GREYBACK, Fenrir Émile

[fenrir]

WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES I SEE YOU
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FENRIR ÉMILE GREYBACK !
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IN MY DREAMS YOU WILL BE NEAR[/center][/b][/color]

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I WON’T LET YOU DISAPPEAR
BUT I’M HERE ON MY OWN
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FULL NAME:

NICKNAMES:

AGE:

BIRTHDATE:

GENDER:

BLOOD:

MEMBER GROUP:

YEAR

ORIENTATION:

AFFILATION:

WAND:

PETS:

CANON:

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I AM CRYING OUT FOR YOU
IN THE CENTER OF MY HEART
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LIKES:

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+Werewolves-Werewolves are the only individuals who can even begin to understand Fenrir’s plight into madness.
+Sweets-Ever since he was a small child, Fenrir simply couldn’t help himself to a cauldron cake or chocolate frog.
+Blood-Red is his favorite color; Fenrir takes pleasure in the warm, salty liquid and revels in its taste. It signifies life, something he loves to take away and play with.
+Forests-Forests are a great place for Fenrir to stretch his legs without having to worry about aurors or others who seek to hunt out his kind. They are also a fantastic area for finding unsuspecting victims.
+Running-Fenrir is a very agile man and is quite fast in both his werewolf and human form. In addition to this he is very strong. Often he can be described as a “blur” and is found running in spare time, whether for sport or out of hunger.[/ul]
DISLIKES:

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+Flying-Fenrir has always preferred the ground beneath his feet than the air through his hair. The ground is more secure than being up high in the sky, plus he knows he is a good runner while he is mediocre at flying.
+Fire-Due to a past encounter fire causes Fenrir to go mad with fear. Only when it is in the cooking pit and controlled does he feel at ease.
+Loud noises-Because of his lycanthropy, Fenrir has sensitive ears apt at hearing. Loud noises can easily frighten/distract him and will often end with him in a rage.
+Wizards-They were the ones to hold prejudice against those of his kind and Fenrir wishes to gain an army against them. They made him who he is today.
+Unicorns-They are one creature capable of a good defense against werewolves, he also finds them to be highly unsettling in general.
+The circus- Due to his own personal reasons.[/ul]
STRENGNTHS:

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+Physical combat-Fenrir has trained himself physically throughout the years, he is quite capable of pinning the average man to the ground and killing him without so much as batting a lash.
+Dueling/wandless/verbal magic-It took the combined efforts of Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom to bring down Fenrir during the Battle of Hogwarts; Fenrir was once knocked a wizard over with a mere wave of his hand (see wiki).
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WEAKNESS:

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+Holds grudges-When someone betrays him Fenrir is never quick to forgive, and normally he kills or attacks those close to whomever wronged him. He cannot let go and carries much hate and bitterness towards the wizarding community.
+Flying-Though he has always claimed to hate it, most of his loathing stems from the fact he is quite terrible at flying. His pride prevents him from publically stating this. In fact he is quite possibly the worst wizard who ever attempted to fly on a broomstick. [/ul]
GOALS:

BOGGART:

PATRONUS:

ERISED:

OVERALL PERSONALITY:. Fenrir is a cruel and vicious beast who has forsaken his humanity in his attempt to overthrow the wizarding community. He cares little for the lives of others, often deriving pleasure in extinguishing their happiness and ceasing their heartbeats. Often he centers his attacks on children, placing himself near his victims before his change during the full moon. It is rare for him to spare anyone from his anger and he can hold a grudge for an absurd amount of time; perhaps even taking it to the grave. He’ll do anything to achieve his means in life. Bitter and full of hatred from his past, Fenrir takes out his frustration on all of wizarding kind. It’s one of his many emotional vulnerabilities. Fenrir has his mind set on who he is and what he must do; he will not be easily swayed by any one person. He greatly fears fire and death.

Few ever discuss who Fenrir was before the wolf. As a boy he was fiercely loyal to his mother, often defending her from his father. He was bold and did what he believed was true, as he clearly knew the difference between right and wrong. He would speak out against his father, calling Vincent out for his illogical, religious views. This would more than likely earn Fenrir the belt as consequence. But still the boy would step out. He was not friendly though kind, Fenrir was not cruel. He was an introvert and preferred the peace of quiet of solitude. A part of him was afraid of the other children. He enjoyed exploring the woods near his home. Fenrir was home schooled by his father though was not the sharpest tool in the shed and struggled academically. He hated it.

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YOU USED TO HEAR ME BREATHE
WHEN YOU TOUCHED ME DEEP
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HAIR DESCRIPTION:

EYE DESCRIPTION:

HEIGHT/WEIGHT:

BODY TYPE:

DISTINGUISHING FEATURE:

SCARS/MARKS

FACE CLAIM

OVERALL DESCRIPTION: Fenrir is a large beast; he towers even over most of his werewolf followers. His clothes rarely fit him properly and look as though the buttons may burst at any given moment. He is quite hairy, only shaving his face to a level of proper stubble so an enemy cannot pull on the sensitive spot. Fenrir’s hair falls in greasy clods to a few inches past his shoulders; who has time for bathing when trying to infect all of the wizarding children? Soil often cakes his face and the smell of wet dirt and blood radiates from his body. His lips are always peeled back in a thin snarl, displaying long and sharp fangs. His skin is tanned from the sun due to his mainly outdoor life. His eyes are small and an ugly shade of blue that can penetrate even the darkest of nights. Fenrir’s most disgusting features would be his nails, which are chipped at the tip and are beginning to yellow. Unfortunately, it is hard to tell of his once good and well-groomed looks.

As a boy Fenrir was tall and lanky. His mother liked to dress him in grey suits and he grew so fast the sleeves often were too short and exposed his boney wrists. His rounded face was gaunt; his mother could never get him to gain weight. Bright, blue eyes held an abundance of curiosity for the world and were framed by long lashes. his brown hair was kept neatly trimmed. Light rosacea dusted his cheek bones. Even as he grew into a young man his body did not change, only his face became slightly more angular. R

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CAN YOU HEAR THE SOUNDS?
CAN YOU FEEL THE HEAT?
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BIRTHPLACE:

RESIDENCE:

PARENTS:

SIBLINGS:

IMPORTANT RELATIVES:

IMPORTANT PERSON:

OVERALL HISTORY:
No light, no light in your bright blue eyes. I never knew daylight could be so violent. A revelation in the light of day. You can’t choose what stays and what fades away.

Fenrir Greyback was born to muggles in a small, English village. His father, Vincent Greyback, was the town’s pastor and was a religiously strict man who tolerated little mischief. His wife, Raolina, was a French immigrant who was considerably younger. It was never spoken of how they met though through the years implied it had been by nagging force. As a child Fenrir spent little time with the other children. Growing up amongst muggles his spurts of magic could not be understood. His mother feared for his health, believing it to be an undiscovered sickness. She would lock the boy within his room in vain effort to shield him from Vincent who believed his son possessed by demons. When he was eight his father had an exorcism preformed; it frightened Fenrir who screamed and cried in his mother’s arms which only furthered Vincent’s suspicions.

On his eleventh birthday a letter came by owl. Vincent untied the parchment fastened to the bird’s scrawny leg and shooed it off. Watched by his wife and son he opened it nearly doubling over in horror. A wizard, his son!? It was the most absurd thing he had ever read; a tasteless prank no doubt pulled by the neighboring children. But something registered within Raolina’s eyes, something she long kept hidden behind thin lips. Unlike her husband she knew it to be no joke but could not convince Vincent to further explore. Fenrir would not go to Hogwarts. Perhaps if he had things would have been different. Raolina believed her son to be of Gryffindor quality, if not then perhaps Hufflepuff for his sheer loyalty.

It was not long after the appearance of the mysterious letter that the circus rolled into town. It was a form of excitement for most in the village, it came once every three years. Fenrir had always longed to see it, but Vincent claimed it a hoard of freaks and barred his wife and son from leaving the house during its arrival. He thought it an abomination of God.

On the night when the circus came Raolina crept from her bed, away from the soft snoring of Vincent and into her son’s room. She padded quietly over and woke him, bringing Fenrir his jacket. Together they slipped from the house and walked a mile into town where painted men juggled balls of fire. It was unbelievable. Together they sat near the front, watching the show. Fenrir enjoyed the gymnastics most; it was incredible how their bodies moved against gravity. He also liked the tigers as all he had ever seen were rather dull birds and deer. Towards the end his mother took his hand, looked him in the eye, and instructed him to keep whatever happened that night a secret from Vincent. Confused, Fenrir nodded. Obviously he would not say a word of their fun to his father else suffer the belt, but she implied there was more to come. Leading him away from the stands she guided Fenrir through the crowd to the back where they were granted entrance to a small tent near the outskirts of the camp.

A man pulled back the flaps, beckoning them within. Fenrir immediately recognized him as the tiger tamer. Baffled and excited, he clung to his mother’s dress and followed her within. The man had wild, brown hair that fizzled out in wispy strands. It was kept in a low pony tail so as to not tickle his face. His features were strong, chiseled, and pale. Bright blue eyes, wide as saucers, reflected Fenrir’s. The only thing that struck Fenrir as off was the white mask that covered half of the man’s face; Fenrir had originally thought it a part of his custom. Placing a hand on the nape of his neck, Raolina introduced the man as Clayton. Fenrir nodded, muttering a perplexed hello. That was when things first began to change.

His mother revealed that just over eleven years ago she first met Clayton after having escaped Vincent. Raolina cast an apologetic look at her son as tears brimmed her eyes. She admitted to having loved Clayton, still possessing many feelings for him, and that they had begun an affair long ago. Fenrir did not know what to say as he watched his mother begin to weep softly. Clayton did not move, staring straight into Fenrir. He was only eleven, why did such things need to be unveiled to him? It was then that she said it. Straight and clear. Fenrir was not possessed. He had never been. Hogwarts was a real school for those with magical abilities such as Fenrir, it was a place for wizards like Clayton. Fenrir gasped staring incredulously at her. Vincent was not his father. Clayton was.

It was at that time that Clayton spoke. He explained how he received little pay and could properly care for Raolina and him; that she was a newly married woman. Clayton knew immediately of Raolina’s gentleness and confessed his magic to hear, breaking the secrecy law, and attempted to woo her through it. But Vincent had caught them once. In his rage he had set the circus aflame after having dragged Raolina away, kicking and screaming. It was fortunate no one had been killed in the blazes, but a burning wooden beam had nearly crushed Clayton grazing the side of his face. It had left a serious burn; a scar he would never forget. Dabbing at her eyes Raolina explained why she had brought Fenrir to Clayton with the truth. Fenrir needed to be aware of his abilities and where they had stemmed from; he must not let what Vincent says where him down. Raolina sniffed, asking Fenrir to quit being so stubborn with Vincent and to let it go because she feared greatly for him.

And then it ended. Raolina had wrapped her arms about Fenrir, kissed Clayton on the cheek before scurrying away with her son. She had only wanted the truth when it became no longer possible to hide. But Fenrir was left shocked. He wanted to run back, he wanted to fire a thousand questions at Clayton. What was magic? What could he do? But Raolina hushed him, telling him to forget all about it and be comfortable with his newly veiled identity, as it was all she could give him.

Three years later the circus came to town once more. Fenrir was fourteen. His mother did not come to wake him and as Fenrir crept past his parent’s room he could hear her soft cries melded with Vincent’s snores. He fled from the house in shadow. Like he had when with his mother, Fenrir sat at the front. Later when he tried to approach Clayton he was rejected. Clayton yelled furious and shoved Fenrir back onto the ground. “Go!” he shouted hoarse. “I risked it once, but not again. He will kill us all!” Baffled, Fenrir asked why then had he been welcomed at age eleven with Raolina. Clayton shook his head before snapping, “You were ignorant then as you now are stupid.” Then he went into the tent. Angry Fenrir made to get up but was carted away by two bulky men; twins who were known for their inhuman strength.

When Fenrir, sore and miffed, clambered up the steps of his porch he was met in the doorway by Vincent. Raolina stood behind, muttering a thousand apologies. “I am sorry,” she wailed. “I had to tell him. I had to! You must not go back.” Fenrir was given the worst beating yet. That afternoon, as he lay immobile on his bedding, he wondered for the first time if his mother loved Clayton more than he.

In 1939 WWII broke out. Too young to fight it was not until he was 17 in 1943 that Fenrir enlisted in the military as a late recruit. That year the circus was coming to town and he knew it best to get as far as possible. Scrawny Fenrir was a stark contrast compared to the other soldiers. He could not lift what they could; he struggled to keep pace during training exercise, and often found himself the butt of various jokes. But he grew close to his teammates; there was no other choice. They placed their lives in one another’s hands.

His first and only fight was in 1949 at The Battle of the Bulge. One fact had long been left from muggle history. Not only muggles fought during the world war, but wizards alike as they too were threatened in this time. The Germans counter attack was risky and desperate; German wizards scrambled to gather a force strong enough to attack the spread out Allied forces near the outskirts where Fenrir and his squadron were stationed.

A thin reed amongst massive men Fenrir was terrified. The whizzing cry of bombs and snipers was something indescribable. His stomach lurched, cold and empty. There is not much he can remember. There was a charged cry. He was running; fast and hard. Out of breath, panting with fear. The ground erupted beneath his feet, sending chunks into the air and spraying his face with dust. It was difficult to see, despite the wideness of his eyes. All around him men fell. But he needed to keep running. He had to go forward. His gun was grasped tight in ghostly hands. It was bulky, too large for his gangling frame.

Go. Go. Go. An explosion threw him from his feet. Gasping on his back Fenrir rolled to his side, lips trembling. He watched as two men ahead were ripped limb from limb, splattered, in the wake of the bomb. Blood stained his uniform. It was not his. Then he looked up. Large, moving shapes were running forward. He thought it a tank until he saw all four legs. Wizarding scientists had released a pack of mutant werewolves to devour the Allied forces, unable to win through their men. Fire scorched the lands and his fear had mounted to an unbearable level of agony; his heart palpitated so hard within his ribcage Fenrir choked. He could not move, paralyzed with fright. All he could do was scream as the beast was upon him, sinking its fangs into the flesh of his neck.

Blackness faded from his vision, blurring the edges. A great white light poured upon him. He winced turning his head with a groan. Was he dead? The pain flooding his system was unbearable and his teeth sink into the flesh of his lower lip. Surely he was burning in hell. Something prodded his cheek, digging in to the hallow. Willing himself, Fenrir popped open an eye. The figure, dressed in white, was concealed by a surgical mask. He pointed a wooden stick at Fenrir; a wand. For a whole year Fenrir was captured, experimented on, kept prisoner. Wizarding scientists wondered how he had managed to live when Allied snipers had managed to wipe out the werewolves from planes above. How had he survived the initial bite? They injected him with various potions, at times making Fenrir violently ill. They extracted fluids from him researching his cells, claiming in effort to discover a cure. He never knew what they truly wanted. He was eventually saved by American forces at the end of the war.

He came home an empty shell. Rarely did he talk. Fenrir just sat by the window, unable to sleep, unable to eat, consumed. Vincent left his son well alone but Raolina tried, she offered him support and love despite being constantly brushed away. For a year this went on. Now twenty-one years of age Fenrir was a man still bound to his parents. He could not sort through his emotions and was prone to angered fits. The doctor was reassuring; he had been a prisoner of war and suffered serious side effects. Raolina was instructed to give Fenrir sleeping pills so that he could rest through the night in peace; but his dreams were always haunted by both the living and the dead. Each full moon his body ached, the pain intolerable. It coursed like molten fire through his veins. Each moon he ran into the woods and chained himself down, willing back the wolf that would inevitably consume him.

The circus rolled around once more. Fenrir cared little for his mother’s worried glares. At night he left for the circus. Raolina blocked his path in the doorway, begging him not to go claiming it would cause his biological trouble and death. Fenrir shoved her aside, walking away as she slammed into a nearby table. Since the change Fenrir had grown strong. His muscles filled out and no longer was he a skinny man. It was one reason why he was not immediately tossed out; Clayton did not recognize him at first glance until Fenrir spoke. Fenrir told him what happened with each full moon. “Werewolf!?” Clayton stammered. Fenrir insisted for a cure, something to protect himself from the pain. But Clayton shook his head and refused. “I can offer nothing. The remedy is far from my ability.” Clayton’s features turned cold. “You are your mother’s beast.” Without thought Fenrir lurched forward, wrapping his strong hands about Clayton’s neck. He strangled the tiger tamer. When the body fell limp to the floor Fenrir stepped back, surveying his destruction. It was wrong. But had felt so right. If wizards were of no help, who could be? He truly was a monster. It was then that aurors were first sent after Fenrir Greyback. He killed any that came too close. What had once started as a frantic need for answers had turned into a thirst for vengeance. Who were wizards to judge him? He ran, seeking the aid of fellow werewolves. But none would step forward. Desperate for company Fenrir structured a camp offering shelter from prejudice. In a twisted attempt to cease discrimination he attacked the children of those who spoke out against werewolves.

As the years past his mind warped with blood. He began attacking for the thrill. He had even attacked a young Remus Lupin when out with his father on a camping trip. No longer could Fenrir distinguish between nightmare and reality. The last he heard of his parents was his mother's suicide.

*Note: I took the Battle of the Bulge and edited it to fit Fenrir. Historically the happenings with Fenrir are wrong, not only about the werewolves but as a whole.

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I HAVE LEFT PARADISE AND
I DID NOT EVEN SAY GOODBYE
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OOC NAME:

AGE:

GENDER:

EXPERIENCE:

OTHER CHARACTERS:

DID YOU READ THE RULES:

ROLEPLAY EXAMPLE:

Elijah jolted from his stupor. Propping himself up onto his elbows he cast a glance back at his mother from over his shoulder. His jaw hung on its hinges. In his self-inflicted frustration he had failed to hear her entrance, and now here he lay, panting like a dog with swollen lids. If his red-rimmed eyes were not an obvious enough sign, then his iron grip on the sheets was a sure indication of his stressed state. Elijah dodged the pillow thrown back; it skimmed the surface of his cheek before plopping back into place. “Nothing!” he spat, as though her question insulted his honor. Scrambling upward, he snatched at the clothes she had laid out on his bed and quickly stuffed them into the drawers of his dresser. Purposefully he took his time while feelings her eyes glued to his back; there was a gentle heat in her stare, as though her look alone could wrap reassurance around his flustered mind. Allowing the pads of his fingers to brush along the material of a shirt, Elijah muttered, “Sorry about the pillow.”

But in his heart he knew his mother would not simply leave. The hurt laced within the undertones of his voice had betrayed him. His words were clipped in defense. She had a particular habit of sensing the true emotions of her children even with their forced lies. Knowing this, Elijah slowly turned keeping his eyes adverted and focused on the carpeting. He bit his lip. The same feeling of being caught in the middle of a wrongdoing seeped through his blood. His head dipped down in shame.

Bitterly he lapsed out; angry that for a moment he had weakened, and letting out a grunt marched straight to his bed. Throwing back the covers with hurried force Elijah slipped beneath, pulling the comforter up and over his head to hide himself and his wounded pride from his mother. He tried to think of things to distract his racing mind. The white walls of his bedroom flashed before him. He had wanted them plain; no particular color had ever caught his fancy. Anything too bright hurt his eyes. There had been a few various quidditch posters hanging up, but he had torn them down. Their constant smiles and winks made him uneasy in his guilt.

His breathing hitched; her presence was palpable. Despite his indifferent and highly rude attitude, a part of Elijah desired for his mother. Her voice was soothing in troubled times and he found that his muscles had already begun to relax. In the back of his mind the truth lingered, threatening to spill forth from his tongue. In an effort to keep it secure, a whimper was released. His hand clamped to his mouth. Great. Now he sounded like a baby.

Annoyed, Elijah sat up. The covers fell from his head slowly, revealing only a fragment of his identity at a time. The rough contact between the material and his hair had created static electricity and tufts of brown stuck up and fanned out, swaying in an inexistent current. Elijah jutted out a chin and folded his arms across his chest. He made to lock gazes with his mother but cowed down, unable to meet her cerulean blues. Instead he settled his attention on the edge of his bed, where his feet were masked beneath the blankets. Elijah wiggled his toes, reassuring that they still had feeling. He sighed heavily, arching an eyebrow. Should he say something? It would be one of his worst fears come to life if she rejected him; she’d go off and spread the news about likes seeds in the wind. Life as Elijah knew it would be over.

Yet if he didn’t say anything, the guilt would slowly but surely eat away at his insides until there was nothing left but a boy full of holes. No one like hole-filled boys. Shoulders sagging, Elijah turned from her and peered out the window in stubborn disdain. A good mother would love her child no matter what, and Elijah thought his mum the best. With his back to her, Elijah gradually craned his neck in order to look down at his mother’s feet. He did not have the courage to stare her in the face. “Nothing’s wrong. Believe it.”

But he knew she wouldn’t believe it.

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THIS FORM WAS MADE BY MISTRESS SNAKEY OF CAUTION PLEASE DO NORT REMOVE THIS PART.
SONG LYRICS ARE HERE ON MY OWN BY SWEETBOX.

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