DELRUN, xanthe

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27 - MALE - 6'3" - BISEXUAL - HUMAN/SOLDIER
THE END OF DAYS


"No light, no light, in your bright blue eyes."[/font][/size][/center]

LIKES & DISLIKES

● organization • he's a soldier, with a soldier's order; things need to be neat and easily accessible. it's the end of the world, damn it, and he can't afford to be tripping over junk if he has to scramble for a weapon.
● making a difference • no one likes feeling useless.
● whittling • it's a little known skill of his. on quiet days, he sometimes whips out a knife, and carves things out of blocks of wood.
● the smell of rain • it's a clean, sharp smell that reminds him what it's like being alive.
● silence • silence is golden, especially now that the alternative is either gunfire or screams of fear.

● the undead • who doesn't like the undead?
● being beaten at things • he has a streak of pride a mile wide.
● needing help • soldiers are taught to be self sufficient and resourceful. needing help means being dependent, and that's a dangerous thing to be in this world.
● useless people • useless people should just go sit in a box somewhere, out of sight, and out of mind. it's tedious to try and save them.
● not having control of a situation • chaos is not cool.


PERSONALITY

Xanthe doesn't leave too much of an impression. His beaten red leather trench coat is always worth a second glance, as are his impressive array of guns and knives. He even looks mildly interesting: a mop of shaggy white hair over narrowed blue eyes; tall, fit, built like a brick wall. Physically, he's a perfect soldier. Personality wise... that's a whole different story.

Xanthe used to smile and laugh a lot, but that was before the apocaplyse -- and he's never been one to gaze wistfully at things long past, so there isn't much point going there. He focuses on the present now, because losing yourself in memories and nostalgia is the fastest way of losing your sanity. In a world that turns darker and gaunter with each setting sun, your sanity tends to slip much faster than you'd expect.

You aren't living anymore, you know? You're surviving, and that's a whole different story. It calls for a whole different mind set, and Xanthe has had to throw himself headfirst into the change. His free time is spent exercising instead of reading; he eats because he has to to keep up his strength, not because he enjoys it anymore; and in the summer, he continues to wear his heavy leather jacket, because it'll resist tear and is good for protection.

He doesn't do anything that isn't necessary, now. He doesn't have conversations with people because small talk is pointless and a waste of energy. He doesn't go for strolls to enjoy the summer sun, he goes for scouting missions because someone has to make sure the perimeters remain free. And if he had to put away his gardening tools in favor of a gun -- well, that's just how the world works nowadays, isn't it?


THE STORY SO FAR

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Xanthe was pretty cheerful and easy-going before the war. He had a younger sister named Lenore, and they were as close as any siblings could be. It was him, his sister, and their hard-working mother and father, and things couldn't be better. This was all before the war, of course -- before the whispers of a war came to his hometown.

The whispers became talk, and talk became shouts, and soon words turned to action, and before he knew it, his world was plunged into battle. Xanthe was a civilian like the rest of his family, barely 20 years old when it struck his homeland. His father joined the army, and perished no more than a year later. Too soon, laughter became a distant memory. It was forgotten all together when his sister died in a crossfire between two armies that converged in their town. It was unlucky, his mother said sadly. Laughter became an alien word when his mother withdrew into herself, more and more until she wasted away.

It went on in this fashion for quite a few years, until more whispers came -- whispers of a cure for death -- and these whispers turned into cries of horror as the dead rose to feast on the living. It was around this time that Xanthe shed his cowering, and ferociously fought back. He'd lost too much to sit down and lose himself as well. He joined the southern faction, and thrived under the hard work and intense training. He kept to himself and eventually gained a reputation for accepting orders without question, and killing without hesitation.

He didn't want this war, but it wanted him, and hell, it could have him.


OTHER INFO[/font]

• He's a dead shot with most guns, but pretty handy with knives as well.
• He's riddled with scars here and there and has long since stopped keeping count.
• He talks so little that when he does, his voice ends up rasping for a good while before it remembers what it's supposed to sound like.


FACE CLAIM[/font]

DEVIL MAY CRY - dante


YOUR ALIAS[/font]

Bear
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