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Threnodist

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Name: Even before she entered the Aether, she had no single real name. Names, after all, are such ephemeral little things, aren't they? People manufacture these assemblages of sounds, assign arbitrary meaning to them, carry them close to heart as if they really mean anything in the end. But they don't-- and so she came into the Aether nameless, free of identity. However, perhaps in the name of cruelty and perhaps in the name of sheer ego, once she found herself with something of a... taste, so to speak, for wanton annihilation of other seekers, she began to refer to herself as Threnodist-- derived from threnody, an elegy mourning the passing of another. Her little way, one supposes, of mocking the souls who entered the aether seeking to return the dead to life, only to know eternal obliteration at her own hands.

Age: Her appearance would lead one to place Threnodist somewhere in her late thirties-- perhaps early forties at a stretch.

Gender: Gender is such a quaint little subject-- but the idea that an individual's biological sex encompasses a predetermined set of social behaviours and traits which they are expected to adhere to is not one Threnodist entertains with any degree of legitimacy.

Appearance:

A particularly pleasant individual Threnodist is very clearly anything but: for all her faux-affable mannerisms and her thin veil of illusory congeniality, she fails utterly at producing the impression that she's just some unassuming, harmless bystander, largely because it's hard to look unassuming and harmless when you're six foot eight and three hundred pounds of broad shoulders, hulking torso, powerfully built arms, and robust abdomen. Not that Threnodist's complaining, naturally-- she deliberately cultivated the immense physical presence she now enjoys, and the imposing stature it consequently lends her, though hardly indicative of the strength her self-reflection lends her, is certainly quite useful on the occasion that coercion proves necessary in pursuit of... well, whatever goal she may so happen to be invested in at a given time. Not that she's pretty much ever pursuing a specific goal other than just killin' shit, but hey, it still pays to be big and scary, eh?

Threnodist's lack of definitive identity is by no means helped by her rather inscrutable features-- they render any attempt to estimate an ethnic heritage quite the Sisyphean task. The dark tawny canvas of her skin seems to defy succinct categorisation, and surrenders no indication of her racial background, though it does play witness to quite a gruesome menagerie of scars stemming from her earlier years of murdering other seekers in the Aether. She's gotten better and more powerful, however-- much more powerful. Where previously she once simply took the hits as they came in order to dish out a deadly recompense, now she averts the acquisition of further cicatrix by dodging attacks more frequently.

As facial features go, Threnodist's mien entertains oddly fitting characteristics-- hard-edged, defined, and in a sense weathered but resolute. Her pronounced cheekbones lie high up on her face, carving out an enclave occupied by a small, pointed nose set over svelte pale lips-- one supposes her gaunt features may have produced an impression akin to a corpse if not for her distinctly... vital physique, for lack of a better word. The manic, unquestionably 'alive' gleam in her eyes doesn't serve the deathly impression much well either: slender, characterised by epicanthic folds, their polished green hue would perhaps have been judged rather pleasing were it not for the fact that the person the eyes belong to almost certainly wants you to die in agony. Her hair, what little she has, is shorn down to close-cut bristles of greying, faded black.

Threnodist has long since discarded the attire she was wearing when she entered the Aether, and has instead over time collected a motley assortment of various accoutrements. She currently dons a multi-purpose tactical vest over a thick-skinned military camo jacket, with the hood pulled up over a gas mask, which she wears ostensibly because you only need to get gassed and almost killed once before you start taking precautions, but mostly because as the bad guy, she's obligated to have some scary-ass gimmick along those lines. It's in the villainous handbook of narrative conventions or some shit. Anyway, as lower body attire goes, she wears a pair of combat slacks tucked into rugged combat boots that are caked with mud, dirt, soot, and a number of less than savoury bodily fluids.

Personality:

Threnodist is a textbook case of antisocial personality disorder-- though her mannerisms when interacting with others (at least, when she isn't trying to kill them) certainly don't betray this reality. Polite but on the whole amiable, soft-spoken but expressive and congenial, an ever-present smile tinging the thin line of her svelte lips and unafraid to simply shoot the breeze about the most inconsequential of subjects. Hell, you could say she has something of an unassuming way about her, if a 6'8 behemoth in a gas mask could be called unassuming-- but then, stranger things have been seen in the Aether, wouldn't you say? Frankly, an affable juggernaut decked out in camo and a gas mask could hardly be called altogether unusual-- not if you've been up around the bend a few times in the Aether.

All bullshit, naturally. Threnodist is nothing short of a sociopath: empathy of any sort is beyond her, and she wholly lacks the ability to value the lives of others, or really her own life any more than that. What she can feel, however, is an overarching, all-encompassing contempt for all life-- she finds it repulsive, disgusting to behold, a stain on her senses and an insult to her presence, and therefore she knows no greater delight than to extinguish it at every turn. This didn't change when she entered the Aether-- if anything, it became only all the more a game, all the more a matter of sport, and she began to kill not only for the sake of killing but for the purpose of becoming more and more powerful, so she could slay more and more of the impetuous shitstains who saw fit to challenge death-- the only real certainty-- and drag the dead back into the muck of the living.

Not that she sees herself as any better-- certainly not. She knows her own base nature as a living thing is just as hideous and abhorrent, but she is nevertheless superior because unlike the rest, she knows it. Unlike they who believe the dead are worth returning to life, they who believe they themselves deserve to continue existing, Threnodist realises full well that she doesn't deserve to exist-- and yet she does. And she knows that she exists for a purpose-- that she suffered the things she did for a reason: she was meant to cleanse the world, every world, of all life, and to guarantee that those who would seek to pollute the world with those who have already departed it vanish forever.

Reflection:

Threnodist uses her self-reflection for really rather a straightforward effect: to drastically boost all her physical characteristics, from strength and speed to durability and her senses. As a consequence of her immeasurable time spent slaughtering other seekers in the Aether, Threnodist now enjoys quite a hefty magnitude of power, and has also developed many different adaptable scenarios to accommodate the variety of combatants she has encountered-- her sheer durability serves her well in wars of attrition, her strength and speed proves of greatest use in hit-and-run scenarios, and her impeccable senses and dexterity are of peak utility when stealth and subtlety are of the essence.

Bio: What is there really to say? Threnodist entered the Aether several years prior, but her reasons for doing so very clearly never had anything to do with seeking to return some figure from her past to life. Instead, from the very first, she set about to destroy those who had come here to do exactly that-- wandering the Aether, reveling in annihilating other seekers and crushing underfoot their hopes of reuniting with the deceased. You want to know her past-- what led her to where she is now? Eat a dick. She'll gouge out your eyes, feed them to you, slash out your tongue, shove it down your throat, sunder your ears from your head, and then staple them to your ass so all you can hear is the sound of your own shit.

Well, actually, she's not gonna do any of that. Fictional 'n all, see. But she'll sure as shit do it to your character if they're a cunt about it.