Smooth, evenly spaced strides lead this young man into view, granting one equipped with generous eyes a full intake of his details. Fragile illusions shade his countenance, merely serving to keep hidden what secrets lie beneath the skin. More important than the outside features are those to be examined deeper within, provided he might ever allow that much freedom to form. Indeed, Zhilphe dons a mask that may be easily counted among the rest, but the dominating differences on the inside bear a tendency to betray his shrouded exterior with unintended ease. Something easily recognizable through his demeanor, perhaps the wolfish guilt in his eyes, never fails to draw low murmurs of disgust and disapproval from the mass of the common. In response, he will often lift his gaze to meet the world in defiance.
The Genesis Child, Dark Conqueror of the Twilight Realms, or any given moniker awarded to his name: each serves only as a near-perfect definition of his character, while his charismatic air and the venom of a virulent mentality house the ability to deliver a true sense of who he actually is. An aura of uniqueness reeks heavily from this otherwise reclusive vessel, like the stench of some wild bloom, giving substance to the semblance of a superior being. Upon first glance at his appearance, one might automatically give the assumption of something “evil” stemming from this man, as is the case with most warriors of the current age, but clichéd personas can find no way to stick themselves to this one, as individuality bursts from the seams of his muscled frame.
He stands at a decent height of six foot three, with added inches to be found where necessary. Frosted blue pools take in all sights of the world with a darkened disdain matched only by the depth of those eyes themselves. Stoic expressions are hidden well beneath a veil of metallic ice evenly spilling from the scalp; each strand is glazed with a hint of the moonlight’s silvery glow. Cold-kissed lips tell no lies, serving as the ideal mouthpiece for one whose musings constantly beg for some form of expression.
While at times he would often regard his body as nothing more than a vessel that he was forced to be dependent upon in carrying out life’s duties, it has evolved it into a respected sanctuary nonetheless. Since the years of youth, time has been well spent in molding the ideal figure that would suit one deemed worthy of wielding steel. He is a knight by design, and with that having no need to be kept secret, there is no problem found in flaunting it. Mounds upon ample mounds of muscle, covered by an icy blanket of bronze-tinged flesh, aid in his appeal to combat. Flawless tone teases at the normal limitations of one’s body, for perfection has been well duplicated, thanks to strenuous training.
The presence of darkness, while mildly personified through this shell, is clearly celebrated as its shade permeates every fiber, with excess hues bleeding through the exterior of this man. Tones of black and midnight blue alternate in decorating the warrior’s regalia. The figure itself remains cloaking comfortably in the confines of a draping leather coat that falls regally to ankle-length. Buttons adorn one side, yet its flaps rest apart at all times; the chill of the nocturnal winds is nothing to be feared or shunned. Navy mesh is woven across the chest, blending with its complimenting fabrics. With no true explanation, other than a secret lust for shine, a pair of silver titanium greaves encompasses the muscles of the hind limbs. A white bandanna, folded in a manner of well-practiced neatness, crowns his forehead.
It seems quite unfitting and even more uncharacteristic that one of such heightened pride would allow himself to fall subject to the plagues that touch those of fellow mortal hearts, but the Wolf remains a bona fide fiend for sentimental objects. An ever-growing lust for material pleasure remains untamed, while the spoils of a man well taken care of are flaunted without shame. The lobe of his left ear is treated to the company of a rounded diamond stud, while the excess ice dust migrates to greet the silver bands of his right hand. The small finger farthest from the thumb sports a dome decorated with the talon of a dragon, elaborately designed, and accentuated by the luster of that sickening ice. The neighboring piece holds far more meaning than that of the Talon ring, for it represents the strength of a bond to remain unbreakable. A simple loop, a never-ending circle, tells the tale of two spirits entwined for the remainder of eternity. The Wolf is no longer his own, having given himself to a lone soul worthy of the claim, and the gift of this woman he wears most proudly. The gift of his lover, a simple, yet elegant thing … a finely crafted piece of work designed to fit him to perfection, resides comfortably around his neck: a silver collar, with the tiny runes of the mystic writings of her homelands upon it, and a diamond placed at the center.
History amounts to little when standing before the rise of the dawning age. The future holds far more promises than those rejected by the days that lie behind its former companion. The Conqueror has made himself inaccessible to the past, as a man of knowledge would seek to do, but he carries the only monument of strength ever known in the short span of his ongoing life. A blade without a name, known only to its comrade as a weapon of trust and survival, hides itself within the confines of its sheath. The stains of red copper wine, the juice of death, are buried beneath the ashes of days no longer spoken of, but this titanic wonder still remembers well the bitter taste of blood. Fate offers neither reassurance nor promises; dawn and dusk appear with no more promising beauty than what is ready to be grasped by the eye. This simple observation has spawned scores of words to live by and each greeting of Fate and Opposition shall always conclude itself with the mark of a wolf, till death collects its claim.
