Vanitas

Gen 7

Vanitas has a highly intelligent mind but he struggles with relating to others and expressing himself. After spending some time with a few of his fellow night warriors, he seems to have improved in this area, making polite small talk and observe certain physical details, contrasting with his normal silent behavior. While others often perceive him as lacking emotion, his friend Gwen has stated that he does not openly express them well, but that she can see them. His emotional detachment, along with his fighting skills and intelligence has resulted in him being a tactical savant. During a typical battle, he could analyze his opponents, finding drawbacks or weaknesses to exploit. However, he does not communicate effectively and is often criticized for not sharing his plans with others and only giving them orders. He values dragons not by rank, history, nor affiliation, but by utility. Even though most of the time he seems like a robot, he deeply cares for his clan mates. Even as they judge him for his personality. He trains hard and has gotten himself into tight situations, always throwing himself into danger without much thought. Which lead to him having many scars from many battles.

By mem




Inner monster
I just need to…to get moving…

Vanitas sputtered, gasping as he tried to clear the dust and dirt from his lungs. His throat burned. His wings ached.

There was nothing, he realized, like falling through stories of stone masonry. Sure, he'd fallen off of buildings and gotten thrown into walls before. More times than he could count, actually.

But damn, did that one hurt! He suspected his opposite shoulder—his right one—could've been dislocated as thick blood ozzed down from the wide jagged cuts. Vanitas tasted coppery blood in the back of his mouth. Since his chest burned, he figured either he had busted another rib.

As he blinked, he realize that his vision was blurry, but mostly in one eye. Damn, did he get a concussion too? Just great…
His body hurt like hell. But this wasn't enough to kill him. No way. Vanitas had bounced back from far worse. This was nothing…

Get up!

And so he pushed himself up to his knees, ignoring the creak of bones and muscle as they protested the strain. Vanitas didn't care. He ignored the pain. The nausea. He was stronger than this weak, pathetic body. It obeyed him. He flexed his wings and felt the pain pulse through them but they weren't broken. Sore but not broken.
Rage bubbled inside him, clawing at Vanitas' throat. A familiar darkness descended over him, one that embraced him like an old friend.

Timaeus had his light. Tenma and Takayuki had their beliefs. Kodama had his yokai, but Vanitas?
His power came from rage. It always had. Created from his darkness and negativity, Vanitas had always grown stronger from his anger. It fueled him to press on, no matter how much pain he was in. Fury strengthened him. His plague roots called out to him to spread destruction and ruin.

"Get…up…"

Vanitas stood on shaky feet. His muscles tensed, burning from adrenaline. A tight little ball had settled nicely in the pit of his stomach. Vanitas reveled in the feeling of tension winding him up. He lived for it. The urge to fight such a thrill, an enticing impulse.

And then there was the blood. Vanitas craved it. He wanted to feel the Emperor's blood stick to his claws as he carved his revenge into that insolent fool's skin. He wanted nothing more than to hear the abomination to beg and plead for mercy.