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"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional" |WIP|

0 · 320 views · located in New York

a character in “Personal Purgatory”, as played by Cayleen


♬ ♭ ♮

"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional"

~♫~ | ~♫~|~♫~





Appeared Age
Appears to be in his early or mid twenties

Actual Age
Unkown | He lost count after the first century; all Phyrxus knows is that he’s been there long enough to have forgotten why his soul was damned in the first place. If one was to inquire as to how long he was in Hell, he’d simply reply with, “Too long.”


Pansexual- As long as you’re willing to spread your legs (and even if you’re not), Phy won’t be picky

Special Abilities
-High Chemical Tolerance: Phyrxus has no control over this ability and it is constantly active. He often wished he did for with it active it gives his malnourished body a high amount of chemical tolerance and makes it bloody hard to get the buzz he so very much craves. He views this “gift” as a nuisance more than anything as it forces him to have to take much higher amounts of the drug of choice to feel anything at all.

-Delirium: Phyrxus has come to greatly appreciate this ability for it enables him to make anyone see or hear whatever he wills them to. Though this gift has found a small place near his heart, he rarely uses it. If one were to ask him why, and if they were lucky enough to receive an answer, they would be replied with something along the lines of it being too much of a bother and associating with the filthy human worm babies gives him a headache. What he would not tell them is that messing with the minds of lesser beings pricks at his very small sense of moral. But that would never happen, because no demon in their right mind would have a conscious nor would he hold the human race with an ever so faint amount of respect. Right? Right.

Melina Dranic

Wherever Mel drags him or where he can get comfortable enough to sleep. Or get high. So, essentially anywhere.

Human Appearance
The body Phyrxus has claimed as his own upon arriving in the realm of the living is definitely not someone who falls under the general public’s idea of ‘good looking’. Sure he’s tall and has a thick thatch of unruly dark hair that falls into his eyes, and yes his face could be considered aesthetically pleasing, but his lengthy limbs carry little muscle and his scarred skin is pallid and sickly in such a way that within one glance, one would assume he has several unhealthy addictions.

Phyrxus stands at approximately 6’1.5” and if he were to stand on a scale, most would be shocked into wonderment as to how he could still function properly with so little bodyweight. He is sickly thin to the point his paper-like skin is stretched so tightly over his sharp, angular bones that in some places they seem to protrude. If he was to expose his torso, one would discover the ink covered canvas does not completely lack muscle. He has faint muscle definition etched between his very visible ribcages and thin, wiry muscles entwined throughout his undernourished limbs. The means for this slight muscle definition is most plausibly from his many and frequent bouts of late night physical activity.

His poor physique is absolutely littered in ink. Running vertically along his spine is the inking of a fish’s skeleton. The ribs of said skeleton branch out to meet his own painfully noticeable ribcage and towards the bottom of the black and white depiction the skeletal tailfin stretches to brush where the back of Phy’s hips jut out. On both his arms it is a rarity to find a sizable patch of pale skin that is free of ink as both are intricately threaded with black and greys. Though both arms have different, seemingly random designs, they both share a common theme; eyes. For the few intellectuals that know of Phyrxus’ unique ability, they might connect it to this common theme. Each eye was so carefully crafted that it appears to hold a different emotion from its predecessor which ensures no two are alike. Aside from the eyes, there is no other theme or pattern to his unconventional display of individuality.

Everything has its flaws and strong points and Phyrxus is no exception. Though his appearance is very evidently flawed, he does have his aesthetically pleasing features; his face and its features being one. Its structure is of that to be admired. His jawline gracefully swoops down before angling into a narrow chin and his nose sharply angles down in a straight slope from where it is evenly positioned between his most memorable features; his eyes. From a distance they appear a dull, darkish colour but once a closer view is acquired, one would find they are not dull, but instead quite stunning. They are of a variety of purples, which grow in intensity towards the edges of the irises. The outermost ring of the iris is such an intense shade of purple that it appears black and around the pupil is its lightest point.

Phyrxus honestly couldn’t care less about aesthetics and because of this his attire usually consists of whatever he can get his hands on and finds comfortable. Comfort is a big thing when it comes to Phy. If he finds anything uncomfortable or scratchy, he has no qualms of simply stripping down right then and there. He finds nudity to be the most comfortable state and if it wasn’t for the protests of his roommates and the public law (which he cares nothing about), he would be a full-scale nudist. Unfortunately, because of his roommate, he cannot be in his preferred state and falls back to walking around shirtless. One article of clothing he can never seem to go long without, however, is his socks. He has an absolute fetish for socks and is almost never seen barefoot.

Phyrxus is definitely not known for his charms or gentleman-like behavior. He looks out for himself and rarely comes to the aid of others as it is a hassle and his personal ideology is that the less annoyances living on the planet the better. Phy treats the average human with a constant level of indifference and a hint of distaste (though depending on the person those hinted levels will rise or fall). He views the general public as irritants that constantly fester and aggravate his skin and are the case of severe migraines. The only good thing Phyrxus has discovered of the human race is that they are skilled in the craft of manufacturing drugs and a quick way to find sexual satisfaction.

He finds no need to associate or get to know the humans as he feels they are all the same in one way or another. The only time he does he does with slight reluctance and is only to purchase and/or steal his chemical pleasures, or to hunt out a bed partner for that night.

Phy is an addict of many things all ranging from a colorful assortment of drugs to exciting sexual activities, the feel of an adrenaline spike to simple comfort, and even the peace and escape a fictional world printed on paper provides to the unique feel of soft material caressing his feet that only socks could provide. All of these Phyrxus has come to appreciate of the human world.

In Phyrxus’ short time spent on Earth he has picked up a rather offensive and sometimes obscene form of speak, often adding unneeded curses from all sides of the colour spectrum. The disapproving looks he receives from both his speak and appearance does nothing to deter him as he honestly couldn’t care any less about the opinions of others and finds it utterly pointless to get worked up over petty and overall insignificant opinions.

He is rather primeval, preferring to listen to his most basic instincts; survive and reproduce. Though primeval, he is in no way unintelligent nor is he inept. He is actually quite the opposite. Phy enjoys sitting down with large, wordy books for they are as just as much of an escape as his assortment of drugs and chemicals. He could lounge for days, surviving only on cigarettes, cheap booze, and a good book (if his malnourished physique wasn’t evident enough of this).

In the many moments of solitude Phyrxus has shared with the human world he has learned to become quite observant. If given the chance he could sit still for hours just observing his surroundings and contemplating the significance of all the finer details his mind had absorbed.

    Probably not you
    Peanut butter
    Any form of drugs. Whether it be caffeine or cocaine, alcohol or LSD, Phy has tried ‘em all and is willing to do it all again.
    Sleep. If you must wake him, I suggest you do it indirectly and with minimal contact lest you desire to have your hand bitten off as thanks
    Sexual pleasures and activities
    Cigarettes and alcohol. They may not be the most entertaining of drugs, but they are easy to come by and because of this they have become close to his favorites
    Body art.
    Hidden and deeper meanings. Phy likes to over analyze everything and find the deeper meanings hidden behind those that are obvious
    Puzzles and riddles. He enjoys solving them as they force the brain to work in a way it usually wouldn’t
    Damp weather.
    Discovering obscure and remote places that remain hidden to most

    Liars. Typically, Phyrxus treats everyone equal: with a heaping pile of indifference and a dash of irritation. But, if you lie, he will be sure to express his mal feelings towards you.
    The heat. It reminds him too deeply of his homeland
    Irritants. Aka, humans.
    Excessively bright lights. He can handle the sun just fine, but those annoying, flashy neon signs and strobe lights can go die in a hole.
    Felt. The feel of rubbing it the wrong way just sends his skin crawling
    Public humiliation. Whether it be to himself or others, he would never truthfully express his distaste of watching someone be publicly humiliated and stripped of their dignity and honor.
    Polluted air. This is rather ironic considering he spends most of his time sucking smoke into his lungs
    Unnecessary movement. This includes and is not limited to: getting up to eat, bathing, clothing himself, going out in public, talking to Irritants, and anything else he can survive without doing
    Going a day without brushing his teeth. He absolutely detests the feel and taste that is left in his mouth if he does not routinely brush his teeth every day and night.

-Phyrxus is the kind of guy that just honestly can never seem to find where he misplaced all his fucks. So, if you are in the mood to jest at someone or just looking for a shoulder to cry on, it would be wise to search elsewhere
-He is almost always missing at least one article of clothing

Phyrxus was reborn and grew up in a more… undesirable part of the underworld (not that any of Hell could be desirable). Violence was a constant presence in his life and he quickly acquired the means and skills to survive. His favorite ability came into play many a time back in his hometown for if he was ever stuck or cornered into a fight that did not bode well for him, he would simply cause the assailant a slight hallucination and then make his escape.

Phy did not associate with other demons because the longer he hung around them or let his guard drop, the closer he was to a near inevitable and painful annihilation. He spent most of his time in the underworld avoiding conflict and frequently found himself slinking through obscure crevasses and uninhabited areas. When he did decide to come out of the dark, it was under the protection of his hallucinations and to acquire (steal) the necessities of survival.

Reason for Banishment
During one of his rare excursions out of the shadows, Phyrxus was unfortunately caught off guard as he was stealing assorted valuables to sell and didn’t have enough time to conjure one of his illusions before he was severely injured and dragged off to hell’s version of court. Unfortunately for Phy, the “court system” was quite backed up at the time of his conviction and had to spend this waiting period in the “waiting room”. The waiting room would be better described as a torture chamber. Assortments of weapons specifically designed for demons lined the blood stained walls and the rusting floors were decorated in red. Phyrxus spent days in the waiting room where his captors and tormenters kept him suspended in a state between life and death so to ensure he felt every bit of damage done to his body. After getting beaten and tortured to the point of near death for days on end, he was then “fairly” tried and found guilty. Guilty of what? Phyrxus is still uncertain. His punishment was several more long years of torture that sent his mutilated body screaming in blood curdling agony. He endured the torture for the next years and was surprised to find that one day it just stopped. He waited for days, months, possibly years in solitude chained to the wall that had served as his home during these pain filled years and was driven to near insanity waiting for the inevitable return of his tormenters. It was almost a relief to Phyrxus when they finally did return after what seemed years. He prepared his body for the long awaited torture and was shocked to find none came. His body was instead roughly unhooked (yes unhooked. He was suspended on the wall by chains and rusting hooks pierced through his flesh) and tossed to the floor where he was once again picked up by the neck and dragged out of the waiting room. His limbs’ relief was short lived as he was then suspended in a similar fashion as he was in the waiting room to an iron pole in the center of a highly populated area. According to one of the demons, he was to be put on display as an example. Hell’s authorities made a brief speech to the other blood lusting creatures and gave them all permission to do whatever they wished to the prisoner as long as he was kept alive. To Phyrxus’ displeasure, the other demons were far more… creative in their torture than the ones in the waiting room. He was publicly tortured, on a few occasions even publicly raped, and overall publicly humiliated in every way possibly imagined. After so brutally being stripped of his dignity, the authorities topped of the humiliation by banishing him to the pathetic human world.

Try not to piss him off.

So begins...

Phyrxus's Story


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Phyrxus
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#, as written by Cayleen
♬ ♭ ♮

Dank, musty, abhorrent filth. That’s all that surrounded him. That’s all that ever had and ever would. He was trash just like his surroundings. Tossed away and forgotten. Left out to rot until the stench became intolerable and he was once again hauled away to be forgotten with the rest of life’s filth. Filth like the wall he found himself staring at. The dark that shrouded him and clouded his blurred vision felt heavy as he continued to stare and tried to focus on each slurred thought that flitted brokenly through his mind. He blinked slowly, opening his eyes only to find the scenery had changed. His distorted gaze fell upon filth encrusted cement that could only be the ground. He felt dizzy at the sudden realization his neck was no longer straight, the heavy feeling lolling his head further to the side. His heavy lids closed and reopened drowsily and he forced his vision to focus. The effort caused his vision to go black before it crawled back in a dizzying swirl of nonsensical colours. A wave of nausea caused his eyes to roll back and he squeezed his eyelids tightly together.

His head pounded; a hammer repeatedly coming down on his skull. A gong sounding within the confines of his skull; echoing and rattling his brain. The pain throbbed and danced around its restraints; threatening to break free. Through the pain all that was visible was black. A pitching black that stretched far out of reach, spiraling on and on. The void made his mind reel and his eyes snapped open. His lids were hastily sealed as a fresh wave of nausea threatened to drown him. A groan echoed in his ears, inciting the throbbing and nausea on. The dark was once again parted by a stream of light that steadily faded as unfocused orbs adjusted. They stared forward; into an intangible swirl of gray, distanced from physical touch. Pressure applied itself to his hammering skull and the broken thought of it being his hand flitted through his swimming mind. The nausea intensified as he found the clouded mist moving closer and then passing harmlessly over his pounding skull. His chin jabbed into his chest as the weight of his head tugged on his neck. Eyelids he had not realized he closed reopened and he found himself staring down at a ragged lap. He disconnectedly watched as his limp hand flexed and twitched in his lap. His view once again changed as his head lolled to the side. The swirling gray that had first met his gaze was clouded above him. It was too far away to clearly view and stretched on for miles; seemingly endless. His gaze dropped straight ahead of him now and viewed the flat, dusty surface he rested on. It stretched on pass the horizon, much like the gray mist, and was of a sandy tan colour. This, combined with the clouded skies, made the whole scene feel devoid of colour and feeling.

Pain erupted at his side and he found the tan surface rushing upwards. Peeling open lids that had once again sealed without his consent, his throbbing mind screamed as the tan surface pressed against his cheek and the swirling gray, still far out of reach, was now hovering over his side. His disjointed mind barely registered the maniacal cackling, and even then he couldn’t be certain of what he heard as it was muffled in comparison to his own heavy breathing.

His head felt heavy, his neck unable to support its weight, as it numbly rotated to access the view over his shoulder. Long legs and heavy boots consumed his view and his throbbing orbs slid upwards to gaze upon a shadowed face twisted in an expression of sadistic mirth. Just as heavy lids were about to slide close again to subside the rising sense of dizziness and nausea, one of the heavy boots rushed forward and greeted his already pounding skull with another surge of blooming pain.

Muffled shrieking towards the back of his skull pried his gaze free of the dark and unfocused orbs swam in the intrusion of grays and monochromes that welcomed them. He blinked lazily for a moment before his vision cleared enough that shapes didn’t blend together and then torpidly scanned the scenery. The large boots and unholy mirth were nowhere in sight, but instead he found himself once again gazing at the filth encrusted wall. His head fell heavily backwards, thudding lightly against a hard surface, and he peered at the wall through half lidded and thick lashes. His neck gave out again and he found his head hanging heavily to the side. His gaze traveled down and stared at a heavily inked arm. Midway up the forearm a large protrusion stuck out of the skin. The needle of the syringe glinted in the dim lighting and he scoffed lightly. Filth.


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Phyrxus Character Portrait: Melina Dranic
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Seconds dug their feet firmly into the drag, as time forced them to march in their lovely parade. The dancer stood as stiff as a statue, one of the many people time was tormenting with their sick game. How the fuck could this happen? Why did he get run over? Why not some worthless piece of shit? Why the Adios handsome soul that he was? Him. Whose laugh boomed like a wonderful, blinding firework? Whose eyes light with scintillation whenever he spotted her figure on the stage? These tortuous thoughts kept throwing jubilant memories at her, causing her doe-like eyes to glaze over with tears carrying the weight of consuming despair. She tried to hold by the tidal wave of water that would consume her.

'Why him?' Kept searing itself into her feeble mind. Destroy those memories with the image of her beloved lying on the disgustingly blank bed. Life seemingly being sucked out of his beautiful body through traitorous tubes, connecting to mechanical, plastic boxes. If only she could reverse it and get to tubes to fill him with life.

But she was a flimsy, pathetic human. With no supernatural power to save her love. Helplessness pored itself into a large compartment of her aching heart to keep the cold misery a bit of company. The muscle pounded furiously against the dancer’s now bruising rib cage. It felt as though her heart was going to explode from too much pressure. She would have preferred than to live a day without her love.

In the reality outside of her world of clotting pain, humans were buzzing around some trying to save others, some like her and some were trying to keep themselves from fall apart, while others were battling a viscous battle to breathe the sweet scent of life for at least one more day.

Numbly, the dancer forced her normally graceful legs to stagger towards a plastic chair worn from years of others sitting, waiting. Her typically nimble form slump against the chair, she was on the verge of spilling over onto the floor and simply screaming her voice raw. Her normally straight, raven hair, now hung limply around her trembling body making her look as though she had escaped from a highly guarded mental institute. In stark contrast, her creamy skin tone had taken the sickly shade of paste. She was really a sight to behold, still dressed in her elegantly woven costume. It probably would have given others a laugh seeing someone wearing a vivid red ballet costume, if it weren’t such dire consequences. The female’s feet were even clad in worn, scuffed up ballet shoes due to vigorous use over only a few months.

“Miss?” the cool, calculative voice dripped past the macabre branches of her despair into the center of her common sense. The dancer gazed up with haunted eyes at the pristine coated doctor, who seemed content in avoiding weighted stare. Once the male realized that he had captured a portion of her attention he continued on, “Anyways, I am sorry to inform you, but he has slipped into coma and the chances of him ever regaining consciousness are slim to none.”

What did he say?

Did he really say those horrendous words?

Blinking, the dancer let her eyes flit around the room. Confused. This setting wasn’t what it was just a few seconds ago. She wasn’t lying on a bed. Nor was she in a hospital room. What happened? She was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the waiting room.

She blinked again. When did that towering, menacing-looking male enter her room? Was he always standing far too close to the rigid, rock-like bed? The dancer slowly inched away from the business suited man to the opposite edge of the bed. Blink. Holy shit. He was on the side she was scooting towards without any motion that caught her eyes.

A smirk curled around his thin, bloodless lips. The man had an angular face with razor sharp cheek bones that could slice through diamond and a strong jaw that must have taken down a few fists. The dancer was horrified when she glanced into his empty, desolate eye sockets. Black holes sucked all of her attention as she desperately searched for the male’s lost eyes.

Without eyes. Without soul.

She screamed. Or tried to at least. The male, with his inhuman speed, successfully stifled all noise from her by sufficiently smothering her with a thin pillow.

“It’s rude to scream at another’s deformities,” he hissed out like a snake being awoken from their nap in the sun. The dancer flinched at the sugary coated mockery that surrounded his words.

“Alrighty then,” he said, clapping his hands together, “Down to business.”

The dancer stared at him with guarded yet startled fear. The male took her silences as a motivation to continue on with his ‘business proposal’.

“I couldn’t help but notice the pain you are currently going through. And as any gentleman would; I would like to solve whatever is ailing your emotional state of mind. With a price of course. But, I can do just about anything for a lovely lady like you. With the right payment, I could wake up your sleeping prince,” he spoke in a light, soothing tone. The man’s mouth had painted on a sincere and caring smile that could never reach his eyes.

The constant flow of words from her mind to paper was interrupted by an odd tingling sensation along her spine. She shifted slightly, the hairs of the back of her neck pricked upward in alert. Melina tightened her grip on the pencil as she tried to ward off the feeling of being observed.

After that particular feeling subsided, she continued writing the blooming story. Scribbling away on the loose leaf of paper; Mel once again immersed in the realm of plot lines and characters.

Again, unseen eyes burned on the back of her head. The small sparks of irritation began to bounce into each other as she lost the connection to her writing. Glancing around the room, she noticed no one in her bland sanctuary. With a small sigh, she returned her gaze towards her paper. Now she had to find her lovely muse once again. It was a difficult search because the muse decided to hide among her memories. That sneaky bastard didn’t want to leave her mind.

Third time is the charm. But when she lost concentration this time, it was because of loud, echoing crashes not far from outside her door. Mel made a noise akin to an irritated growl as she stood up abruptly, dropping her pencil, and stomped out of her shelter. Once in the dingy living room, the wonderful sight of her beloved mother lying on the ground while clutching her stomach and a disgusting man looming over her graced her eyes. Now she knew where the noises came from.

Mel froze to the spot. Fury spread all over her body, travelling in her veins. It sparked and clashed with all of the more rational emotions. Devouring all of them until only anger was left to guide her actions. In a disjointed manner, she picked up an empty bottle and, with a sneer, broke it against the male’s thick skull.

Unfortunately for her, she didn’t put in enough momentum behind the throw. “Fucking shit. Why the fuck does that bastard have such a thick skull?” she muttered to herself.

The male, with his disgustingly beady eyes, slowly, menacingly stalked over towards where she was standing. As a response she slowly backed away from the muddy brown haired man, inching closer and closer to the exit. He had a scary amount of muscles and was easily a full head taller than her.

“You fucking bitch!” the male so eloquently shouted in a nauseating tone of voice. She was screwed if he caught her. A scowl marred his already ugly as fuck face as the man suddenly lunged forward at her. Luckily, Mel was faster and in a flash, she was out of the tiny hell, known as her home.

You idiot! How could she have left her mom alone with that bastard?!? She was such a fucking coward, saving herself but not her mother! Now her mother was probably fucking dead. She slammed her leg against the concrete wall in the stairwell, which sent searing pain shooting all over her leg. “Fuck fuck fuck shit,” she cursed, in a very colorful manner as she comically hopped on one foot and attempted to nurse her leg.

Mel really was not having a good day.

As if that thought tugged on sister Fate’s attention, her hopping caused her to crash her skull against the brick wall of the stairwell. Echoing curses filled the chilly air, Mel sagged ungracefully against the cruel wall while rubbing the spots where pain was being emitted from. Throbbing, searing pain. Burned into her brain. Mel squeezed her eyes closed tightly shut while her fingers made an attempt to smother the pain. After a few moments the fire-like hurt subsided slightly. Snapping her eyes open. Her charcoal eyes tried to focus on the blank wall opposite of her, but it wouldn’t stop fucking swaying. Oh wait, that was her.

Heh, funny how she caused more pain for herself on accident than an outside force. In an almost hysterical mannerism she doubled over in giggles that seemed endless. In an outsider’s point of view, you would be in a supposedly empty stairwell, but with hysterical giggles bouncing off the walls.

After the giggles subsided, Mel closed her eyes and rested against the wall with a lazy expression relaxing her facial features. Unfortunately, the noise of someone opening the door rang through the stairwell. Bringing Mel out of her cozy mind and caused her to race down the stairs, two at a time until she was at the surface level.

Glancing upwards, her eyes caught the burly figure of the disgusting male. At least he wasn’t focused on beating the shit out of her mom.

But Mel desperately needed to lose the man. She forced her legs to sprint making herself out as a blurry of black and stark white out of the apartment building into the lovely streets of New York. She ran past two hobos sitting next to each other staring blankly, an old lady taking out the trash, and a gangster trying to impress a bimbo. Breathing in and out Mel stopped paying attention to the busy world around her and focused on moving one leg after another in a corridanted manner.

She had no idea where she was going, Mel just relied on her instincts to take her wherever. Time blended together holding no more meaning. Only the rush of air flowing in and out of her lungs and the burn in her legs registered in her mind. It wasn’t until she fell over a skinny mass of pale human was she pulled back into reality.

In a completely gracefully manner, Mel arranged herself so she was sitting next to the human she tripped over. Peering around, she realized she was in the druggy alley. Joys, she was probably sitting on dried semen. Shuddering involuntarily, she turned her gaze towards the cadaverous male. Although the male wasn’t wearing a shirt, which caused her pinky to twitch slightly, his inked chest had a hypnotic quality that would allow almost anyone stare at them in wonder for hours. He seemed like an odd creature. Probably so high in the sky that he sees unicorns puking rainbow flavored…not going to finish that thought.

Mel poked his arm while tilting her head. She looked at him similar to how children look at a fascinating object. “Hey, human…do you have cows stuffed in your head so that you can’t see the floating dust mites that are at battle?” she asked in a curious tone.