The set schizophrenia Paris suffers from is easily distinguishable by his change in appearance. He suffers from a disease similar to Lycanthropy, but remains much more humane even in his worst form. Paris' first and second names are merely a combination of the names chosen for each of his lives on the other side, smooth wine and magic ripped and displaced to his colour. Paris' finds himself engrossed in art. He loves to sketch people who pass by and capture emotions in a poem. Although he is shy, he is friendly and easy to instigate into conversation if one tries. He often quotes books he has read, for when he is not painting, sketching, or writing, Paris finds himself between the folds of a book. From fantasy to modern history, he can't keep his hands off each page. he hides many secrets; although aware of his other self, paris is not sure of what is other self really is. Throughout all the books, he cannot find a cure to his disease, nor an explaination, even, as to what it is. Completely unaware of his other body, and never remembering what happened or how much time he had to do it in, Paris bars himself off from others, his home hidden deep within the closures of magic he has learned.
Fedafyr, on the other hand, seeks any attention he can get. The kitsune-half of the torn sorcerer's soul a flirt and a carnivore. He often occupies himself in bars or pubs, and over the time he has spent wandering the other world he fell into, has learned how to get around. His taste is comparable to a vampire's, but he is less graceful about his food. His techniques with women are often unifiably disgusting, bodies littered across many blocks but never identifiable after he gets through with them. Fedafyr appears as roguishly charming as he could get, but, unlike vampires, with their reputations hanging about them and the idea that it was dangerous to be with them, women are less afraid to shuffle off for a night in heated ecstasy with a kitsune being. To the horror of all, Fedafyr is quite often the worst sadist any creature could possibly roam with, and he likes his blood hot and dripping off his body.
Appearance :
Paris' long black hair is often pulled back with a red ribbon into a loose ponytail at the bottom of his neck. The ebony strands flow down to his lower back between black wings that stretch from his body. The customized cape made for him by an old girlfriend that had died in the mystery that soon encompassed his life is white as her skin was pale. White folds fall around his whole body, covering the skin beneath and carefully contrasting to the darker grays and blacks of his hair and clothing beneath. His pants and sleeveless shirt resemble naught more than a jumpsuit, slate gray gloves covering fingers that bear the blood of people he never wanted to touch, reminding him that he bore upon himself a beast whose claws would never lift. Although the clothes beneath often alternate, the cape even sometimes left behind sometimes on warm days, this style is often his own.
The loose, traditional Japanese clothing were always Fedafyr's favourite. He preferred the way they sat on him, red and white contrasting to his gold slitted eyes and long black hair that fell around his shoulders, free to the caresses of the wind. His feet are often adorned with the traditional sandals, his thin frame heightened by the hakama and loose gi. Soft strips adorn his cheeks, almost invisible behind strands of black hair. From his pants protrudes a tail of a fox, the soft fur often grabbing more attention to it than his own body could alone. His ears are sharp and pointed, darkened at the tips. Creamy white skin is highlighted by the golden fur of his tail, and Fedafyr looks best in the firelight. His boyishly charming smile is enough to bring someone to a melted standstill, for when that smile is there, even his sharp white fangs pale in contrast to the allure he radiates.
History :
Paris Musuko had forged his living in the expansive estate he had owned in Britain. His attachments were to his library and the constant learnings he had come of in magic. Now, all of his friends claimed that magic was not real, but Paris had learned how to do immensely powerful things with it as the years went by. He had been social, at one point, before the change occured. One of his spells went awry, causing, over the next few weeks, a painful growing of wings. His girlfriend, a lovely redhead with bright eyes and hopeful smile made him a cape he could hide them beneath, but Paris' nerves kept him from leaving the estate. Much to his dismay, he could not manage to work up a spell to even conceal them properly.
Paris Musuko gave Merin his name sometime afterward. A conventional marriage with a priest indoors and any friends she wished to invite was held, and for the first time he laid lips atop her own in a kiss that sealed her soul and his together. Paris never imagined he would regret it.
Fedafyr was not an accident, though paris didn't know it. It was Merin who sealed her fate by playing God. Paris, you see, was sterile. Although he tried and tried to get his love with the child she had wanted, Paris could never truly make her happy, and Merin wanted nothing more than to have his child and no one else's. Although the doctors offered artificial insemenation, adn the foster homes held many a child, Merin wanted her own, and she wanted it to be Paris', as well.
Perhaps that was noble, perhaps it was not. merin found nothing to help her Paris, though she searched through each book in his library, until she brought out the 'Black Arts'. Now, although the book was a book of witchcraft, it was based upon blood magic, which was never a good sign. Despite this, her urge and love was so great that she ignored the obvious signs that should have warned her against it, and, in the dark that night, she slit open her veins to make the potion that would fix any sexual problems her love experienced. With the bandge on, she coaxed her tired darling into drinking it in his sleepiest state, and never realized that it would be the last night she would curl up beside him.
It was the enxt night that Fedafyr first showed himself, finding Merin asleep in bed. It would be the ultimate pleasure to say that she stayed asleep and died without knowing, but Fedafyr was a demon who liked the screams of his victims and the horrible scene that ensued would scar you to hear. Paris came to in a puddle of blood, and, although Fedafyr's first kill was with the love and grace warring against him, the bloodletted, molested body of Paris' wife upon the bed with cuts across her skin so traumatized Paris that he could not think straight. Although he slid on his gloves to hide the blood on his hands, he still stared at his palm and screamed.
Paris death was no happy story, either. For his sins, he paid, and that night was wraught with screams so intense that it took merely an hour after the deed had happened for the police to have gathered... and in their prescense, Paris died, screaming his last remorse.
Powers -
Death Conscripted - Fedafyr does not make eye contact because it allows one to see past him and into his soul. These nightmares never go away, haunting the life of whomever is touched by his curse... but, at the same time, it is the only way to actually understand the tragedy of Paris and Fedafyr.
Grace Unyeilding - Fedafyr does not falter, does not lose his balance, does not miss steps in a dance. He treats the water as if it is ground he walks upon.
Earth and I as One - The former god of earth has not lost his touch with nature, and is able to flit in and out of the trees, plants, and dirt as if they were air.
Darkness - Fedafyr can cut out the light in a specified area around him, allowing nobody to see but himself. The only thing his victim sees is his eyes--if they're open
I am Kitsune - Fedafyr's senses are those of a fox multiplied by tenfold. He can smell if you're horny, he can smell if you're scared.. and he loves that smell.
Fearless - Fedafyr knows when he can't win, but don't ever confuse that with fear. Fedafyr doesn't understand nor comprehend fear--merely the need to survive.
Magic - Fedafyr has an unbridled grasp on the ancient lores.
RP Samples : (I had these lying around, no use letting them go to waste, is there?
The lovely smell of his wine-red fabric was enough to draw Fedafyr's loyal attentions as he stepped from the howling room with a grin on his face, the look on Grimmel's woman's face had been alluring and almost seductive, and the way he merely had to remain silent and allow his body to do the talking to set them both ill at ease was even sweeter than the prize he placed upon his slender shoulder with a strength granted only by the darkest gods. The air outside was like still ice and silence reigned in his fox-fur ears.The broken fell around him like dust and the creatures of the night drew back from his presence as if he were walking poison, and as he crossed the cold water of the river, sandals touching the surface but never falling into its icy depths, he could have been the darkest antichrist from the first world, with eyes like molten rock and hair that blew to the billows of only the howling winds. He was beauty in perfection and fell short not a bit--pure evil that walked and was more dangerous than lucifer himself. He kept his souls, too..
On a wall, in a hall--a place she was closer than any living girl had been yet to seeing. He treked through the dried, fallen leaves and the vines that wrapped themselves around his ankles drew back in fear of the wrath of his katana and claws. Fedafyr felt the very forest tremble to its cores as it moaned its laments to bear shelter to such a vile and disgusting creature. No matter where he turned--and he turned often--he smelled a familiar scent... It had been hidden to him when he first stepped out, the presence that was silent as a butterfly but smelt of a woman. His tail swung irritably behind him, but his silent ascent toward his cave was always haunted by the steps of another almost as silent as his own. Perhaps they even were so silent--for he could not tell if he heard them or if he made the footsteps up in the back of his relentless imagination.
The smile that broke his face was invisible in the shadows, sharp fangs framed by perfect lips that were found beneath a shadow cast by his long, luxurious bangs. He watched the soft forest weave and relent to his movements as he slowly heard the hard beat of a faint heart and the breath of one who felt she must follow him or die. She was not a normal woman--some women followed him for his looks, expecting to earn some favour or merely find themselves in his bed, but she was not after him with any of such fickle determinations--there was blood... blood was on her mind and he could smell it as if she bled herself over it. Her wounded mind was determined to escape him and she thought that beauty could destroy the beast... Fairy tales died in the last life, Pet.
The rocks loomed above him and the cavern opened to his slow, lulling voice. He was cautious to enter without her, though he did leave one rug behind so that, if she were awake enough to catch such a blatant hint, she would not be discouraged. He couldn't have her seeing his humble home without a rug on the cement floor. He slipped past the rock and it fell back into place with a sullen clash, but he would not keep his guest waiting long. The blood red of the carpet spread itself out as he lay it down upon the floor, fitting itself to each crack and crevice as he stepped down the hall behind it. He moved through the darkened halls and candles lit themselves in his wake. He found himself in his office, where he settled the tome of his life's sufferings, something he could not read nor remember--perhaps he would use this woman for something else. Paris would not get the chance to free her before Fedafyr found out what he wanted... who cared if blood was spilt when one's life could be redeemed. The ideas were new, though bloodlust attempted to push them from his mind, some shadow lingered that held him steadfast to his plan...
He would have the woman read the book.. then he would sleep and give Paris the chance to see if he himself could break his feeble magic seal as easily as Fedafyr had. Paris had indeed miscalculated when he merely created a lock strong enough to hold himself in. Fedafyr was not Paris. He was not a weak, mortal man. If Paris could save her, he would have her... unfortunately for her, the chances were slim and dark.
A scream pierced his ear and he hissed to the darkness, feral eyes narrowing as his ears perked to the joyous noise. Hurt herself, did she? Dumb bitch. His lithe body carried him over the wine red carpet and moved toward the entrance, rolling the stone back with three powerful words... and he stared at the woman who lay before him, and his eyes narrowed. Fedafyr could not recall her, but he sensed some air of familiarity--it had to have been impossible, though, because Fedafyr did not dabble with his prey. His small body knelt beside her and he lifted her gently, cradling her to his chest. A serpent momentarily tried to claim its prize, but Fedafyr growled and it was relenting of its prey. The poison was merely a sleeping toxin for a human, though deadly for smaller creatures. Fedafyr carried the body inside with the tenderness of holding something that might break--something he could not comprehend and therefore did not question.
He brought her to his bed and lay her down upon the feather matress, content to look at her curiously for the moment and wait for sleep to take its leave. His hands came to rest upon his book, staring down at the leatherbound cover. His tail twitched, and he looked back toward waves of red hair and felt the simple lust choke him. He was too pulled by something else, though--maybe more than one other thing kept him... Someone else watched Merrin on that bed. She was soon disarmed.. and disrobed except for a silk chemise, stained with blood in a few places and torn in others, but not too revealing. Fedafyr didn't do laundry, and Paris could never find the source...
He settled himself upon the corner of the bed, staring down at the ivory features with narrowed eyes.
Re: Paris Fedafyr Musuko
"A thousand smooth words could pour from my lips and I wouldn't be able to tell you that, Dearest," His voice was chilled ice, but something else kept him from hostility--there was something more than a want that kept him at bay--she was protected by something else. He did not use his usual charm nor did he falter his stare at her like he did to make other girls feel comfortable--he would not treat this one like a fawn. She had hunted him, the little fool, and if he was going to spare her even for one night she would have to prove herself worth more than the women he had slaughtered before. Some braver than others, standing up for a child or a husband, but no matter what the circumstances were, they were constantly begging.. for something. They could never hold their chin up or pretend they were unafraid because he had lead them to believe there was nothing to fear. This was different. She had known, very well, there was something to fear, and she had persued it.
"You're a fool-hearted whore. What did you think you'd earn by coming here, a death? You can't kill me, Love." He stood up, and he was the very essence of supreme molevolence. He was working her down, trying to frighten her, and he was good at it. She was weaponless, and nothing around her was able to stand up to him and he needed no weapons--he had claws and fangs and even if he lacked them he had the very will to tear through flesh with dull fingers and even duller teeth. He slipped onto the cushioned bed, but he didn't reach to touch for fear one touch would spark the insatiable desire to grab and tear, "You see something in me you don't want dead--something you pity. You'd be the cold-blooded killer of whatever it was you saw." Ice-cold was his laughter, and he stood from the bed and paced away.
Long tendrils of black hair were pulled into a loose braid with white ribbon, each strand having a will of its own and tweasing itself inward at its own pace, "Even if I had left you your weapons, do you think you could have slain me with your brute strength against mine? It would have been a slow and torturous end and I would have enjoyed each moment of it. I had been waiting for you to take a chance and leap upon me all the way through the trees." He turned to look at her again, leaning against the wall in a way that could only be considered seductive, with his gi hanging half-open and his bangs falling into eyes that suddenly sparkled vividly, half-closed, "And I would have enjoyed the fight, brief as it might have been, and loved the game.. I would have smellead the blood--my blood--and relished in it. Do you see now, Darling? You followed me all the way here intending to leap upon me... but you were felled by a common snake and you think to beat me with daggers and heels? Stupid bitch."
He was insulting and crude, but he made no move to touch her. Any movement he made was slow and methodical so as not to startle her. He didn't move suddenly until he finally reached for the large book on the table with a quick jerk and lifted it into his hands, "But you are right about one thing, though I do not recognize you and do not remember sparing you, I do want you for something and that's the only reason I'm sparing your life--" His breath was slow, icy as he held out the heavy leatherbound book. The way he grasped it was as if it was his very life he held, and, ironically, it had something along those lines inside of it. "I write it, but I can't read it--it haunts me. I know that some part of me is missing and it's hidden in this book. The reason I am the way I am--the reason I can't sleep without regret--the regret of someone I do not know--the sound of someone I can't see weeping--is in this book in handwriting that is familiar to me, but blurrs before my eyes as if it mocks me."
For a moment he looked vulnerable, like a whipped pup, his eyebrows furrowed in frustrated sorrow, but it was fleeting. He threw the book down upon the bed before her and he snarled as he leaned in close, "You'll read it to me... You'll read it to me, or you'll scream in a way I have made no other woman scream before."
He stood up straight and glared down, hard, upon her. He crossed his arms, and he began to wait.
Re: Paris Fedafyr Musuko
She grew close--terribly close. She drew near him in a way no woman had done without the scent of her blood on his nails and she had done it. No fear danced in those pretty blue eyes, but he was not impressed. There was no warmth, either--and therefore, she was no better than him. Emptiness was a worse fate than anything and she would never understand, perhaps that's why he felt he deserved compassion--that was also the reason her skin tore beneath his claws. They were cuts small enough that she was able to ignore them, the tips, needle sharp, drawling blood where they grasped the audacious woman when she dared to put himself within her reach. She was never in control, though she made him feel as if she was--she was somehow different.. she was a woman in love--and with what? Something attached to a being she could barely stand. She was the first to be pitied, not he or his counterpart, for although they were broken, they had nothing more to lose and everything to pay for.
"Just read it." He was no longer insulting or condescending; he seemed almost tired, and although his nostrils flared in a way that was obviously enticed by the blood on his fingernails, he did not react to it, even when he placed the bloody tips against his forehead. Something about him had changed, his gold eyes were no longer hard nor hungry, they were glazed as if he tried to remember something just out of his reach. Ebony strands fell across his shoulders and he looked over toward the woman with the cradled book and tried to think of what she reminded him of.. what he could have lost.. again.
Love,
The part of me that thinks can't see, and the part of me that sees cannot think. If you could find me when you find your way home--if you find your way home. I cannot stand what I do, yet I am bound by chains to do it... I just want to sleep.
If you read this, can you do such a thing for me? It's selfish, there is another within me--but he would not wish to live, I am sure. He has sealed me away; I only wish it was a seal I could not break.
The page was splattered with blood. It was a diary, and Fedafyr coddled it like a child, as if his last lifeline were found inside of it. He chewed a claw like a nervous child, listening, but it was as if it was incomprehensible. His eyes softened, but knowledge passed him, as if he could not listen with the side of him that showed physical form.
I fight and fight and yet still another person. I cannot live this way.
If you would find me, let me be free.
He lifted the plait between his fingers. Black strands fell like silk over white skin and in the dull candlelight he looked ghostly pale. Like a fidgeting babe he placed the tuft of his ebony strands between his lips, straightening them with his lips and a methodic, nervous touch of his tongue. His eyes had half closed, as if he considered sleep, "Anata wo... Watashi wa... watashi wa... warui desu ka...?" He spoke lightly, to nothing, as the hair slipped from between his lips. His fingers trembled, the slim sign of his weakness, while the rest of him stayed still and cold as stone, each muscle tensed and ready to strike though he looked completely at ease in his own thought..
"So... is that the way it is?" His molevolent grin played over his features again as his eyes closed, "Eternity to breathe blood and drown in tears, go deaf with the sound of screams for some woman?" He was whispering, the sarcasm wrapping tendrils around his voice as claws dug into the opposite arm as the thought drove him mad. He didn't seem to be aware there was someone else in the room--reacted as if he had read it himself. Clawed feet pressed against the cool wood of the floor and he looked toward the wall in some dumbstruck manner, "... Go on. Turn the page. None of your Paris will be in this tome."
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