THE abyssal PYRE [wip]

[{R.} iddle]

'the end is near,
[ the abyssal pyre ]

[*img]optional image here[*/img]

~it's the beginning of the end~

full name ,, the abyssal pyre
nickname ,, abyss
gender ,, male
age ,, five years
species ,, zasshoku-sei no
rank ,, mankan-jin

~and there are no heroes here~

powers ,, answer here, please describe power
weaknesses ,, answer here, please describe weaknesses (must be equal to powers)

~deep down, you know it's true~

likes ,,
dislikes ,,
fears ,,
personality ,, On the surface, Abyss almost seems empty, completely devoid of any kind of emotion. He normally does not speak, sometimes being mistaken for a mute, and when he does speak, it is in as few words as possible. He is not outwardly aggressive, most of the time, instead choosing a dismissive, passive reaction to anything. His behavior may come across as snobbish, as if he believes himself too good to bother with the likes of you, but in reality, he just doesn't care. You mean nothing to him, and not because he thinks he's better than you, but rather because he has lived most of his life alone, and all of it without any kind of love, and he cannot connect emotionally with other living creatures. Despite this, he is not entirely cold-hearted: he comes from a land where the wolves are extremely religious, and he is no exception. His religion teaches that all life is sacred, and he tries to show all living creatures respect, in his own way. Unfortunately, his way is not obvious to anyone but him, and every once in a way, he completely forsakes these teachings, and sins in the two most terrible ways possible.

Thou shalt not hunt thy brother wolf
Thou shalt love and respect thy family

Both of these, the most important Teachings of the God and his Goddess, both broken a hundred times over by Abyss. He kills his fellow wolf to feel the rush of his own soul coming to life, for otherwise it is dead. He hates and curses his family because it is the only revenge he has for the agony they caused him so long ago. He knows he is condemned to damnation, believes he was condemned since birth, and seeks but knows he will never find salvation and forgiveness. Even were he to stop killing his fellow wolves and commit the rest of his life to good deeds, he would not be Forgiven, not by the God or his Goddess. So he has not bothered to stop his sinful acts, and doubts he even could, however much he wishes too. He holds himself away from society, knowing his soul would be damned further were he to befriend or gain the trust of someone, only to slaughter them later. He came here to Kingdom in the hopes of starting fresh.

As for his chosen name, he doesn't know the origin of it, except that the basis of it came from his guardian's nickname for him, and the rest of it came to him in a dream. He is aware that others seem to find it rather strange, but he finds it fitting, and does not like some of the looks he has recieved on giving it, so now he keeps it to himself.

~on the surface, all is well~

eye color ,,answer here
markings ,, answer here
appearance ,, Abyss is a rather ordinary looking wolf, his fur a mixture of greys, from black all the way to white, and dominated by a pale silvery shade. His hide is riddled with scars from various fights over his life, and they lend a rather formidable look to him. His eyes are a piercing blue, a bright icy shade shot with a darker sky blue; they're distant and cold, staring through whomever they're focused on as if they aren't there. His demeanor is tense and hostile, his entire physical being rife with aggressive energy.

~but the past rips the curtain off of your lies~

birthplace ,,
mother ,,
father ,,
siblings ,,
history ,, Abyss's oldest memory is not a pleasant one, and certainly lends deep insight into the nature of the beast. When he was merely one month old, his parents took him out to a wide meadow in the dark of the night, and dropped him in its centre. They stood with another wolf, staring at him, before turning without a single word and leaving him. He cannot remember the faces of the three adult wolves, not even his mother's, but the face of the puppy in her jaws is burned into his mind. His twin sister was not abandoned, she was kept by her -not theirs, only hers- parents, and he will always remember that blank puppy face. Stupid, snivelling little bitch. Nevermind that she too was only a month old, Abyss has always known that it was her that caused the fateful night. If not for her, and her absolute perfection, his parents would not have abandoned him.

He was never named, as far as he knows, but that suited him just fine, as it gave him leave to choose his own name when he grew old enough. He is not native to Kingdom or the surrounding areas, having been born quite a long ways away. After his parents abandoned him he was taken in by a lone pair of wolves, who referred to him as 'Little Abyss', because of his apparent lack of emotion. They raised him until he was a year old, at which point he went off on his own, partly at the desire of his surrogate father, partly because of his own desire for solitude. He spent the first three months of his new life adrift and lost, unsure of what to do with himself. He felt a despair he had never felt before, even on the night his mother turned her back on him. It was on a bright and beautiful day that he finally found his life's purpose. He met the wolf by chance, and immediately they hated each other; they were both young, both convinced of their own immortality, and she just reminded him so much of his mother.

Killing her was exhilarating, a blood-pounding experience that left him feeling wild and alive. It wasn't a feeling he had ever had before and he wanted to feel it forever. It took a few days for the feeling to ebb away, but when it did, he became edgy and depressed, temperamental and aggressive. He sought a new victim, and came upon an old scout, limping across his patch of territory looking for trouble. He watched the young stranger warily, but reacted too late to save himself from the wolf's brutal attack. The rush from this kill didn't last as long as the first, and soon he needed to kill again. So his life went for the next few years, as he travelled steadily eastward, and unknowingly towards his new home.

~who we are doesn't matter anymore~

name ,, riddle
experience ,, eight years
sample ,, I stared blankly at the gory mess on the floor, my mind whirling numbly. The savagery was terrible; it was primal, basic rage at it's best -and bloodiest. I chose not to listen to the echoes of screams, faint and imagined. I pretended not to see every detail of the crime, etched into my retinas until the day I joined this poor, pathetic dog. Not for the first time, I wondered at my own death; quick and painless, or as violent as this one? Most seem to pray for a quick death, something natural, like age. Even a freak accident that would give them no suffering. I don't think that's an ideal death; all your life, thrown away in such an unmemorable end. Because that's the only part of your life worth remembering; your death is the only thing in this world that means anything. I want my death to be memorable. Perhaps not as violent as this sucker's, but certainly nothing quick, or painless. That's just sad. "Just sad," I muttered, as I crossed a congealing pool of blood to where the majority of the body was. I picked it up in my mouth and dragged it to the stairwell into the tunnels. My job was to get the corpse down there, and clear away the blood; someone else would deal with the corpse after that.

It took me several trips to get all the large pieces down to the tunnel, and I began to suspect that more than one mafia hound had been in on this. The smaller pieces I decided to wash away with the blood; surely they would go down the drain. My next challenge was finding the best way to get flowing water, and how to get it up on the walls. The incident had occurred in the room the human females had used to expend their waste, and a thought struck me. I had learned how to work the handle that flushed the hollow seats, and I was fairly certain I could learn how to work the knobs of the things on the counter, as their shape insisted to me that they sprouted water. I jumped down from the platform and began moving through the parked trains, looting them for anything I could use. It took a few trips, but finally I had what I needed, and I went to work. Putting my "tools" on the counter, I worked the door to the room closed, and wedged it that way using a rock I had found. Then I took a variety of napkins and towels and pressed them into each seat, before pulling the knob. I darted out of the stall every time the seats roared, but after each lever had been pulled and the sounds died down, I pulled each lever again, spilling more water onto the bloody ground.

I then hopped up onto the counter to twist the knobs up there, but had little luck; they were spherical and metal, impossible to grip with my jaws. I settled for pulling the seat levers four times more. I had blocked the drain in the centre of the floor with another towel, and although water was leaking slightly, it was holding up fairly well, and soon I had a tiny pool of water in the room. To clean the walls, I began skidding around on the floor, splashing already reddened water everywhere, causing the splatters on the walls to run. When the walls were thoroughly soaked, I reared up on my hind legs and began wiping the walls with my wet paws, effectively removing the stain. I worked hard, wiping and splashing everything I could, watching my pool turn slowly redder, and occasionally pulling the lever of one of the seats to replenish the dwindling water level. When I was finished, I was exhausted, soaking wet, and tinged slightly pink on my legs and chest. I pulled the towel away from the floor drain and allowed all the water and remaining pieces of dog to slowly drain away. When the pool was gone, there was still some blood and debris left, so I began pulling levers until I was satisfied that all traces of the massacre were gone.

Contented, and eager to find a place to sleep, I pulled as many rags out of the seats as possible, but some were flushed too far down the pipes for me to reach, and I chose to leave them; what dog but me or one of my associates would ever feel the need to flush a seat? I dragged the soaked, blood-stained towels down to the tunnel, and left them beside the corpse; whoever lost that could lose my tools for me as well. I dragged myself up the stairs again, and loitered around the platform, peering into the room I had just cleaned. It looked like it had simply flooded; no one would be able to tell that it had recently been the scene of a murder. The door was left ajar so allow the room to air out, and lose the scent of blood. So far, I was alone here; but that had been arranged. Now that I was finished, -and surely they already knew I was finished- no one would be making sure that innocent dogs didn't happen upon my work. I might only have a few minutes to get away before someone showed up, and then how would I explain my pink-drowned-rat furstyle? I turned to sneak away through the trainyard, but a noise behind me made me freeze stiff.


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