Syros

Personality
a hellbound fiend, dripping with deviant sin and marred by a cruel hand of fate. damnation divine; never meant to be born yet through vicious artistry were he formed, malicious discontent surging throughout his frame by the rush of madness bestowed upon the hellion by parents who shared a womb. youth finds him to be strange, a quiet lad, one whose rasped vocals a rarely heard yet always remembered- for he speaks in riddles, drawing shadows of unease and morbidity over whatever situation he so chooses. intellectual, vastly so, and quietly observant; his tongue may rasp rarely, yet never in true deception- outright lies are beneath him. those who lie are afraid, and fear is foreign, never to be known, a strange thing requiring study. study he must, and it shall show- discomfort he delights upon, shudders and whimpers, a sweet balm to the flames ever-encasing his battered mind. insanity twists, it re-forms that which he sees to suit its own liking. the world is his plaything, his toy, his test subject- and through gore and torment does he study that which fascinates- the phobic mind, the quivering form, they who will plead and ne'er be heeded. yet still will he lack an understanding of these methods being wrong- never will he consider he shall be seen as evil, though when understood, it will be embraced, beloved, adopted as title and lifestyle as easily as breaths are taken. hell hath wrought its fury, and evermore will it be seen in him.



Appearance
a curse upon the land, a testament to his name; o, he is a handsome brute, thirty-six inches in height, a lanky, lithe beast weighing a mere one hundred and thirty pounds- yet lean muscle encases the limber fiend, ensuring agility and grace will not hinder the strengths he possesses. vermillion strands encase his frame, from light below twisting to darkness above- trailing burnt russet in fading strands upon his spine. duality arises within cold, near- emotionless irises; the left, argentate tinted by the palest of rose, the right, a glacial azure with mere hints of sterling. o, the shadow he casts may be wiry, yet it is his gaze which sears, resplendent and yet forever offering a portend of grievous nature in chilling silence. at the mere age of a year, already shall ivory fangs show staining of faded crimson, indicative of the violent nature he has embraced so willingly; most certainly will he gain silvery lines to mark recurrent battles, and when he does, they will be born in stoic indifference, acknowledged only with a single nod whenever spoken of.