionally, when someone looks into his eyes for the first time they see him for who he is at his very core, and he sees them under the same light. Those people affected by this ability can hardly forget what they see, whether it be horrifying or beautiful. Unconsciously, most people avoid his eyes for that very reason. Weapons: Fangs: After the first time he tasted flesh and decided that he would continue on killing people, Alastor sharpened his teeth into pointed fangs. Due to his parentage, his teeth are about as hard as any metallic alloy, which allows him to bite through many different things. Retractable Claws: Another gift from his grotesque parentage and an obvious link to the skinwalker, Alastor's nails are naturally shaped like claws and about as hard as mythrill. When fully extracted, each of his claws come out to nine inches and are strong enough to parry other bladed weapons or even slash at projectiles. Silver Engraved Razors (6): Being his most prized possessions, these six razors are 10.5 inches long each when opened and his most favored weapon when he has a choice. Generally worn in his barber's belt, the six gleaming hilts of the razor are made out of engraved silver, depicting beautiful women with yet unborn babies. The blades of each razor are made out of a gleaming silver metal that never loses its edge or rusts. When tested, each of his razors were known to cut through iron and steel much like butter. Gear: Wedding Ring: Unexplained and often unnoticed, Alastor still wears the wedding band that had sealed his old marriage. Even now, 10 years after killing his wife and child the simple gold band can still be seen on his finger. It was said that before the officers who apprehended him could remove the ring from his possessions he killed three officers and injured four more.
  13. Welcome back, Brittany.