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Azryel

"Prisoners of fate... la le lu, someone's got their eyes on you."

0 · 386 views · located in New York City, the place to find psychos

a character in “Fate's Boredom”, as played by Stilts

Description

Azryel
Image





Species/Role

"What is a soul, other than a fragment in this broken mirror?... I am not a sliver of silver."

Soul Five.


Gender:

"Call it what you want."

Male.


Age
"Tick. Tock.."

19


Appearance

"Perfection within imperfection."

Azryel is of average stature; standing at 5'10". Sharp, blonde hair, and piercing hazel eyes. His carefully crafted smile is that of an angel's; seemingly devoid of any ill-will. Casual observers are infatuated with his grace; how could any sinful thought ever pass through such a "enchanting" visage? His motions are graceful, his stride that of a dancer's. He moves fluidly, like a cat; effortlessly silent... and ever watchful. Azryel is a shapeshifter: donning a character to suit his whim, shedding one personality for another. None can quite grasp who he is. How he thinks… He holds them captivated. Entranced. They do not realize his long fingers playing nimbly upon their heartstrings... their indiscretion. Although, if you look deep enough into the dusky hazel eyes, sometimes you can catch glimpse of what seems to be a churning, cold intelligence. Hypnotic and dangerous. Be careful to hide your surprise, or the sweet smile might just turn to something more… Malicious.

Personality

"Ive become numb... Please, let me breathe."

Azryel is quite secretive. Dark, devious... Deadly. He guards those secrets with a jealous zeal. A cunning mind and keen, piercing eyes are hidden skillfully behind tempestuously sweet falsities. Ever watchful; studying and evaluating those around him. Brooding. He has an intense drive, and sharp analytical skills. An obsession with his own free will, he will never allow anyone to hold the reins on his soul. He wants control… Something Fate denied him. Something that eats away at him. At his mind. Hatred for helplessness… Why should he control the monster? Psychosis. It whispers so sweetly to him.

He could be free.

To everyone else, Azryel is an enigma; likable to say the least. Superficially charming. He simply adores his soul "mates." Oh yes he does. A carefully sewn costume for each- accentuated by false smiles, a velvet voice, or perhaps… A lingering touch. His sweetly spun words, and deliberately sensual movement leave those he plays with confused and dazed as to what the true meaning behind these actions might be. He never tells. Azryel holds an air of subtle mystery about him; just under the obvious surface- a hint at the mind that works beneath the charming smile. He is extraordinarily composed and refined when serious, yet there is always that slow burning fire within that cannot be hidden by any amount of gentility.
A skillful charmer when needed… shamelessly expressing emotions through the most perplexing ways. He creates desires whether purposefully or not; his quite smoldering stares, and sultry sighs are tempting flowers that never fully bloom. One would be hard pressed to try to grasp fully Azryel's true feelings, much less his inner being. His complicated personality confounds many and enamors most… but it is all just a show. A show to keep those who think they are so close, very very far away.


Skills

"Rapture in recompense."

An analytical mind:
It is such a blast to dissect small animals and see how they run, or to probe, poke, and interrogate until you have unearthed everybody else's secrets. While keeping all of your own, of course.

Competitive mind gaming.
He plays with himself… Its all a game, but to make it interesting you must first raise the stakes.

Magnetism:
Oh you'll like him. He won't give you a choice. He likes you. Want him? He'll be yours. Don't? He'll stay out of your way. Whichever you choose, you are coming up against yourself.
He knows your deepest needs, your greatest fears. He's been watching.
All those tectonic weaknesses where reality meets ego, and self-loathing runs near the surface. Pinpoints in the psychology of an individual… That is where he makes his surgical strikes.



Phobias
Your curse floats above me like the melody I hear...

Tricky tricksy Fate. Has ways of knowing... Meddling. Twisting minds and chords... Wrapping, strapping souls down to it's floorboards. Dare to dance with chaos, and you will fight with fate.
He is paranoid... Always expecting the worst; exaggerating context and dissecting character. Once you decide to destroy... There is no mercy card.
You cannot fail.



Bad Habits

"Shift shaft. I laugh and I laugh!... and I ...laugh."

Azryel has a fondness for talking to himself. Perhaps a weakness; though usually it makes little sense to anyone who may have caught on to his secret whispering. It is the one thing that unveils the madness that churns behind his well crafted facade. However, Azryel keeps his little "chats" to the blessed moments he is alone.

Likes
"I love everything about you... I want everything within you..."

ImageHis fellow souls. As much as he despises them. Their laughter. Power. Tears. Fear. Lust. Blood. If only he could keep them to himself. Esxqiusite creatures.

Control. Total control.

Dislikes
"Circumstances, circumstances."

Cages. Fate's hold on his neck... it squeezes so hard. He won't let it dictate him; When he shall die, when he shall live... Exist.
Who he should kill.
His will is his own.


Goals

"Sing me the song of death."

Azryel has a twisted sense of self-justification. His mind is breaking… Breaking under emotional turmoil. Slowly, slowly slipping farther into madness…

To bite the hand of Fate.
The only thing in his way are his fellow souls.

Conscience is a pleasant sound.... But here's a chance. He'd be damned if he didn't take it. Waiting until the timing's best, to make a move while he's still able to breathe...



How they view souls/demons

"All your grief... All my will... All I feel."

His friends. They are so wonderful... they take everything they have for granted. Satisfied with their circumstances. Lower than human. They praise Fate. Hah- A joke. An insult. Are they deserving of life? What is life if they do not truly "live"?... What is the worth of a soul to Fate, more than that of entertainment? Azryel will give them entertainment. The darling, gullible, sniveling creatures. He will show them the meaning of being "deserving." They will suffer. Suffer as he does...


What they think of how their lives have been

"I ask the world
Don't turn
It only turns to screams..."


Confinement. He wishes it could all just be… silent. So many souls, trapped within one body. Why can't he own his own flesh and blood… Why should he share? It pains him. Having to wait to be "real." If one does not control a body, then one cannot act upon the outside world. "Reality." The only time he is free… Free from Fate. If only he had his own mind. He would not be stuck helpless at the hands of that which put him here. Disgusting helplessness. Horrifying. It… It drives him mad. Claws at the inside of his head, hisses to him in his sleep. Dementia.
There is always a way out. There must be…





Other Important Details

"Only when you wake will you understand the dream."

Azryel has an appetite for destruction. Whether it be for a goal, or simply to watch things burn… It is something captivatingly beautiful. A self-destructive streak almost; so fixed with taking things to the edge that sometimes he falls off. Despite his carefree mannerisms and pleasant public demeanor, Azryel hates to lose. Nor does he grant second chances. Let him down… and you no longer exist.
So close, and yet remote
Manipulation, mystery and masochism concealed under a painted smile.






Don't look too closely into my eyes...


( Kill me with a beat )

Some people seem to think they always know what's best for you
Their little minds try to create a world to keep you still
The bolt is thrown, the cage is locked
You saw this, don't you lie
At first you cry and then you hate those people who stole your will...

Do as you are told and maybe then they'll let you out
You might be dead and cold, you might be full of doubt
Don't try to escape 'cause you don't have nowhere to go
If nothing is your fate... there's no scenario
No nothing

Do you call my name
Do you stain my brain
My eyes are blurry and I can't see you anymore
Do you call my name
Do you breed my pain
My heart is bloody and I can't take it anymore

So you just sit there, stuck, afraid to risk reality
Afraid to cause yourself more pain, to face insanity
But nothing ventured, nothing gained
You see... your fear's your cage
You beg for help but you're alone, stuck in a helpless rage

Do as you are told and maybe then they'll let you out
You might be dead and cold, you might be full of doubt
Don't try to escape 'cause you don't have nowhere to go
If nothing is your fate... there's no scenario
(it's me.... I see, please... let me out I'm petrified)

Do as you are told and maybe then they'll let you out
You might be dead and cold, you might be full of doubt
Don't try to escape 'cause you don't have nowhere to go
If nothing is your fate... there's no scenario
(C'mon)

Do you call my name
Do you stain my brain
My eyes are blurry and I can't see you anymore
Do you call my name
Do you breed my pain
My heart is bloody and I can't take it anymore

. . .






Image

So begins...

Azryel's Story

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#, as written by Stilts
Azryel

He lay there... Staring at the ceiling.

Mornings.
How he hated mornings.
He wasn't quite sure when exactly he had started hating mornings.. perhaps he had loathed them all along… The dreaded light streaming in from the window above his head.. Azryel's eyes slitted in annoyance.

"... Why is it so... quiet?" The hushed whisper left his lips slowly, breaking though the thick tranquility that weighed down upon his chest like a heavy blanket. He winced at his own voice. Such... a dismal existance. He did not move, save for blinking- another annoying necessity. Shall I stir?... Why... When there is no reason to.. He was not in control of the body today... no. That was Mara's freedom.

Slowly, the boy raised his shoulders off the ground, lifting himself into a sitting position. He stared at his hands, his stomach churning again at the slip of his discretion. He wasn't as cautious as usual... Something was off. Normally he'd have the foresight not to glance down at the Empty palms... No creases, no lines... nothing. Blank slates of fortune-less destiny. What destiny? Hah. Fate.

There was no fate. Not written in these hands... No, she had not branded him with a future.

He was nothing more than "another soul." The last one to be exact... Azryel stood slowly, shaking on unsteady legs. How long had he "rested" there? Unmoving... waiting for that birdsong. A birdsong that would never come. They did not sing at his window... But they sang for her.

Quiet, quiet, quiet... He dressed, pulling on his usual attire, butting up his vest. Azryel made his way slowly to their kitchen, putting a pot of hot water on. Water... hot. How ingenious. Something outside the window caught his attention. Something was off... There was the old oak tree, and the trees beyond.. The grass and flowers that swayed lazily in the sunlight. Purple flowers... Red against a field of purple. Striking. That does not belong there... A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he reached up, pulling two teabags from the top shelf.

----


"Crimson." His voice was hushed, soft... Soft as it was when he spoke to her. ~Carefully carefully, broken china doll...~ She had entered the house, Azryel had waited, listening as her boots clumped into the foyer, and had turned around the door way himself- stepping into her path. Hazel eyes roamed her face. Had he surprised her? Was she angry? Crimson did get awfully angry... "Crimson." Refrain from repeating Azryel. It's annoying. "Would you... Like some tea?" A sudden smile cracked on his lips as he offered her one of the two mugs he held. The smile faded however, as he took in her stance. Her eyes. The scowl that played so mischievously on the edges of her mouth... as if to tempt them ever downwards. "Would you..." REPEATING. "Like to sit with me as well? ..Sit and talk?" He looked down and away, bringing the cup of tea to his lips and taking a sip. It was hot water. It burnt his tongue. Azryel didn't flinch or pull the mug back. He did not give anything away. Never gave anything away. Instead, he paused... swallowing slowly, the cursed liquid burning it's vengeful path down his throat.

I hate mornings.

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#, as written by Stilts
Azryel

Tick. Tock.
Tick tock.

Not.


Crimson walked past him without a word, refusing his offer of tea. How rude... It was so warm too.. Making his way back to the kitchen, he discarded her share of the scalding water into the flowerpot beside the window, sighing softly.

"Ah now. What to do.."
Azryel stared out at the purple field, taking another sip of his tea. Purple flowers. Pure. Purely purple. No spots of bright, gaudy, ruby russet rust.
No more crimson in their midst.
Simple. Natural. Flawless.
Unmingled.

"What.. to do... adieu, adieu.." Tapping thin fingers against the wall, he meandered slowly to sit in the chair beside the window. A prime spot. A vantage point. One from which he could watch the comings and goings of the bustling house.
So noisy, this "home".

So quiet.. quiet...

Another sip.
Azryel's brows furrowed in fury. In a flash, he threw the cup across the room -shattering the ceramic against the opposite wall.

Quite. Quiet.



Sighing, Azryel stood, licking his lips with a sore tongue. Hot water... How deceitful. Retrieving the dustpan dutifully, he swept up the ceramic shards with a slow precision, but left the water to dry itself. How annoying. He was annoyed often these days. Often enough...

Resuming his seat, Azryel sat in silence. Still. Listening for Crimson. Perhaps she had heard the noise.. Undoubtably she had. Would she come?
"Nien Nien. She does not jump to such trivial noises..." He hummed to himself, hazel eyes returning to the window as he folded and unfolded his hands. "~Dawning of a day.. Won't you come and play? ... Won't you come away... Come away... Away... away.."

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#, as written by Stilts
Azryel

"Drip-pip-pip-ing... Drop... Plop.."

Drooping hazel eyes watched the fat raindrops slide down the window pane sluggishly. First one, then five... then more than he could count...

"This displeases me." Azryel muttered to himself, hands finally falling still atop his lap. He could no longer see past the meadow; the gray clouds that had appeared so suddenly dumping their torrent with zeal. Could no longer see... and thus the purpose of him sitting here prudently, in this particular spot, waiting- was reduced to moot. "All the colors blend together... It displeases me." Azryel's fists clenched, fingers digging into his palms. He hissed through clenched teeth, ".. Repeating."

"Hummm... I should move, yes? Oui. No purpose sitting here.." Perhaps sitting in the common room would be more pleasing. Ah- but wait- What was that?... Something moved within the gray haze? He slitted his eyes, peering through the rain-stained glass. Whoever it was ran in a strange manner... Were they injured? As the figure approached, he could make out a dress. A female. ..I suppose. She glanced around. Was she lost? No... The figure continued on it's frantic way towards the house. Towards the door he sat beside. My, my... What's this... Do I know you? Was it someone new? He always did hope they'd get visitors... They never did.
The door was flung open, a thin, drenched girl stumbling through.

Sobbing..

Such Sobs. They echoed in his ears- Loud and wretched. Pulled from the shaking, tiny frame as if striving to break it in two.

She was Crying.
Azryel unfolded his hands. Folded them again. Unfolding them once more, for the last time, and placed them gingerly on the armrests to raise himself up. The girl raised her head- wide, frightened, molten eyes flashing against his own briefly. Ah. Azalea.. Little Azalea. The third soul. Of course it was a soul. Of course. It had been foolish to hope for a stranger.

Her chest was heaving.
The broken sounds... Crashed in waves against him. She was singing. Singing a song he knew.
This noise.. resonates in the song within me.

His eyes flicked lower to watch the girl's pale bosom work up and down under soaked garments as more shattering cries were wrenched from it. You tremble... Like a frightened little bird. Azryel's mouth opened slowly, as if to taste the despair that permitted the heavy air between them. Running his tongue against the backside of his teeth. Faintly, he wondered why she struggled. If it was so painful.. These intakes of breath... Why not just stop breathing?

What reason do you have to cry so, Azalea?

He watched as her legs buckled beneath her, as if the weight of her sorrow was too much to bear. She fell to her knees. Oh my. Azryel took half a step forward, with a utterance of concern. You look so sorry... So lost. Something surged through him, made his eyes slit ever so slightly before they returned to their expression of distress. A last chance for a first dace... "Azalea?" A sunrise that can't possibly exist-... He took another hesitant step towards her, the words rolling off his tongue deftly. Carefully, he bent and touched the shaking girl's shoulder. "Are you.. -Are you alright?"
Of course you are not.

Sweet, precious, darling Azalea. Never, never cried. Your sunshine, so easily overcast. I have a guess as to why. He had been observant. Not that it was hard to miss how she fawned over him. He knelt before her, twisting the lines on his forehead deeper in worry. "... Azalea.. What happened?" Yes. Sweet.. Precious... Darling. Azryel pulled the agitated girl against him, letting her sink into his chest, supporting her slouching body. Overwrought. It was as if all the energy had been drained from her wet, chilled flesh. This flesh.. felt nice in his arms. You.. shiver.

She was still sobbing, tears pooling against his shoulder and sinking into the material. Azryel's fingers stroked the back of her head in comfort, cooing softly in her ear. "Hush, little one." His fingers slipped through her soft locks and down her back. Up and down.. Up and down, as he whispered to her. "Shh, lovely one.. you are all wet..." Her tears soaked into his shoulder while he cradled her head. Still she cried. Ah, sparrow... Is it possible for you to feel more than this? To hurt more than you hurt now?.. I wonder. "Come, I will take you to get changed. Then you can tell me, if you wish." As he stood, he pulled the girl up with him, turning to look at the door as Ian walked in; the man glancing at Azalea and away just as fast.

Hn. I thought as much.

As Ian exited the kitchen, Azryel supported Azalea's limp form in the direction of their living quarters- finally picking up the shuffling girl when she had come dangerously close to stumbling into one of Ian's previously set trip wires. The duo made it to their room unscathed. Azryel set Azalea carefully to sit upon the floor and stood, retrieving a clean cotton dress from her bureau. He knelt once more before her; holding out the material, and slowly wiped away the fountain of tears that spilled out over her porcelain cheeks as best he could with his thumb. "Can you dress? Or do you need help?" Past his hushed tone, Azryel's face blushed slightly pink when he looked away from her, though his hand did not waver in offering her the dress. "I-.. I.. wish to help you Azalea.." He shook his head, furrowing his brows in pain. Hazel eyes met emerald green in ernest. "I hate to see you cry..."