''I've forgiven my negligence,''

Nickname(s): Preferably 'Chryso'.

Age: 5

Gender: Brute

Species: Wolf

Sexuality: Demisexual

Rank: Rogue

Pack: None

“My withered soul will never let go,”

Appearance:

With the height & weight of a standard canine, Chrysos proportions are gaunt, with measlier muscles on his figure. Due to the dearth of intake of nourishments, he appears skeletal in luminous sunshine, the rows of ribs seeable to the human eye. And because of his emaciated physique, his strides seem lethargic, his stance emits timidity and drawback in every shift. And it falters his capacity to oppose his freedom. He's a lightweight competitor for another fatter canine.

His fur is complex in color. Chrysos fur color is whiteish, maybe, cloudy whiteish, he seems to have a disheveled feathering, he's not downy to the touch, and with all the withered knotted fur, the quality becomes wiry and dreadful. Nonetheless, the roots of his pelt, give intricacy and filth to his appearance — the roots are grimy azure. roaming from his mane to the pinpoint of his banner. however, his face has no blueish hints in it, chaste whiteness gleams on his chiseled facial structure. but what's diverting about the visage of the brute is the obsolete, littered scars. that now are overgrown with slivers of fur. omitting the marring though, he has hazel, droopy irises which exhibit utter fatigue in his gaze.

Personality:

Resourceful // Benign // Obnoxious // Intricate

Appearance can be misleading when it comes to Chrysos, but his largest two attributes to know, are that he is resourceful and respectable. By resourcefulness, Chrysos can have the power to find brisk and innovative patterns to overcome difficulties, in many diverse situations even if they seem the most treacherous ones. Chrysos, also, with a high-minded attribute may show stringent regard for what is morally correct.

Chrysos is benign, sentimental, and amusing. Appearing rather stoic or somewhat deadpan, his nature is very puerile and docile. He has a tender temperament and oftentimes exhibits his goodwill in the first sentences he spews. Everything about him is clearheaded, the way he strides, the way he glances or breathes. Even if this benevolence in a world full of fledging iniquity is morally a benefit, Chrysos cannot find the resolve to become a stern, heartless brute.

Sadly, Chrysos has imperfections. Due to his merry nature, he can become obnoxious with utter tenaciousness. Perhaps, loathsome with his inquisitiveness because the world that circles him is still unknown, he relents on someone else to ascribe it for him. But if that isn't so abhorrent, it's complex to comprehend what he wants, most of the time. And if he wants something, it is hard to steer him away from it because he will go forward and fulfill it, no matter the circumstance. Chrysos does have some merrier sides within the looming obscurity. He's cordial and diligent when in a good environment, he can be handled and tamed if he is with the right soul after all.

Likes:

Dislikes:

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Crush: Open

When the nightfall ebbed — Chrysos withdrew from the smallish cove. The burrow was not his nor anyone's, as far as he understood. It was a deserted pit in the hillside, overgrown in scant foliage that made it difficult to notice. And since it was autumn. The weather was not pretty or easy to withstand, especially for Chrysos. He abhorred the weather; the fledging coldness that bloomed over his fur when the current flushed through, and the frosted ground that he had to prance on, made his fleshy pads numb — an icky sensation he had to bear in the first month. Not like it vanished, it still sits leashed in his chest, obscured in the chasms of his core.

Yes, Chrysos was disgruntled about the temperature and the climate shrouding the terrain, but he had no choice but to steer forward. If he was famished, he had to snake out of the cove into the frigid outside to quell his bereft gut. And by doing that, he was seen creeping into the nearest townlet that abode in the groves abyss for decades as much as Chrysos lived near them. It was an old village — cobwebbed structures, poorly made pens, threshed fields. They were interesting, yet so unsettling. Some seemed dissimilar from the hunters Chrysos had to experience. Lanky, stout ogres that had snares to seize canines like him. Either it was for his fur or for his lard, perhaps even meat, even if he had none of it on him. It wasn't mortifying if you were prudent and furtive about it, they were blindly clueless of the endless rustling Chrysos caused as he spanned copse to copse, moving around the structures until he reached the coops.

And the coops meant one, chickens. Frothing at the thought, Chrysos remained in his zone, serene and unperturbed. He needed to be wary, in the early dawn, the farmers came out of their shacks to feed the livestock, so if he squanders the time, he will be caught empty-handed. Perhaps, skinned alive if he dares to enter one foot into the fenced coop. But since Chrysos had a little bit more time, until the farmer came out, he tilted his hackles and eyed the chickens sashay around the little area they had. With a narrow, he squatted more, his abdomen grazing against the frigid ground as his backbone fur bristled.

Puffing out breaths, Chrysos tiptoed into the more barren, rather vacant area, where he could be seen. He needed to approach the fence, somehow wiggle through it, and then choose how to strike. One...Angling through the wooden bar, quiet as a mouse, he tautened his muscles once he was in. Two...With the coop blocking him and his looming presence emerging from the abrupt corner, he cherry-picked the closest one out of the meager flock. Three...And with an inhale, he embarked forward, barreling with his chops slacked, drool slobbering all over. It took a mere squall from the hen to indicate the entire flock as they flashed from one corner to another, squirming over the space in trepidation.

But Chrysos with the hen in his maw, fled. Jostled through the fence into the coppices he came from, banner nestled between his thighs.