Walk In My Steps.~

He's that motherfucker in your nightmares

Age: He doesn’t know. Possibly two? Or was is three?
Gender: Male.
Breed: Grey Wolf
Pack: Rogue
Rank: The fucking King.~ c;
Companion: Raven named Volantis Diabolus (Flying devil)
Personality:
Masochistic. Daemon feels sexually gratified through humiliation and pain. Especially pain. On some occasions, he will gnaw on his own forearms, which are littered with gruesome scars from his past urges. In fights, he usually allows his opponent to sink their teeth into his flesh or knock him around. It fills his with complete and utter pleasure. The roughest of touches sends a shiver down his spine causing many to find this frustrating when they’re trying to make him submit or ‘teach him a lesson’, because his psychotic laughter fills the area as his build is mangled by other animal’s jaws. Forcing him to do something through pain is a waste of time and effort because all you will bring him is erotic feelings.

DID. Dissociative identity disorder, also known as multiple personality disorder (MPD). His personality is indeed split into three different segments. He is unaware that he possesses DID and it’s nearly impossible to explain that to him, for he will not only believe it, but it might also trigger his IED, which could ultimately lead to the asker’s death. The first ‘person’ in his crowded mind is the demonic, masochistic, blood fetishism, hematophagous, IED wolf. The second is a trichotillomania, schizophrenic wolf with a depersonalization disorder. The final ‘soul’ within him is a wolf an extreme antisocial AD wolf suffering from a communication disorder. His first personality is considered his deadliest while his third is his most incoherent.

Hematomania. Daemon has a blood fetish. The touch, the scent, the appearance, the taste. Everything. Whether it be his own blood or the blood of his victim. This fetish is so overpowering that he can’t stand to be without blood. When he’s in his first personality he coats his polluted pelt in the crimson fluid. When he enters a different personality he seems confused, as to why there is blood on him and where it came from. Although he is rarely seen without blood contaminating his pelt, the scent never leaves. It smells of decay and anyone can detect the putrid scent in a three mile radius. Not only does he suffer from hematomania, but also hematophagous. Which urges him to drink blood. Even his own.

AD. Slight amnestic disorder. Recalling information and learning things is nearly impossible in this stage. It’s so severe that he sometimes forgets past memories, such as his own age and fragments of his memories. This serves as a massive handicap when it comes to recognizing friend verses foe. Although he considers himself to be alone in the world so he usually doesn’t have to worry about distinguishing meat. Everything seems like a blur and those who haven’t seen his other personalities will consider him to be mentally retarded and absolutely useless. Only able to amble around making unclear noises and not being able to remember nearly anything said or done to him.

CD. Communication disorder. In this stage he has an extreme difficulty speaking a language and conversing with others, which he rarely does anyway. At this point the usually uses animalistic grunts, snarls or huffs to express his feelings. When he is able to form words, they come out in choppy indistinguishable fragments which makes interaction of any kind extremely complex and rather futile. On some occasions this aggravates him to the point where it triggers his IED or forces him into another personality. However that happens far and in between.

IED. Intermittent explosive disorder, meaning he has extreme expressions of anger that could lead to horrendous violence if provoked or triggered. Once his IED flares up, he becomes rather unpredictable and may turn on his closest friend (if he ever has one). It’s his most deadliest factor and has caused the death of a large majority of his victims. Once he attacks, he will cause extreme wounds and his intent will be to rip and tear, causing as much pain as possible whilst forcing them to live through it all. He rarely goes straight for the throat or any vital points once he’s going savage. Instead, he enjoys crippling his prey then ripping into their flesh, rolling in their blood and decorating his matted build in their flesh or intestines.

Depersonalization disorder. This trait makes him feel as if he’s in a dream like state, or a movie. Nothing feels real and he doesn’t feel as if he ‘belongs’ in his body. All his movements seem to be either uncontrollable and he just watches through the eyes of someone else, or he feels as if nothing is real. He could be on the verge of death, but only think he’s observing someone else’s nightmare. Everything feels off and uncomfortable, however he can’t get comfortable or feel…right. If he were to have a mate (which is like..never going to happen) he’d feel unattached. No matter how many times he tells himself he’s in love with her, he feels nothing. No pleasure, no happiness. Everything is dull and without color or meaning.

Trichotillomania. This is one of the only ways he has feeling during his depersonalization time. It gives him an overwhelming urge to tear his fur out. If he ignores the feeling, it will irritate him and make him feel uncomfortable until he removes some of the hair. Only then does he feel at peace and satisfied. As a result, much of the fur along his hindquarters and shoulders has been ripped away, leaving bloody, ragged regions where his flesh is bare and where hairs tries to desperately grow back. Sometimes he unintentionally tear out clumps of fur while he is thinking or when he is nervous.

APD. Antisocial personality disorder. Detachment from everything. No sorrow. No regret. No love. Nothing. Coldness. It washed over him, engulfs him, leaves him alone. However he doesn’t feel isolated, he feels dead. Nothing affects him, besides the rare feelings of frustration. Although the odds of that happening are one in ten. So those pathetic or appalled glances he gets from wolves that either think he is a brain dead zombie or a repulsive creature spawned of Satan, he doesn’t care. Daemon merely walks by with a jaded expression, his bottomless irises staring forward on his path that leads to nowhere. Through hell.

Cannibalistic. Well, this is just the icing on the cake for this unstable canine. He has an uncontrollable taste for the flesh of other wolves. Not only that, but when he comes across the occasional fox or coyote, he doesn’t think twice about descending upon them with vicious snaps. Eating them alive is an option however he prefers them to be dead so that he may chew in peace, savoring the sweet succulent taste. That also partially explains his scar riddled forearms, from whenever he’s in the mood for a quick snack. Just a strip of flesh will due until he finds himself another meal. c;

Schizophrenic. A severe psychiatric disorder that affects much of his life. He is emotionally instable, causing others to assume he is just bipolar. It’s possible this deranged, lost canine is a bit on the bipolar side. Either way, he can’t control his feelings or thoughts most of the time. This also reflects back towards his antisocial personality where he feels detached from reality. Most things really don’t affect him at this time. Withdrawing into himself is also common for Daemon. Instead of speaking or interacting, he merely shuts down. Becomes rather…mute. At other times he has hallucinations. Someone’s words could feel like shards of glass piercing his skin, or the ground can feel as if it’s sucking him in. Paranoia is another thing that comes with his schizophrenia. He becomes tremendously and irrationally suspicious of everyone and feels as if they’re all out to get him.

Necrophilic. He has a sexual desire for carcasses and frequently relives himself by fornicating with the limp bodies of the creatures he comes across. Whether it be a canine or a week old corpse of a deer. He prefers taking part in satisfying his sexual desires with the creatures he killed himself however raping the animals that he finds is just as pleasing. Gender is another thing he doesn’t care for. Although females generally feel better, a male is just as good. Once he has satisfied himself, he with roll along in the decomposing corpse, matting his fur in the entrails and maggot ridden flesh.

Likes: Blood. Gore. Death. Decay.
Dislikes: Crowds. Love. Attachment. (The rest depends on his personality at the time)
Fears: Fear. What’s to fear than fear itself?
Dreams Of: Everything coming to an end.
Body Type: Ridiculously tall, however he is rather scrawny. Taut muscle clings to his build however not much actual body fat. Ribs protrude from his gangly physique, although his body shows evidence of pass fullness. Considering the way his shoulders are set far apart, giving him a deep chest and a sloping spine. He was once considered to be highly attractive, however all that’s left of him his a walking carcass, living to await death.
Fur Color: Originally it was an immaculate alabaster pelt that shined vibrantly even in the shadows. However, all that remains is a dingy tangled beige pelt, dull and without life. Dried blood causes the fur to stick up in sticky clumps, whilst some places are bare from his tendency to tear out his hair. A decomposing stench secretes from him, causing anyone within a few miles of him to immediately feel sick an nauseous.
Eye Color: Bottomless depths of ebony engulf his irises, blending with his pupil and giving the impression of soulless windows. The only difference to the obscure, lurking shadows, is the faint iridescence that reflects off the surface of the eye from the sun.
Family: He had a family? Does he have a brother? A sister? Are they all dead?
History: Although he had no recollection over the past few years, he has some memories off puphood. Faces. He remembers faces. One was a condescending grimace of a massive alabaster brute. Another was a serene smile of a slate hued female. The final two masculine expressions were mischievous pallid grins, deviant twinkles glinting from their depths. He also remembers the sounds of their voices. The brute had a scathing tone, whilst the female’s was soothing and the youngsters were mocking. Pain. He remembered pain. The large male inflicted it. The mere memories drive him into a mindless blabber and the sharp pain of teeth ripping repeatedly into his flesh. It was agony…however over time it began to feel so…good. Filling his heart and soul with pleasure. Causing him to beg for more. Before, he wished for it to end, yet the attempts were futile. Nothing stopped the pain, so instead of fighting it…why not just let it in? No names come to memory, however blood washes over the tranquil female’s features. Affection radiated from her and he felt as if he loved the particular female. Yet even with his attachments, she had been severed from his life. The memories of her stops abruptly then darkness envelops him. The mocking cackles of the younger two male’s also become saturated with agonized yelps. Fading into nothing but silence. Pain. More pain come afterwards. This time, his own body become drenched in crimson fluid. He was battered, torn apart, flung around. Something snapped within his mutilated mind. What was it? What drove him into his rages?

He couldn’t remember. However after a while the pain subsided. His mangled form was cast atop the pile of carcasses. The blood, the flesh, the gore…it matted his coat. That frightening grimace from the towering male faded, his entire face painted in blood. Unable to move, he remained on the pile. Days past, he couldn’t find the will to get up, and pain clutch his stomach. However the meat beneath him offered him life once more. Sustaining on the decomposing meat he was able to regain strenth but by this time the maggot infested pile he had been inhabiting had coated his build. The maggots ate away at his flesh slowly, until he finally removed himself from the decaying corpses. Darkness blocks out more memories. There’s a gap. What happened next? It’s all a blur. Wait! What was that? A familiar flash of alabaster fur? Those menacing eyes. That condescending grimace. It was him. From before. Rage. Hunger. Impulse. It blinded him. He charged. More darkness. Then what? Blood. Flesh. Meat. Decay. Gone. What? His coat. What was staring lifelessly at him? Those eyes. They were still looking upon him with that patronizing gaze. Stop. Make it stop. The rage boiled over, shrouding him in emptiness. Snarling, he lunged. He tore. He gnawed at. He ate. Gone. It was all gone. No more glares. No more fur. All over.

Black.

Was he back? A glimmer? It was becoming clear. He had wandered. Wandered. Crossed over the territory. Blood from others matted his coat. Mangled flesh clung loosely from his forearms and haunches. The fur and flesh dangled from his unhinged jaws, stuck in-between his chipped and serrated incisors. None of that bothered him. In fact, it pleased him. He was now in a new land. Packs. Packs were here? Three of them? Food. Packs meant canines. Canines meant food. They meant pleasure. What was pleasure? Pleasure was food. It was pain. It was erotic. Filling him. Satisfying him. Wait. No! The darkness! It’s returning. It’s…--

Gone.