XANTHUS NEFARIOUS GRIMM, DISTRICT ONE

“A SOLDIER ON MY OWN, I DON'T KNOW THE WAY”
I'm riding up the heights of shame.

AGE . Eighteen.
GENDER . Male.
DISTRICT . One.
OCCUPATION . Crime Lord.
SEXUALITY . Blood.
TALKING . Cloudburst
DOING . Red Lotus
DEEP THOUGHT . Me Lady
HEARING . taco on that one
ADDICTION . Failure_on_my_lips


APPEARANCE .

“I'M WAITING FOR THE CALL, THE HAND ON MY CHEST”
I'm ready for the fight, and fate.

Languidly, a solitary hand reaches over the arm rest to carefully grab the stem of the glass in long, secretary fingers. The coolness of the glass touching my fevered skin courses through my veins, awakening my senses anew. I can feel the life coursing through me, and it calms me, even as I feel strength oozing out of my pores. It is still warm when I bring it to my lips. Warm, but not perfect, not bubbling from the vein. Good enough, I don't like the mess. Thoughtfully, I place the wine glass back down on the glass table, almost missing the coaster. The dregs begin to congele already at the bottom of the glass. Standing, I turn away from the sight of it, and instead move forward to close the curtains. When I was younger I would use all my strength to pull the heavy things across the rod. Now I do it in one swift tug. Carefully, I straighten the ends so they only just overlap, not too much on either side.

My tongue snakes out to lick some leftovers from the corner of my mouth. I think to fully clean myself however, I must consult a mirror. I cross the floor in soft steps, not too hesitant, nor too confident. Just silently, like a whisper, as if I was never there at all. I don't mean to step like that. I wanted to have the gait of my father, steady, confident. Instead I slip through shadows, a silent death to my victims. There have been a few. It is dark in the room now, the curtains shutting out what little light there was. A lamp burns quietly in the corner, but it doesn't light much. I prefer the darkness. I reach my hand out, locating the mirror by touch. Long, carefully manicured fingers meet their reflection in the mirror, followed by a lanky forearm, glaringly pale even in darkness. I wear black, of course, always black. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow and then the colour hides the torso and all that resides there. Following that route, my body cuts off at the hips where the mirro loses the reflection.

To follow the other route, to trace the contours of my shoulder blade along to my neck, is to find sharp collarbones, and the body of a man just emerging from boyhood. Oh come now, I have not been a boy for a very long time. I have a natural slump to my shoulders, as if the would's weight has grown unbearably heavy in my short life. In reality, it is because I am rather tall standing at six feet and so and so inches. I slump to fit through doorways better, to be less conspicuous. Right now however, new strength is lent to me, and my shoulders are pushed back, I stand tall and confident. As if I am revealed, my shoulders appear broader than usual. Right now, I do look like a crime lord, how my father looked. Following the curve of my shoulder is a long neck finally meeting up with my jaw as if it was merely an afterthought.

I raise my other hand, and let my thumb drift along the corner of my mouth. Red stains me, and I lick it off, the metallic flavour mixed with so much possibility making me shudder. I drag my teeth across my lips, making them sting, and drawing blood to them. The sudden colour contrasts with the paleness of my skin. I don't really get out much. With a certain softness that could be used to describe any action I partake in, I run my hand along my cheek, feeling the entirety of my face. It tickles my eyelashes and I shut my eyes. I stay still for a few moments, as if collecting myself. My eyelids flutter open once again, and I stare straight into myself, from between my fingers. They're orbs of darkness, drinking in light and emitting none. Onyx vortexes, large and round, seducing the universe into them. Of course, I have the trademark of the Grimm family, a certain slant. Lined in kohl, I use them as a means to communicate when words fail me. One proper, burning glare from the likes of me has been known to terrify one of the grunts in the lower levels of my operations.

They can barely be seen from underneath the mane my hair has become. Shaggy and almost unkempt, it covers my forehead, and peeks just over my eyes, raven locks helping to hide me from the world I crave so dearly. It has grown long, needing a cut. It tickles the back of my neck, longer strands there brushing my shoulders. It is now long enough for me to pull it back in a short ponytail when it becomes less of a fashion statement, and more of a hindrance. I stare at myself with a calm gaze, almost appearing uncertain. Of what, though?Pixie like ears manage to peek out anyway. In the garish fashion of the rest of the Grimms, I have my eccentricities, and one of mine just so happens to be pierced ears.

Acquired at first to hide a scar, and then kept because I found them a comfort. I have other scars too of course. You don't keep your place at the top of the oldest crime syndicate in the District by being a layabout. Taking my other hand away from the mirror, I reach over my shoulders to pull off my shirt, revealing a well toned body, and a few intricacies. I am not thickly built, that is obvious by first glance, but I do have abs, and well worked arms. I have spent years training, simply trying to gain the strength to deal death to the men and women who have wronged me. Beginning on my right arm, an ongoing project, it laps over my right shoulder, and begins to eat at my chest there is a tattoo. I have yet to decide it, but there is everything in there. For one so neat and orderly, it is the biggest mess I'll allow myself, something to let out of my system so the rest of me doesn't fall to ruin. Not only there to act as art, but to cover a stab wound. They were going for my heart, but unexpectedly or on purpose, they missed.

Mesmerized, I pause, staring at the way you can see my veins under my deathly pale skin. I can see the power surging through me, the life force. I require more. Sometimes it's all I can think about, drinking the life force of others, so desperate am I to stay here, whole. I crave it in my sleep. I know that it is not normal, that it is wrong, I try to contain it.

Carefully, I toss the shirt I was wearing across the bed, preparing myself for the evening ahead. Never will it be said that a Grimm didn't look absolutely, jaw-droppingly stunning. Not even for a secret meeting between two people. Even if the only person they were going to see was the butler, a Grimm was always at the height of fashion. Each Grimm has has his or her own flair. Mine a hybrid of my mothers and father's in one. My father believed in the military style, and my mother believed that the more layers there were, the more fashionable it was. This means waistcoats, and ascots mixed with harem pants and gladiator sandals. Suit jackets with v-necks, and skin-tight black jeans. Jackets with rows of brass buttons, sashes, and the like. A mix of everything in the Grimm house closets. After all, if there was no point in looking like a common street rat.

Which would be hard to look like, being me. Even if I stooped to wear what the commoners do, I would still stick out like a sore thumb, pale skin blinding everyone around me. I don't get out much. Not really because I don't want to, more of a way of protection. Not for me, of course, for you. ALl of you out there, scurrying around like ants as I hide myself away for the benefit of you. I'm a monster you know, the paleness of my skin a constant reminder. It does contrast nicely with all the black I wear, as if in a constant state of mourning. I am, you know. mourning. Always mourning. For what, you ask? Why, all of you, of course.

PERSONALITY .

“FROM THE DAWN OF TIME, TO THE END OF DAYS”
I will have to run, away.

It has been days since I last let the elixir of life pass through my lips, and I prowl the house in quite a state. I feel ponderously small in the front hall, the ceiling much higher than I remember it. When I am like this, I even avoid the help, fearing myself unable to control myself. My hands shake from the want of it, and it is a terrible thing to rely on a substance so heavily. If I try to disentangle myself from it's fearsome grasp, I fear I shall collapse. Not only from the withdrawal, but from the memories that will come flooding back. I know they will. If I keep myself focused on my addiction, even I am safe from the horrors in my head. Reaching a wall, I rest my head against it, eyes downcast as I study the floor. One, two, three, four.....

I find it helps to deal with my predicament if I busy myself with other chores. Sometimes I count the tiles on the ceiling, other times I take over the cleaning. I've found that there isn't a mess that a good pair of Marigolds and a scrub brush can't fix. Days like these, I tend to get a bit more insane about it. Last time, for example, I scrubbed the entirety of the dining room table. I didn't use a toothbrush, although a formidable weapon against bacteria of the mouth, that is ridiculous stereotype. ...thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty... mid count, I turn my head to the side, staring blankly at the wall. I could remain here for hours, letting the house hold me up. I don't really have much to do until night at least. The sun only just slants across the floor, meeting the carpet in a soft daze. I have a couple hours yet.

With a dream-like slowness, I push myself away from the wall and go to sit in the corner. To reach the corner, I must edge around the rectangle of light the sun streaming through casts on the ground. My back to the room, I pull a set of dominoes out from under a chest of drawers, and press my thumb against a catch, delicately pulling it open and carefully resting the lid against the floor. Inside, rows of gleaming dominoes lay neatly on top of each other. Their ivory skin almost glows, in the afternoon light. Tucked inside is a a cloth used for cleaning glasses as well, my father's glasses. He only used them for reading. He didn't like being seen with them, he didn't like to be thought of as aging. Reverently, my hand picks up the first domino, wipes it gently with the cloth, and then places it carefully on the floor. I do so again with the next, and the one after, dominoes slowly swirling in an arc.

This is a part of my daily time table, you see. To keep the beast inside sated, I must control it. To control it I need patience, and there is nothing that involves more patience than a seemingly pointless task. So everyday I set the dominoes up and then I take them down, carefully cleaning them and laying them down in numbered order each time. The most important part, is to not knock it over when I finish. I need to teach myself the fact that I cannot do what I please all of the time. To tame myself I must be strict with myself. So I keep myself locked away, in this lofty mansion, with only a few caretakers. This is the way I have been for a very long time, and it is what I am used too. I barely leave, unless it is a reaping day, even then I block myself from the light and wreath myself in darkness.

At first, I kept myself away from the rest of the world more because of my own personal problems. I did not want to see the rest of the world. It was too happy. Then it became wha tI was used too, and being a creature of habit, I found an excuse to hide myself away. After the deaths, I hid even from my family, speaking only through letters. Sometimes they come knocking about into the house, whirlwinds. I never quite know how to deal with them. It's so noisy all of the sudden, and I find myself out of sorts. I am too used to silence and order. When Leo comes with her pockets full of stories, I begin to panic, afraid of what will come out next. Everything lumped together with so much chaos. It terrifies me. I like to know what is where, and when. With her pockets, you don't know what is inside, what can reach out and bite you.

Guilt lays it's thick blanket on every movement I make. A hollow sadness seems to make each step a laborious movement. In the comfort of my home, I am a ghost, haunting the edges of reality. I can feel my sanity dripping away with each day, yet I cannot bring myself to leave the sanctuary I have here. I may seem harmless, beautiful even. I am simply a jungle cat, like the ocelot Leo insists on dragging everywhere with her. At the first sniff of anything, my claws come out and I am merciless as an angry god. That is the man, that they see when they come in their dark suits to hold council. That is the man who leads them, and maintains his position at the top of the food chain. To keep my place upon this throne of skulls, I have only added to the bodies, twisting my knife into necks, and smashing bones with a hammer to teach lessons. I do it all with a cold stare, or a twisted grin. I do this to keep peace. I cut the throats of those who have disobeyed because my father always taught me to be honourable in this game we call reality. 'If you are going to sentence a man, than you must be the one to carry out the judgement. In this empire, I am jury, judge, and executioner.

I can feel him aching to claw his way out of me with every passing day. His insatiable anger eats at my resolve. I could let myself slip away, let myself be run entirely by greed and addiction. It seems appealing. So much anger claws away at my insides, until one day, I know I will be scraped away entirely. I am a menace to society that needs to be kept away, locked up. It's because blood all I can ever really think about. Just when I think I have successfully let myself think of something else, I find it there at the back of my mind, when can I get more, when can I have it again. When can I drink it fresh again? I am a monster, and I suffer for it. It might be easier to just kill myself, but the monster will always prevail. If I give up, it would be like handing the keys to the city over to it, to wreak it's havoc. I am not worthy of pity, or love. I am worthy of nothing, I am worthy of people forgetting I even exist. I want the vines to grow over the gate to my house until I disappear from the world, Simply a beast to remain in nightmares.

With great care, I place the last domino and drop my hands in my lap. Staring down at them, I focus on the lines on my fingertips, at the way my fingers automatically bend inwards when I relax them. For a moment, I sit still, the light moves slow across the carpet, and the house is silent around me. Someone moves around in the room next door -the maid carefully placing my evening meal- and I can hear the sound of a bird stubbornly yelling outside the window. Blood pools in the palms of my hands, slipping through my fingers. I cannot contain all that blood, all of it that I have spilled. One day, I know, it will come back for me, to drown me. Until then, I am here, in this enormous house, empty except for the silence. A smile tugs at my lips, and I reach out for the last domino placed. Hovering over it, I pull my finger back slightly to flick it and pause. After a moment's hesitance, I pick it up, wipe it off, and place it back into the tin. One, two, three....

HISTORY .

“I WANT TO FEEL THE PAIN AND THE BITTER TASTE”
Of the blood on my lips, again.

It's evening, well nearly midnight and my feet take me across the darkened dining hall to a lit room only a few steps away. Candlelight flickers on the walls, creating an assortment of shadows, yet I can only manage to see my own. An assortment of men and woman wait in that confined space, for me. It is like a monthly check up, to see if I am still breathing. Noise clatters out through the door, I can hear a light, practiced laughter. They are not here to check on me, per say. More because if they didn't show once a month, I would cut their fingers off one by one. Contrary to some's beliefs, I am not a good man. The answer to why they would believe it in the first place alludes me.

I have a vast empire at my fingertips. One that my father had been building up since he was younger than me and he made his first friend. He learned how to wrap a person around his smallest finger so well. He could control a man so easily, they never even noticed my father's hands were wrapped tight around their throat. I suppose that's why he always did so well, even at social events. He was usually the center of attention with his charming laugh. I only gain attention because of fear.I guess that's why it's no surprise that Titania Fletcher, socialite queen and wealthy heiress found my father suitable for a union. I really don't think that any love was involved there. In this day and age, love is the one luxury that the wealthy can't afford. Still, my father caught my mother's attention, and in turn, she caught his. Those piles of money must have been very attractive. So it was that Corbet Grimm and Titania Fletcher were married.

Now, of course, they must produce an heir. I suppose that's where I come in. Through layers of other red holes of course. See, it was all a bit complicated. My mother never quite understood the appeal of childbirth. My father didn't want his trophy wife to get fat. So, some high paid scientist took my father's sperm, my mother's egg, and put it inside some other lady. I never knew her of course. Somewhere out there however, there is a woman who could call me her son. I feel she has the rights to it after carrying me for nine months before having me ripped from her grasp. My father told me that she named me. I always thought that was where the name Xanthus came from. It was only later that I found out she had cursed me with 'Nefarious'. I think she may have been a bit bitter.

Growing up for me, I suppose it would be odd to any normal kid living in the streets. It could be odd to anyone. My upbringing was a hybrid of the uptight fashion of the Fletchers, and the modern ways of the Grimms. My mother taught me that no less than three layers of clothing is always suitable, my father taught me ways to get around that. From my mother, I learned the rules of a gentleman, from my father, I learned the actual rules of a gentleman. My father had me sitting in on his 'meetings' since I learned to crawl, much to the great disapproval of my mother. She always believed that a man should be kind, and gentle. My father thought that was hilarious. He had me training at the career center by age four.

Carefully, my fingers brush against the door, and I stand outside still, in the darkness. There is muted conversation, and I could listen but I don't need to. My servants are stationed at the other exits, just outside, listening like they were trained to. Any one of those people laughing and making small talk inside the room could be the reason for all of this. I don't know if the attack was an outside thing, one of my father's enemies making a clear statement, or if it was purely inside. It'd make sense, how else would they know the floor layout so well? Someone from in that room at least had to have helped them.

It happened when I was ten. Up till then, my childhood was fairly normal. My mother didn't tuck me in at night or read me stories. My father didn't take me outside to toss a ball around. Like most children, I was left to fend for myself. My parents were more like the school principals, I didn't want to get in their way or be called to their office. So I was raised mostly by the help. As I said, pretty normal childhood. Still, I respected and loved my parents, and knew that one day, they would show the same respect and love for me. I didn't think that day might not come.

It happened at night. I think my father had an inkling something like this might be coming. He'd had extra security for the last few days, and he seemed tense. My mother made small talk at dinner, and my father would make stiff replies. I was silent, of course, as a child should be at the dinner table. It's all a bit blurry really from there on. My mind cuts out the rubbish bits and only keeps the action. Four men made it into our house, two died at the gates. One man took my mother by the hair and dragged her off into the sitting room, the other attacked my father. One attacked the butler, the other dragged me into the sitting room as well.

They held me down, and I watched as my mother became rumpled. I had never seen her less than pristine before that. I must have been crying. They performed deeds that my mother had made sure to tell me to never do to a lady, and I watched, they made me. When they were finished with her, they slit her throat. I won't forget the sounds that it made, not for a life time. I struggled out of the grasp of my captor then, I think they let me go. They could see I wouldn't be a problem. They should have killed me then and there. Tears streaming down my cheeks, I was just a little boy, I watched my mother's dress become dark red with blood. It was her favourite evening wear, and ti was stained. She wouldn't be happy about it, it would be hard to get out. I wanted to help her. In desperation, I pressed down on her neck to stop the flow of blood. My father had taught me some basic things just in case. I wouldn't have known that she was already dead. I don't know if it would have mattered at that point.

Blood pooled through my hands, and dripped onto the floor. My shirt was red and sticky from it. Everything was covered in her blood, I didn't know a body could hold so much. Her eyes stared at me, unseeing and panic filled me to the brim. Wild with fear, I knelt down and kissed her neck, trying to close the wound like my nanny always could when I was growing up. My mouth filled with iron and heat, but at that point, I knew to spit it out. It was still human blood then, nothing more. The men came back to find me, covered in her blood, lips red from it. I think they tried to perform a kindness then. They wouldn't to free me from the misery that was sure to come. Or they simply didn't want me to rise up and take over my father's business. Maybe the one who did it to me didn't think I would, he felt pity for me. Either way, when he took his knife and stabbed it through my little boy chest, he missed my heart.

After that, everything is blank except for the white pain that came with it and followed me for weeks after. I learned later that while they were doing those unspeakable things to my mother, they were carefully tearing out my father's tongue in the next room. The way you do it when you want to cause the most pain possible. My father was killed. I survived of course, like I always do. In those weeks, I had the last memory of my mother inside of me. I could feel her life force giving me strength. They all said it was a miracle that I had lived, but I knew it wasn't. My mother had given me one last gift, her blood in my bones. When she hadn't been able to carry me before, she gave me her life essence. I could feel her soul inside me, protecting me. At the same time, I could feel my body recycling it, sending it away. I grew afraid.

What if the men came back, and here I was, weakened?

My idea made sense, I knew. In those first couple days, they had sent blood into me with a little tube and needle. This was scientific and magical. I needed blood to strengthen me, to protect me. If I truly wanted to become invincible, I had to take more life into me.I needed more blood. While I was bed ridden, I became touchable. My aunts and uncles came swarming through, they wanted to become my guardian, to claim my fortune for themselves. They did not care very much about their dead sister or brother. I found them to be despicable. The only ones I could find myself standing, were the young ones, like me. They were cousins that I'd only really seen at Christmas or at social events. Yet, when I found myself lonely and needing comfort, they were there. Nero Grimm would bring his things to tinker with and sit beside me, tinkering with his robots. In those days we made many plans. In those days, rage and hatred guarded my every movement, yet Nero was there, a calming force. Cerberus Grimm waltzed in with every flair he was capable of and tried to redesign my household's uniform to cheer me up. I think he also might have planted land mines in the garden, just in case.

They all came of course, at first hesitantly. I didn't speak much. They never seemed to mind, especially Leo with her pockets full of stars, and her never ending train of thought. Sometimes I'd fall asleep to Lyrica's hesitant music falling through the house, or I'd find Amira sitting on my feet, redesigning my household's uniform. I think things could have gone a lot worse if they weren't there to give me reasons for carrying on. In their sweet, little messy ways, they reminded me that with my father gone, I had to take his job. They gave me something to protect. I couldn't lie back and let them get murdered as well, just for being Grimms. So I began to rehabilitate myself. I made plans and deals with Nero, my most valuable asset as well as cherished cousin. He became my best friend, without me wanting it. I am oddly grateful.

With a smile at the memory, I push the door open, and step into the wound of a room. With a grim satisfaction, the chatter stops all at once at the sight of me. They all sit rapt, at attention, the men and women, all my senior by the youngest being no less than five years older than me. My voice, although soft, cuts through the silence like butter. "So sorry to keep you waiting," I say ponderously. Slowly, my eyes search the room, and I take my time, letting the silence stretch. My eyes fall to the corner, empty. Scrubbed clean everyday at two in the afternoon with bleach, and a pair of Marigolds. With a manic grin, I drawl out, "Oh my, is Wood not here? What a pity. He was delightful with a guitar." I see my smile tentatively reflected back at me, the people in the room mockingjays, nothing more.

ANYTHING ELSE ?

OUT OF CHARACTER .

FACE CLAIM .

WON JONG JIN • XANTHUS NEFARIOUS GRIMM

OTHER CHARACTERS ?

Click.

I, ELEGANT .
may have used Woodkid for this entire character. Also did a bit of study into Renfeild's disease for this lil bitch. Wow I'm sorry about this app, it's sort of long. Also it's not even good long. Just long and boring, oh wellllll.

CODEWORD . odair