| -and the shadows keep on changing- |
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Psyche [the monsters within]
The key is rage.
He’s barely old enough to drink, and he’s angrier than anyone should
have to be. He’s angry
without a reason more concrete than the blessing/curse the moon laid upon
him, and because there is no reason, there is no respite.
He’s a grenade without a target – or a pin.
He knows life is nasty, brutish and short – and he intends to
take what he wants and leave what he doesn’t, and the rest of the world
be damned. At the same time, he’s one hell of
a fighter. He always has
been, always will be. Some
say it’s his father’s blood. Those
who have said so have all paid for it dearly in blood.
Whatever the reason, it’s true.
And sometimes, in a dark mood, Decker spits that it’s the one
thing he’s ever been good at. Killing. For a Fenrir, he’s also quite
streetwise. He’s a thug, to
be plain about it. He prowls
the streets regularly: get in trouble, get high, get laid.
He smokes marijuana just as regularly, and snorts cocaine once in a
while. The former calms him;
the latter gives him release. When
he feels like it, he romps the streets looking for a fight.
And while once he was apathetic to the War, recently that’s
seemed to change some. Some
might say he’s got something to fight for now. There is, also, one exception to his cruelty: women. Which is not to say he never strikes them, for his temper is hard to contain sometimes. But he tries not to, if only because memories of his father stay his hand, and the last thing he wants is to be his father. Chivalry has nothing to do with it.
Appearance Blonde hair always cropped to a
buzz; storm-grey eyes. Having
topped off around six feet, he doesn't tower but nevertheless crackles with a sort of
black energy, a fury, that makes most people steer clear.
He has one scar, and only one: from above the left nipple to the
right ribs. There is a tattoo
of his tribal glyph on his left deltoid; his fetish axe jags an insidious
design on his right arm from shoulder to wrist. Other than that, he
is neither pierced nor marked. Built
like a young bull, powerful and sure of foot, but never quite graceful, he
might have been considered attractive, except his Rage is such that only
the insane would dare to think so. When
he smiles, it looks like a sneer, and his sneer is enough to freeze a
grown man in his tracks. Always
contemptuous, always coarse and callous, he walks low to the ground,
slouching, shoulders swaying, threatening.
He's been known to carry a length of chain and a crowbar as a
weapon, though the true weapon is his own self. In his feral forms, he is a massive,
muscular beast. His fur is as
grey as his eyes, whereas his eyes lighten to a silvery, inhuman hue.
His teeth are strong and sharp and his claws deadly.
His most distinctive mark, though, is also the one he hates the
most: a pure white ruff with crowns his heavy shoulders and streaks down
his chest – a mark his
father shared, and his father before him, all the way back to the
offspring of one legendary Fenrir who had, among his other exploits and
quests for glory, raided a Silver Fang camp
centuries ago. The way the
Fenrir tell it, the most beautiful Silver Fang kinfolk of all was so
impressed by her besieger’s strength that she ran away with him.
The Fangs, of course, tell another story, insisting the lawless
Fenrir had carried her off against her will and the will of her people.
Either way, the result is the same: the dash of white among
iron-grey; the mark of every male in his father’s line since. No matter the form, Decker is brooding, deadly, implacable and merciless.
Possessions Grandfather's fetish great-axe.
Data and Statistics Name: Decker Rohl |
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