GREYBACK, fenrir
May 19, 2014 7:46:50 GMT
Post by ғᴇɴʀɪʀ ɢʀᴇʏʙᴀᴄᴋ ϟ on May 19, 2014 7:46:50 GMT
FENRIR• EMIL• GREYBACK
LOOKS LIKE THE HOLY GHOST IS GONE
t h e . b a s i c s
,NICKNAMES: Mutt, Fenny
,GENDER: Male
,AGE/D.O.B: Sixty; born November 15th, 1936
,HOUSE: N/A
,OCCUPATION: Criminal
,BLOOD STATUS: Half-blood
,ABILITIES: Werewolf
,WAND: 9 ¾ inches, rigid, dragon heartstring, hornbeam
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NOW YOU’RE AFRAID OF YOURSELF
t h e . l o o k i n g . g l a s s
,HAIR:
Matted tufts of brown hair, now tinged grey, jut out across his body. The hair atop his head is greased back by blood and sweat.
,EYES:
Blood-rimmed, they are a faded grey once blue.
,BODY AND HEIGHT:
Fenrir is broad shouldered and of a thick and towering frame. He reaches 6'1" and weighs a little over two hundred pounds. Though soft in the middle, he is pure muscle.
,MARKINGS:
Various scars align his skin; some are hidden beneath patches of hair. He's quite proud of them, especially the scars on his wrists from victims who tried to claw out their escape.
,CLOTHING/STYLE:
He wears very simple and earth-toned clothes; they stretch taut over his chest and do not seem to properly fit. He refuses to amend this believing it casts a more intimidating impression.
,ANYTHING ELSE:
Fenrir's teeth are stained yellow and are surprisingly sharp; often flecks of red stain his gums (the leftovers of a recent meal). Mild sores line his lips due to his cannibalistic tendencies.
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OVER YOUR SHOULDER YOU HAVE TO WATCH
t h e . p e r s o n a l i t y
+Full moon-This is the time when Fenrir is at his strongest and he can easily kill any witch or wizard who foolishly crosses his path. The silver beams also bring on an sense of inner freedom that is unlike anything he has ever felt-it is a time where no one can hold him back from being his true self.
+Werewolves-Werewolves are the only individuals who can even begin to understand Fenrir’s plight into madness-they are strongest. Most of Fenrir’s pack descended into lycanthropy due to their alpha so he considers them all his children and thus believes he rightly owns the entire species.
+Sweets-Ever since he was a small child, Fenrir simply couldn’t help himself to a cauldron cake or chocolate frog. During his school year’s Fenny’s trunk was overflowing with wrappers that spilled out onto the floor and gushed from the drawers of his desk.
+Blood-Red is his favorite color; Fenrir takes pleasure in the warm, salty liquid and revels in its taste. It signifies life, something he loves to take away and play with. The loss of it is a good measure of persuasion.
+Forests-Forests are a great place for Fenrir to stretch his legs without having to worry about aurors or others who seek to hunt out his kind. They are also a fantastic area for finding unsuspecting prey. The musty scent of the forest floor is perhaps a scent Fenrir finds himself unable to do without.
+Running-Despite his age, Fenrir is a very agile man and is quite fast in both his werewolf and human form. In addition to this he is very strong. Often he can be described as a “grey blur” and is found running during his spare time, whether for sport or out of hunger.
,DISLIKES:
+Animals-Other creatures have a habit of coming up to him out of curiosity in his human form. Sometimes they can sense his danger and will try to attack, most though will run away and leave him in his solitude. None dare approach him while in his werewolf form. Fenrir thinks they all stink.
+Flying-Fenrir has always preferred the ground beneath his feet than the air through his hair. Though in all honesty he has horrible balance on a broom and is easily disoriented up in the air.
+Quidditch-A visual smack in the face of what he is incapable of doing, Fenrir hates quidditch as it stands for his great weakness as a wizard. He claims it to be boring and too clean.
+Loud noises-Because of his lycanthropy, Fenrir has sensitive ears apt at hearing. Loud noises can easily startle or distract him, the outcome of which is a raging Fenrir.
+Wizards-Wizards made him the ‘beast’ he now is and wizards are the ones who spurn him and his kind. Fenrir yearns to gather an army and in violent revenge display just how powerful and capable werewolves truly are .
+Unicorns-They are one creature capable of defense against werewolves, he also finds them to be highly unsettling in general. Unicorns are also of poor taste-too chewy.
,STRENGTHS:
+Sharp - Relying heavily on all of his senses, Fenrir is very aware of his surroundings and can easily pickup on background distractions.
+Bravery- Often Fenrir finds himself in situations that would make the hair of others curl. Perhaps it's only out of pride, but Fenrir does not like to give in to fear. With few exceptions, he speaks his mind and physically asserts himself.
+Perseverance- He does not give up, especially not while out on the hunt.
+Zest- Despite his older age there is always a gleam of enthusiasm within his eyes, ready for the chase and kill.
+Leadership- Though his methods are questionable, Fenrir knows how to command a large group of werewolves through fear and domination.
,WEAKNESSES:
+Impatient- Fenrir has a limited amount of patience which his frustration (easily ignitable) will quickly burn up.
+Holds grudges- When someone betrays him Fenrir is never quick to forgive, and normally he kills or attacks those close to whomever wronged him. He cannot let go and carries much hate and bitterness towards the wizarding community.
+Pride - He is very proud and has a swollen head; in his mind, Fenrir is absolute alpha.
+Domineering- Things go either 'his way or no way.' Fenrir often asserts his will on others and uses fear to control them. He has no boundaries and enjoys controlling others.
+Impulsive- Fenrir has a habit of leaping into rash and quite violent action, rarely considering the consequences (because who cares?). This has occasionally gotten him into trouble with the Death Eaters.
,PRIORITIES:
+Fenrir greatly desires to create an army of werewolves, through attacking children to raise them to hate wizards, and take over the wizarding community.
+To defeat the aurors and others in the impending war.
+Infect as many children & others as possible
,BOGGART:
Fenrir’s greatest fire is fire. A boggart would take the form of a fire that would singe the tips of his whiskers. In the past, aurors have tried to smoke out his werewolf pack while searching for its location . He has a rather nasty burn on his left thigh; it is Fenrir's only scar that he feels angry and ashamed of-it marks a near capture.
,ERISED:
If Fenrir were to peer into the Mirror of Erised, he would see himself before an army of healthy werewolves with their wands at the ready, covered in the blood of wizards.
,VERITASERUM:
Fenrir's fear of fire stems from his fear of Hell, thus a fear of death as well.
,PATRONUS:
Fenrir is unable to cast a patronus and conjuring a memory happy enough is dubious. If he could, it would unquestionably take the form of a werewolf. A childhood moment of enjoying a cool Popsicle while alone may stir a happy enough sentiment.
,PENSIEVE:
The memory of his religiously stern father often assembles a bad thought or two. However his worst memory would be sitting through his father's sermon while he preached of Hell's scorching flames and the sin of witchcraft. It was particularly uncomfortable.
,PERSONALITY OVERVIEW:
Fenrir is a cruel and vicious beast who has forsaken his humanity in his attempt to overthrow the wizarding community. He cares little for the lives of others, often deriving pleasure in extinguishing their happiness and ceasing heartbeats. Often he centers his attacks on children, placing himself near his victims before his change during the full moon. It is rare for him to spare anyone from his anger and he can hold a grudge for an absurd amount of time; perhaps even taking it to the grave. He’ll do anything to achieve his means in life. Bitter and full of hatred, Fenrir takes out his frustration on all of wizarding kind. It’s one of his many emotional vulnerabilities. Fenrir has his mind set on who he is and what he must do; he will not be easily swayed by any one person. He greatly fears fire, The Dark Lord, and death.
Despite his violent nature Fenrir also feels a paternal sense of attachment to his pack, as he turned most of the members within. Though just as unpleasant with them as he is with anyone else, he holds a shred of patience for those he deems his own and his loyalty stands unwavering. You hurt one of his and he’ll retaliate through ripping out your throat. Fenrir has much pride and is easily offended-which he does not tolerate.
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HEAVEN FALL INTO HELL
t h e . h i s t o r y
,MOTHER: Catherine Rosenthal; deceased (half-blood)
,SIBLINGS: None
,OTHER FAMILY: Were of little relevance in his life
,SOCIO-ECONOMIC STATUS: Lower class
,HISTORY OVERVIEW:
In his early adolescence, Ulrich Rosenthal immigrated to England from Germany with his mother and father. His older, married sister chose to stay behind in their home country with her husband and infant daughter. She later died after birthing a boy-the estranged family soon lost all contact afterwards. The Rosenthal's were a dirt poor family of halfbloods. However, Ulrich had been born a squib. As a young child he felt resentment over a lack of magical ability. But as time passed he took a keen interest in his religion, studying relentlessly. Ulrich soon came to the conclusion that it was a gift from God that he be saved from the sin of witchcraft; he was chosen over the rest of his family. This soon ignited arrogance within him, and Ulrich thought himself to have a special connection to both God and Christ-a warrior of the Faith. This led to personal conflicts with both his mother and father, and by age seventeen Ulrich left his home and never looked back.
He became an ordained pastor though had troubles getting a crowd to listen to his sermons-he merely attributed it to his younger age (mid twenties). Eventually, he encountered a young woman by the name of Catherine. She was young by a handful of years, having just blossomed into womanhood at eighteen. And as chance would have it, she was a halfblood witch. Though her pretty face drew him in originally, Ulrich thought to be a bewitching charm instead of his own weakness. However, he later decided it was God who brought her to him and that Ulrich was being given the job to cleanse her soul of sin. They married but Catherine was rarely happy when in the company of her husband. Catherine was a timid woman who had nowhere else to go, also born into an impoverished family. Ulrich often beat her whenever she attempted a potion or spell, even something small was deemed wicked in his eyes. He took her wand and burned it to a crisp, telling her that it was all to save her blackened soul.
Eventually she gave birth to a son; Fenrir Rosenthal. The couple then moved to a farming village in northern England where Ulrich took a more permanent position within the church. Like his mother, Fenrir possessed magic. Ulrich was convinced his son had been touched by the Devil; he was a large boy who grew fast. constantly outgrowing his clothes. Weekend services at the church were what Fenrir hated most. His father enjoyed preaching on why the world would burn in the fires of Hell; but his favorite topic was the sin of witchcraft. He would go into such a rage that the spittle would fly from his lips onto the pages of his Bible; Fenrir was made greatly uncomfortable but did not dare shrink into his seat.
Fenrir attended the local school and befriended a small boy by the name of Thomas. They often played together and Thomas's family at behind the Rosenthal's in church. When his letter to Hogwart's came at the age of eleven, Fenrir was not allowed to attend. An official from the Ministry of Magic came to their home, pleading with Ulrich to reconsider stating that Fenrir needed to learn how to control his magic. However, he was promptly thrown from the stoop. The Ministry could not initiate an interference with a lack of parental consent. But the previous official sent a pile of books in secret for Fenrir to study by theory alone , believing that all magical children must know how to control their magic and that Fenrir was no different. It was a small effort, but better than nothing. The books were disguised as muggle texts and even Catherine saw to it that her son learned well from them, whispering helpful tips and hints into his ear. She loved her son and though afraid of her husband, was also afraid of the consequences of an ignorant young wizard.
By age seventeen Fenrir told his first lie to his father-that he was leaving for a trip to London for a youth biblical conference. Having attended the same conference himself, Ulrich granted his son permission believing it was a spiritual journey to be done alone-he would pray for Fenrir to be strong against the temptations he was often fool to indulge. In truth Fenrir was to take an examination by the Ministry to prove he had obtained a 'graduated understanding of magic." Though his was somewhat sloppy with the motions, Fenrir had the theory done well enough to pass. He did not obtain a wand for himself. Reluctantly he returned home. But things would take an unfortunate turn for the worse.
During his early twenties, a strange beast had been sighted near the village. Local livestock were reported missing with evidence of blood and entrails leading towards the woods; oddly it would only happen once a month. Most of the residents were of muggle decent and were utterly bewildered at the happenings. Petty theft also began to occur but was throughout the month's course. Taking advantage of the situation Ulrich professed it to be the devil's work. He claimed a demon haunted the village and the only way to be rid of it was to lead a sermon out into the woods during the next full moon. And a group of male villagers did just that. When the naked moon began to rise, Ulrich lead the men (including Fenrir) into the forest. He preached loudly the entire, raising a fist and occasionally his Bible. But it was not a demon. And his nighttime sermon/exorcism failed. The beast, accurately labeled a werewolf, made a meal out of three of the villagers and nearly ate Fenrir too. Out of a moment of luck Fenrir escaped with only a bite.
His mother knew immediately what would befall her son. And he was promptly locked within the cellar; each night his father would come down to 'bless' him with holy water and shout out all of Fenrir's 'sins.' This was punishment, he'd say. Ulrich explained that Fenrir was lucky that he suffered earthly torment instead of the flames of Hell that would surely eat away his flesh in the afterlife-it should be considered a test of faith. But his first full moon was pain beyond measure. Fenrir's screams echoed throughout the house and into the road. His bellows fading into a wolf-like howl. His skin stretched, splitting at the seams, as his bones grew in size and shape. By morning he was a sweating heap on the ground, limbs chained pathetically to the walls. And the agony would never fully heal.
Fearing for the life of his friend, Thomas decided to take immediate action. He planned to break Fenrir free of his chains. Unfortunately, the only time Ulrich left his son alone was during the full moon. It was a gamble but Thomas felt if he acted quick enough, Fenrir could run far enough away before the moonlight absorbed into his flesh. He snuck into the house and unlocked the cellar door, attempting to help move his weakened friend out the door. But Fenrir was twice Thomas's size, even as a normal human. They were able to make it into the forest just as the sun began to set, but Thomas became carried away in worry and tired to further help Fenrir. He lost track of the time and as dusk began to fall the moon peaked; Fenrir transformed before his eyes. Despite having been transformed, Fenrir remembers everything about that night with clear detail. The sharp squeal Thomas gave as his body was shoved into the earth's floor, claws carving into his soft meat.
Waking up the next morning, Fenrir discovered the carnage and something within his brain snapped-the years of abuse by his father and realization took their toll. He had murdered his friend, he took away the life of another human being. But this concept awakened something deep down within him. He had power. He had power to exert over others. For the first time Fenrir had a lethal control over other living beings. If you'd ask him today, Fenrir would say Thomas was the sweetest he'd ever tasted.
He did not go back to the village. It was now beneath him. It would be too easy to go back and kill his father-he'd let the shame of his werewolf son eat away at the pastor. But things did not become easier. He did not easily trust others and often entered other villages at night. Fenrir traveled across the country. But the less time he spent with other humans, the more he became an animal living alone in the woods. When he attempted to enter wizarding communities he was often scorned and chased away. Fenrir did not hate mere muggles, but he hated magic folk as well-neither treated him kindly (though he no longer deserved their kindness). Fenrir swore that he would make a pack of werewolves so strong, they would overturn the wizarding realm. But what escaped his attention, was that Fenrir was following an eerily similar path to his father-though their reasons differed, their methods and self-glorified beliefs held similar.
When the first wizarding war occurred, he was approached by the Death Eaters. He did not, and still doesn't, believe in their cause but the promise of victims was a temptation he was/is unable to refuse. There was a point, however, when Fenrir was taken in by the ministry for questioning. A man named Lyall Lupin tried to prove his lycanthropy, but Fenrir pretended to be a confused muggle (a lack of a wand and dirty clothes helped his lie). Lyall was mocked for his claims and out of anger condemned werewolves as vile. This struck a chord within Fenrir, who was released. The following night (a full moon), he attacked Lyall's young son Remus shortly before his fifth birthday.
Fenrir rid himself of the surname Rosenthal, and took on the name Greyback in reference to his fur. After the war, he did not concern himself with searching for Voldemort and continued his personal agenda. However he is back among the Death Eaters with the Dark Lord's return, and waits hungrily for his next order.
LOOKS LIKE YOUR BOAT’S ABOUT TO SINK
[/ul]t h e . p l a y e r
,YOURAGE: 20
,YOUREXPERIENCE: On/off for about 6 years
,YOUROTHERCHARS: At the moment, none
,YOURSAMPLE:
Dirt flecks showered out. Fenrir raced forward digging his boots into the muddied ground, narrowly avoiding a frenzied slide across. His right heel kicked out from a protruding root, propelling him back into balance. Dried branches reached out scratching at skin. Thin lines of blood trickled. His breathing was hard but steady-heart drumming against its cage of bone. The darkness was thick-impenetrable. But his eyes were keen to every sting of the wood-his body was familiar with the layout, light a mere luxury. The whispers of wind between the leafy canopies tickled his eardrums, muted against an erratic pulse. She was not far ahead. Her gasps were labored and sharp. Pain had begun to burn at her lungs. The fire would spread and blister, crippling her joints. He fantasized her ashen corpse spread along the earth, core ripped wide. Indisputably her bled juices were sweetened by youth. Fenrir could hardly suppress the sensual quake in his spine. Like daggers his claws splintered a budding sapling; green liquid spewed down the snapped trunk. He was drawing near. Her scent grew pungent, rose milk beneath flared nostrils. So close. Faster. Faster. Faster.It was an electrifying torture filled with the promise of pleasure. He would tear her limb from limb to feast upon meaty marrow.
A strangled cry slit through the night. Her body thudded to the forest floor sending up a cluster of dead leaves, their edges a rippling symphony. Victory. Blonde tresses gleamed in the shadows-he was closing in. Truthfully Fenrir did not know her name-how could he possibly track every dead girl’s identity? Dead was dead. What did it matter once they were stuffed in his mouth? He understood only that she had been missing for three months-the last of which she had been imprisoned within his own camp. Ill-behaved little whore, always scraping at faces, never quiet. Sent the other bitches in a frenzy. He would be glad to be rid of her, the daughter of some silly auror. Teach them a lesson, he hoped. The wizards were rash enough to believe themselves capable of his incarceration. But Fenrir had shown them, he always would. A wolf cannot be caged. And she knew-the look of terror draining her color was proof enough. Elbows grated vainly against the mossy beds as she tried scrambling up, but her body was too bruised, verging decrepit -any strength a fragmented hope. A mouse beneath his paw, the girl cried. She was far too young. But he had taken younger.
His palm collided with back of her skull. The girl fell onto her stomach, face digging up soil. She spluttered turning for a breath. But she could barely manage a pant as Fenrir twisted his calloused digits into her mane. He yanked back, hard, and brought the girl to her knees. Her thighs trembled weighed heavy with fatigue. His grasp tightened drawing crimson. Scalp held tight she could only whimper as death leaned in for the kiss. Fenrir pressed his mouth to her ear, snarling. "I do like the sweetness of the skin.” Her let her squirm, swaying feebly beneath his clutch. Salty tears fell from her chin’s point, melding with the dust at his feet. Too enticed in his fledgling meal, Fenrir failed to fully pay heed to the footfalls at his rear. Fenrir chuckled, rotten stench ghosting along the nape of her neck. "Mhm, girly?”
A strangled cry slit through the night. Her body thudded to the forest floor sending up a cluster of dead leaves, their edges a rippling symphony. Victory. Blonde tresses gleamed in the shadows-he was closing in. Truthfully Fenrir did not know her name-how could he possibly track every dead girl’s identity? Dead was dead. What did it matter once they were stuffed in his mouth? He understood only that she had been missing for three months-the last of which she had been imprisoned within his own camp. Ill-behaved little whore, always scraping at faces, never quiet. Sent the other bitches in a frenzy. He would be glad to be rid of her, the daughter of some silly auror. Teach them a lesson, he hoped. The wizards were rash enough to believe themselves capable of his incarceration. But Fenrir had shown them, he always would. A wolf cannot be caged. And she knew-the look of terror draining her color was proof enough. Elbows grated vainly against the mossy beds as she tried scrambling up, but her body was too bruised, verging decrepit -any strength a fragmented hope. A mouse beneath his paw, the girl cried. She was far too young. But he had taken younger.
His palm collided with back of her skull. The girl fell onto her stomach, face digging up soil. She spluttered turning for a breath. But she could barely manage a pant as Fenrir twisted his calloused digits into her mane. He yanked back, hard, and brought the girl to her knees. Her thighs trembled weighed heavy with fatigue. His grasp tightened drawing crimson. Scalp held tight she could only whimper as death leaned in for the kiss. Fenrir pressed his mouth to her ear, snarling. "I do like the sweetness of the skin.” Her let her squirm, swaying feebly beneath his clutch. Salty tears fell from her chin’s point, melding with the dust at his feet. Too enticed in his fledgling meal, Fenrir failed to fully pay heed to the footfalls at his rear. Fenrir chuckled, rotten stench ghosting along the nape of her neck. "Mhm, girly?”
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SO IT’S TIME TO PREPARE
t h e . c r e d i t
this app was dreamed up by IZZYKINS THE COOKIE STEAK @ Caution 2.0! Lyrics are by Our Lady Peace. Remove this credit and I will draw APP THIEF on your forehead in Sharpie. Or GOSH liquid eyeliner. Which doesn’t come off.
