Cyrus Aquaria

[FJ]

Name: Cyrus Aquaria Alias: FJ Gender: Male Sex: ♂ Age: Adult Diet: Anything as long as his stomach holds it down. Scent: Feline lycanthrope. Size: Medium-large. Build: Medium Reference: x & x. See CORE for details. Speech: #a9bcd1 Voice: Nero from Devil May Cry 4. Parents: ? ♥ ? Lover: x Crush: x Theme: Some Nights - FUN.

• C o r e Carefree - insightful - fun - a big kid - lonely - seriously my baby and most beloved character. * His references are that of gryphons which is incorrect since he's a feline, but the pelt shown in those references and the bristles shown on his head/neck are accurate in color. His hair may be parted as it is in the IT screenshot, but the color is absolutely that of the bristles, and his tail is that same way. IT does him no justice but the gryff artwork is perfect for him. ♥ * He has a blue plaid scarf around his neck at all times.

• S t r i n g s x - x "..."

• L i f e Cyrus is an extremely playful male with some complications. He developed cancer when younger, ran away from his family as a young adult to be a loner when he was sure he'd be dying soon, leaving behind a loving sister named Elisabeth (referred to as Lisa). His symptoms were mainly issues with his stomach and frequent vomiting. He was bitten by another loner who happened to be a feline lycanthrope and contracted the disease, which stunted his cancer though he still has a delicate stomach. He battles with his other nature, referring to it as another 'being' if he speaks about it. He's never harmed anybody thus far and plans to keep it that way. He pretty much just goes from one simple joy to another.

[FJ]

A Literary of his Creation

Life has always been such a manipulative thing, beautiful and unforgiving, a tempest storm in the middle of a quiet sea. They say that the beat of a butterfly's wings can cause a tornado on the other end of the globe, and perhaps that was true, for a simple thought could birth beings anew, wondrous or hiding in normalcy. A hundred lives or just one could come into existence, painted with the shape blessed upon them by whatever all-seeing entity resided above them.

He had been born as an imperfect creature destined to make the most of life and the ill luck--as well as fortune--it afforded. He was a cub given away at the beginning of life, handed to two new parents to raise with their own singular cub, given their surname and a new life, unknowing of his roots. All had been well for a while; he grew, he flourished with his assumed sister, growing playful but meek, humoring and kind. A kind adolescence for them both, far from the troubled adolescence most children face.

Sickness came like the rot on a fruit; it spiders out, starting unseen, and growing ever more visible. Infrequent vomiting growing to be weekly if he ate whatever he wanted, forcing a careful diet. He tried so hard to hide it, but his sister knew. Of course she knew. His secrets were her's too--she knew he faced a young death if nobody could cure him. She traveled for him, seeking healers, menders, anybody she could find--all would say the same.

Sometimes,

life is fleeting.

We burn bright, and then we're gone.

Irrelevant to them both, their parents had been having increasing issues of their own. A relationship growing thin, each seeing the other as a hindrance, food supply shortening and both finding a different and conflicting solution to the problem.

It came as a horrid and ill-timed truth that one night, Cyrus overheard them speaking about him. The mother defended him and his needs--the father regretted allowing her to adopt the boy. This was a truth too terrible for him--he was not their's. He hadn't been wanted, and now while he was sickened, he was once more unwanted.

He was a burden.

His choice following this could have been his death--striking out on his own, running away one night and running so far and confusing his trail any chance he had, leaving himself tired and strained. Still, he persevered, willing to live his life until his fate found him.

This it did, but never in the way he expected.

He had been talking with a fellow rogue when they turned on him, fur growing and eyes luminescent, teeth piercing into his flesh and seeking to tear the heart from him. They fought, and he pleaded, and the other would only growl and strike again, a cackling laugh in their throat that vibrated in his ears like sandpaper. Not like this. Not like this. He wasn't ready. Please.

A body laid on the ground, but it wasn't his. A throat torn out, the body popping and hissing as it returned to normal, and blood seeping from the victor's wounds. He'd lived. He'd killed another, but he'd lived, and he hated what he'd done. It made him sick to his stomach but he ran as far as he could from here, too.

The coming week was filled with sickness, fever, and pain. And at the end, a full moon proved what he had become--a lycanthrope, cursed by the rogue who had fought him. He feared his power, feared what he could become as images of the beast entered his mind, but he continued living and trying to master himself.

In time, he would find that he was no longer growing sicker. He wasn't cured, as his stomach still was a problematic thing, but he wasn't going to die. Not by this fate.

This was joyful, and he contemplated going back to his family--after all, they were all he knew. But no; he had moved forward, and he couldn't come back. Not as a lycanthrope, not as a victim, not as a possible murderer. He'd move forward, and in so doing, he'd find a new place to call home.

The loneliness of the road was a death of its own, and bluebirds were meant to sing. He'd find his way. If he had to sing so damned loud the whole world heard it, he'd do it.