Description
Alias: The Boss, The Father
Despite his mysterious age, he presents himself as a thin yet toned man. His physical stature is surprising due to the fact of his lack of training thereof. He never seems to eat, and he hardly touches his foot. And yet, he still thrives. A fountain of silken, blonde tresses tumbles down his slender shoulders, tapering down the centre of his back. It isn't unusual to see his hair tied into a loose ponytail, though he prefers letting it fall freely. Sporting eyes of a slate hue portrays a blind man—quite deceiving, considering his near perfect vision. One ocular swims like a milky sea with subtle signs of cataracts, the other portrays an all-seeing moss green. The Father's a handsome, albeit feminine, looking man; his soft and supple features delineate a somewhat angelic presence; docile, at times. Dangerous, primarily. Yet it all seems to melt away when pressured into a corner that permits only violence. Appearances can be fatally deceiving. Although most of his body is scar free, one noticeable gash remains crucified onto the Father's throat, marring his speaking capabilities. His voice box has been irrepressibly damaged. It's rendered his raspy whispers nearly mute. Those who've known him longest know to strain their ears, unless he's yelling. Upon being asked where he'd acquired such a scar, The Father will usually make up a tragic story involving saving a young girl from a terrible fate. Even so, his actions paint pictures and he relies on physical gestures far more than he would if his voice was unscathed.
True form? No one knows. He has many forms, and it's believed that only Nike, Mother Nature, knows what he truly looks like.Personality
A tyrant by all accords, the Father is the epitome of negative emotions that thrives in the hearts of man. With the inability to speak louder than rasping whispers, he doesn't need a booming voice to shake fear into anyone, his mere presence is frightening enough. “Take all that you want. Strength is your only absolute. Everything that you love and want you must fight for to protect. Without strength you are weak, if you are weak, you are not mean to be in this world, you are obsolete.” His motives are unknown and power is his means. The Father believes that his goals will be achieved, his beliefs will be protected, and all those that oppose will be obliterated. If any sought mercy, they would find none in the heartless man. He's a fervent artist in the endeavours of destruction, he paints his canvas with the colours of ruthlessness and revels in his work—truly, a sadist and narcissist, the Father is akin to any dangerous bird that flaunts its feathers as well as it's talons.
The way the Father speaks, lies such a sarcastic tone that can only be cruel and twisted. He is one that will toy with your emotions when you are in tears, simply to make it worse. Keeping his smile upon his face, he seems to enjoy others misery. The Father's voice, or I should say dialect, is one that is polite, but indirect. You can say it’s one that others may find improper. Those who have experienced his unwavering stares have said that it makes them feel as if they were being strangled. Rules? Regulations? Order? Code of ethics? Morals? None of these exist in his world. It is in his striding gait, the way he holds himself and the way he ceaselessly amazes others with his unspeakable acts. Every horrible thing any man, woman or child has done feeds the Father of the Cruzzola. Like a leech, nothing is too much and nothing is ever too far. Lines only exist in those who are too afraid to cross them. Fear has never toyed with his mind, he moulds and creates fear to control those working beneath him—and death, death is only an enigma he can appreciate.
He appears to most as the personification of stoicism; he is dead inside, on a level even the most cold and pensive acknowledge freely, and there is never any question of the seriousness of his words when he chooses to speak, for he rarely does so without good reason. Those who draw swords against him are slain with merciless and unforgiving power; this is the face that the Father wears, but not for any deeper purpose, nor to hide what is truly his self. It merely exists, as he does, for reasons he has yet to discern. Sneaky, snide, calculating and dangerous—a man of many faces, a man of many intentions.
With his distaste of sitting still, it's clear that he has little patience, something that is also seen throughout his boundless years spent on Earth. His violent outbursts tend to start from simple verbal disagreements that quickly spark into a full blown blaze, though he enjoys displaying such fury with a certain passive aggressiveness as opposed to losing his cool. He doesn't hesitate to kill those whom threaten him, or even so much as annoy him. He views their deaths as minor inconveniences. Taking life is something he feels that he was created to do, seeing as it is the one thing he understands the most. Where life thrives, death is necessary. What does he want to do with Mother Nature? Devour her.
Equipment
Powers: Transformation: Being the Father of the Cruzzola, he's refined his deceptive art to near perfection, and he uses this ability quite frequently depending on who is in his presence. His forms vary from meagre animals, such as a tattooed weasel, to several disarming figures. The only way to differentiate him is to find the Cruzzola tattoo embedded on his lower back, other than that, he could be mingling amongst anyone without their knowing.
Primary Talent: Mind Projection: The ability to project yourself into another's mind and alter their decisions or choices without their awareness, also enables him to explore their inner thoughts and gain insight—effective when trying to find someone's weakness, to break them or convince them of something.
Secondary Talent: Memory Wipe: The ability to alter, implant fake memories or erase someone's mind all together and reform it.
Equipment: Anything in the Cruzzola armoury is in his reach. Though, he prefers conventional means and uses long bladed objects concealed in his waist-coat. Firearms. Nothing is beyond him. He does enjoy playing with his food.
History
Where there is good, where there is Nature and where there is a balance—the Father of the Cruzzola has stood the test of time, crouched in the shadows for each and every opportunity to implore his powers. He is all that is negative. Feeding off of all of the indescribable emotions seeping from humans, and quietly indicting his poison into them. He is the creature that pushes sons to slaughter their mothers, the person who sways fathers to do unthinkable things. Instead of helping them grasp flighty dreams in their weak-willed hands, he injects self-destruction and feeds paranoia to wage wars. It was only too easy, he thought, to plot man against Mother Nature. Nike. The Father will continue fighting until he sees her last, dying breaths. He wants to lay claim to a dying world.
Taking many forms, the Father of the Cruzzola travelled amidst the clans to create rivalries. “War,” he would tell them, “is a necessary evil to save the land and people you love.” When offered intelligent council and a friendly face, it was never hard to sway mans insecurities and paranoia. Every clan wanted to serve and save their children, mothers, fathers, and family—it was never hard to crush their will to fight, either. War was a natural phenomenon he revelled in, and from afar, he would watch man tear themselves asunder. And he would do this alone, no, never alone. Somehow, man began thriving and he lost sight of Mother Nature—Nike--in his desperate clamber to end her life. Babies disappeared from their clans, and he knew that it was because of her. In his own twisted ways, he snatched children in the night and claimed them as his own, convincing them they had a greater purpose in the world. Puritans, he called them. Cruzzola. Perfect vessels.
And the Cruzzola family began to thrive, growing in size and threatening the balance of life. The Father wanted nothing less. He could feel it in his old bones, the world shaking and gasping as he pushed forward. Soon enough, the world would buckle and kneel at their feet.
