The Nameless - Male - Snow Leopard

THE NAMELESS

TRAITS

? OTHER INFO

APPEARANCE

Nameless. Nameless; the nameless one still had a face regardless of his heartlessness. Regardless of his viciousness, his impending vivisection -- it existed, painted in greys, blues and blacks, like a bruise that ever blossomed on the flesh, inevitable and filthy. He was filth, yes, scum, yet he had eyes, a mouth, nose, a muzzle. He was nearly a hundred and seventy pounds, and all of it was muscle. All thick, sinuous muscle that roped about his bones in a way that the long-legged felines didn't understand. He was short, this Nameless, but it came with the blood, as did the flexibility, and the ability to jump more than thirty feet in the air to a crevice that stood at a ninety degree angle from him. But that is not what others saw; they didn't see his body structure -- if they saw at all. No, they saw the dark greys and blacks that smeared themselves across his hide like vicious rosettes set to shrieking in horror, skewed and warped. There was nothing beautiful here, only dulled shadows, like grief, spotting his grey body with dark slashes of black. He was splattered with dots of black around his muzzle, disappearing into the complete white of his underbelly.

But even that they did not see first. It was his eyes. Or rather, his eye. A tumble of grey and blue, so much like the rest, but reverberating, a seeming shiver within as if galaxies were exploding with every movement his pupil made; or maybe it was the scar they saw first, jagged and cruel across the left of his face where his secondary eye should have been, or had been, once upon a time. Was it a claw that tore out that sacred light, or was it something other? Had teeth gnawed deep into the socket and taken out a piece of himself that should never had belonged to any other? Instead, he had an eye. One glorious, vicious, dead eye, void of warmth, and as cold as the rest of him. Instead, he had his soul stone, buried deep where the other eye should have been, glowing its cold color, vibrating with his emotions.

SOUL STONE

As of now his soul stone is still in the first stages; blue and deeply glowing, set deep in the ridges of his left eye socket. He has no powers but that of extra strength and immunity, but sometimes, even that is enough of a threat. Yet the soul stone pulses in his eye with his emotions, foreshadowing of power to come, and a lengthy journey into darkness.

PERSONALITY

He did not have a name, and yet he was a force of it's own, as if gravity had birthed it's a own tiny cousin and let it walk around on four-legs, so the Nameless walked, his heart as dead as the light in his eyes. He was a creature of darkness, birthed out of malice, and lingering in the outer vestiges of that ocean of rage. He had no mirth inside of him, no smile to give, no warmth, not even that of anger to offer to the world; just this coldness, this blackness, this sight into the world of the unloved and thrown away. A misfit at heart, he acted for the sake of living, moving for the sake of moving. Motivation and ambition were but pretty faces he put on; but behind the mask, there was nothing. Nothing. A void of eternal emptiness where the fire had been put out and left to die. So he lived, and breathed, and existed, in this world of light and laughter and love, and painted his face with these many lies and still lived, and still breathed, and still existed. Yet the nameless did not mean it, he could not -- for it was not inside of him to push for companionship. Instead, he yearned for pain, and often pushed others with his words, with his actions, waiting for the inevitable explosion, the lashing of tail and claw.

In his own way, he punished himself for the way he was. He used others as tools for his punishment and threw down the gauntlet time and time again, in hopes that the next one would be good enough, the next one would find a way inside of his heart and end his lifelessness. He was nameless, he was filth; and while love had thrown him away, it was cruelty that came at his bidding, and it was cruelty that warmed the cockles of his so-called heart. He knew, more than others, that no right existed as there was truly no wrong; a wrong to one, was a right to the one who did it -- and so the cycle goes, and the trash goes with it. He skulked in shadows, trash, the epitomy of defilement, a powerful force hungry for something he could not quite name, but whichkept him up while the moon was in the sky.

HISTORY

Did the nameless one once have a name? No. To be named would mean to be loved, to be wanted, and he had never been wanted, let alone loved. He had been birthed like something vile to be excreted out of the body; yet like every other disease, he had latched on, his tiny claws in her underbelly, mouth opening for food, for sustenance. She had fed him, but it had not been a feeding between mother and son; it was a feeding of a captive to its captor, unwillingly done and quickly finished. Though he survived, and remained uneaten, it did not take long for him to realize exactly where he stood with his mother, and the others he glimpsed just beyond her pale shadow. Eventually he learned he had been born out of a forced breeding, and though his mother desired his death, the others did not allow it -- so they all watched from the outskirts, and he remained alive, though never part of this clan of nomads. Abused at every turn, pushed and run off from his home, he always came back -- for he had no where to go, and no one to turn to. So he clung to her, though she lashed at him, vicious with her words as with her claws. It his she, who had taken his eye, in her attempt to make him run for good. Instead, the cub, barely a year old, had huddled in a muddied hole, bleeding, but silent; he had learned early never to make a sound.

Eventually it festered, gangrene beginning to lace its lethal fingers in the bloodied hole in his head, rendering him nearly lifeless as fevers wracked his brain, giving him nightmares that he could not escape. How long he remained, abandoned and dying, he will never remember -- only the final awakening. The blinking, crusty, parched feeling of death around him as he rose from the depths of his vicious dreaming and hallucinations. Another cat watched him, carefully, quietly as if ready to bolt -- who it was, he never knew, though guessed it was one of the many onlookers that tut-tutted at his mother's actions but never made a move to stop them. She was young, that was for certain, and nestled next to his heart was the soul stone she had retrieved for him and given. It was the only thing that had kept him from truly dying; of that he never doubted.

Yet even after the she-cat dashed off in fear, he remained nestled next to it, feeling life flow through him. It gave him the needed strength to cradle the stone in his paw and push the thing into his eye socket. He quickly lost consciousness.

He grew. One-eyed and silent, ever-watching, always taking the abuse, he grew in size while the rest of him emptied out into a dark void. He never was the same after the brain-fevers, for at times he heard voices, and his thoughts skewed sideways and left him stranded. Eventually, he did leave, though it was not necessarily of his choosing. His mother got sick, caught some sort of virus from one place or another and as she wheezed and coughed, her tail lashing, he sat quietly in the corner, staring at her with his one, good eye and watched her waste away. The last thing she saw before she died was his eye staring at her while his paw crushed the air from her windpipe and severed her spinal cord with his claws. If she expected to see joy, she must have been disappointed; all there was, was the empty watchfulness of a predator waiting for it's prey to die.

So he left, nearly four years old, masochistic and terrible, toward a city he had only heard of, in search of things that kept him awake in the night.

MADE BY ?MEULK OF GS & THQ