Groups

Description

Name: Xander Enasni
Age: 16, he thinks.
Gender: Male, undoubtedly
Race: Human, of one sort or another.

Exx is different. He has always known this, and in fact has embraced it to a point of Godliness, so in his thinking. Some of the things that he feels marks him as different is the way he looks. He has spiky black hair which would come down to his ears if it were ever allowed, which sometimes it is. Spiky though is the way he prefers it, mostly because it reminds him of knives, and our boy here loves the knives. His eyes are a violet color that at times can fade in pigment to form a haze of red which scares little kids, but only when he’s peeping into their rooms late at night to see if they wet their pants.

His clothing is normal, as he sees it, though he himself of course is different. He wears a pair of black pants, slightly baggy but not to the point of annoying, and made of a material that has no name. His shirt is a long sleeved affair made of the same material, but with cuts at the shoulders and the elbows. On his hand and forearms he wears an ancient pair of leather gauntlets that he swears has been blessed by ‘The Dark Lord’ with some power of some sort, though to the normal eye they just look like cut up pieces of leather. His shoes are not shoes at all, but rather calf-high black boots made of the same material as the gauntlets, and also ‘blessed’, as the psycho likes to tell it. Sometimes he has been known to wear a black trench coat, also made of that black fabric that isn’t truly fabric at all.

Personality

Jaded.

Equipment

Bladed.

History

Exx is a strange duck. He woke up several years ago and knows nothing more of his past than what began after that day. He remembers sitting up in a crappy house on Bourbon Street in New Orleans, and being covered in blood. The young insane boy stood up and watched as the crimson liquid fell off of his body to pool at his feet upon the floor, leaving him spotless, except for that which decorated his face, he later found out. Upon exploring the house he found the bodies of several people, both male and female, but for the life of him he couldn’t place who they were, or who he was for that matter.

The sound of something caught his attention and he went toward it, only to find a movie playing on an upturned television, splattered in that blood stuff. He heard a man on TV give his name:

“My name is Xander, but people call me X”

Xander… the boy liked it. Exx. He liked that too. He would keep it. Upon looking at the TV he saw something written on his forehead. The word !enasnI. He liked that, so he kept it as well, only taking time to scrub his new name off of his face, lest others figure it out and steal his identity.

After wandering around the house he finally came to the conclusion that he had killed the people living there. It felt right; it tasted right, well kind of metallic actually but let’s not split hairs. He never really questioned why he’d killed them, but a faint felling of fun stole across his senses. He thought though that he should try it again, just to be sure.

And he did. He walked out of the house, down an alley, and stopped at the first bum he met. An elderly man sipping from a flask of ol Jack. He started cursing Exx, telling the freak to get away.

Freak. Freak.

Exx didn’t know why, or how, but he simply reached into his coat with his right hand and pulled from it a large knife. It had the look of a butcher knife, but with a special design. His left hand reached in, and from the emptiness of his jacket he pulled the knife’s twin.

Freak. Freak.

He brought the knives up, his right hand to his left shoulder, left hand to right shoulder, and swung down, creating a decorative X along the man’s throat. Blood and steam rushed out and onto the ground, staining it a beautiful red. Exx brought one of the knives to his lips and stretched forth his tongue, bringing the blood into his mouth and relishing the taste for a moment.

No, he wasn’t a blood drinker. It was very beautiful though.

After that he couldn’t stop and just killed, and killed. He never came even close to being caught. It was almost like when he was in this state, he was god, and he didn’t exist. He was an Angel of Death come to bring his art upon the world.

Now, as to his true history. Exx was born Timothy J. Hancock. He was born to a transvestite whore who was raped by a Arocean Medicine Man, and at conception was cursed for her whoredom to raise into the world a monster, one who would bring nothing but desolation and destruction to wherever his feet trod. He was to become a tool of evil, his soul condemned to wander the halls of this shattered world forever, and then beyond.

Exx was further cursed when he hunted that Medicine Man down at the age of eight and cut off his head, dug out his heart, and ate it with a dash of salt. The dying breath of that chap cursed Exx further to eternally know the vast reaches of his damnation, but with the powerful Shaman’s death came powerful ramifications upon the body and mind of the one now named Xander. He started to change into something else, something darker, if that could be possible. At the age of ten he vanished for months, no one knew where he went or what he did, only that one moment he was there, and the next simply gone. When he was found in an alley in the French Quarter he was stark mad, babbling about blood and demons, of prisons and hells the like of which Dante would have drooled over.

He was taken from his mother after that and sent to a home for the deranged and mentally unstable, but his stay was not a long one. After one night he was gone, and with him the lives of over half the inhabitance of Shady Grove Happy Home. No one knew how he’d done it, only that he was bound in a straight jacket upon entry into his padded, white room. After it was searched all that was found was shreds of the white cloth and splatters of blood upon the floor, which after forensics appeared to belong to… well nothing. No DNA codes could be gained from the blood, and since it had all been used on that one test, it was blamed on faulty equipment and wrote off.

For years after that Exx roamed, wandered, and searched. He sought that which would bring peace to his soul, and always he thought it may be found on the edge of a knife, but never was it so.

He killed himself, over and over, but never could he succeed. His wrists were splayed open with his own blades, only to clot and scab over into scars. A bullet was put to his head, only for the fun to jam again and again.

He couldn’t die. It wasn’t allowed.

At the age of fourteen he again vanished, no one knows where to or for what purpose, only that for a few years the mysterious murders stopped and things returned to a semblance of normality.

But then he returned, one night, to the home of his childhood, to the whoredome which had spawned his life. He ended that as well, that night, though he wouldn’t remember it after waking for such was his curse. Slowly the memories came back to him as gates of his psyche were opened up to him, but only when he was ready would the nature of his existence surely come forth, such as it is.

As to the powers of this boy, might we say that they are of a nature of death, incarnate and bred into his blood as a wolf is bred into hunting. It is second only to breathing. Death to Exx is a natural state that all must obtain at one point or another and those chosen are somehow shone to him in black radiance, and it is his job, his responsibility, and pleasure, to show them the door to their eternity. He is a herald of the afterlife, and its powers are his. As the reaper of old was born upon winds of pestilence and famine, wielding within his skeletal hand a scythe stained in blood, so wields our young one, only his scythes are portable and fashionable. He is, after all, a human. Right?

His weapons are uncountable and unimaginable. From the simple scalpel of a surgeon, to the mighty machete of a bushman. From the butcher knife of the battered housewife to the stout battleaxe of Highlanders long dead. They are a part of him, as much of his body as is his blood. He contains the powers to call them from the very air, to pull them from his victims’ body, created from skin and bone, all sharper than a razor and stronger than titanium.

He is Death, he is Exx.

Xander !Enasni's Story