Phantilius Atwood [D2] // {FIN}

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Name: Phantilius Eros Atwood
Age: Wynaut Alcohol?
Gender: Male
District/Area: District 2
Appearance:

He has a face, yes. Oh yes, he has face. A nice face. The gorgeous of gorgeous faces that just face your very own face. That face man. It's the face you smuggle with a fishing net. That face. He has legs, and arms and tentacles NOT TENTACLES.

Personality:

Woah, Am I drunk right now? No, That bottle is at least 2 feet away. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm as sober as that guy is HAWT. Yeah, I'm drunk.... I should kill him later. Recycling RIGHT? *Chest bumps every guy in the room*

History:

Gettinnn tipppsssyyyyyyy

Codeword: odair
Comments/Other:

I'm pretty sure Brant Daugherty

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Phantilius Eros Atwood

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{Name: Phantilius Eros Atwood}
{Fawn-til-e-us Er-os At-wood}
{Gender: Male}
{Sexuality: Anything that moves}
{Age: 17 years old}
{District 2: Mining}
{Face Claim: Brant Daugherty}

                  Most assassins held some talent at catching enough sunlight to appear tanned, or at least not ghost-like. Yet, hiding in the night was nearly impossible for Phantilius, as porcelain coated skin managed to always shine bright as a diamond, even past the brink of night. Sparse contrast amongst was only the dagger-like azure eyes, who too tried to hide beneath dark hairs. Evading sight during the middle of the night was an act only held by the crown of his head, shielded only by unkempt, thrown-up dark hair. Likewise, the majority of his chin had been shadowed by the scruffy stubble that dusted the majority of his jawbone.
                 The line of work Phantilius found himself in somehow held high expectations for sprinting, as being able to trek nearly, or more than, a marathon just to hunt down a single contract remains more than mandatory; barely any prerequisite depending on the upper torso was necessary, however. Possessing the ability, or capability, to withstand and use a simple rapier or cavalier wasn't as a hardy work as hosting a race had. Owning up to the name of have having a 'fifteen-feet bicep' wasn't forced upon him, so living upon the District 2's title of manly muscles had never occurred. Even if he hadn't been declared the bulkiest of all of the second luxurious district, his height managed to stand some competition, handling barely over six feet but well over many others' heads.


                 The colour of wine is seemingly imprinted to the walls of Phantilius's mind, flooding the nerves found in each inch of his frame deteriorating the rest of his little to no conscience and boundaries. Clouding the mind with over 20 ounces of table wine on daily doses manages to tune down the red signals and warning signs that normal appear before attempting an action. Even before consuming over an average human being's need of alcohol, Phantilius had shot successful glares to tear at nameless faces - or contracts - from across the street or a bar that was already cloaked in the aroma of wiskey and the aftermath of failed attempts at keeping food beneath an ocean of alcohol, so engaging in a one-night stand wasn't just induced by numbed nerves.
                 Lions were, supposedly, proud creatures that managed to attempt at play by the rules, yet Phantilius was more comparable to a modern housecat, being sly and charming. Contracts that were found under his will were usually treated as leftovers, being played with more as a toy before being swallowed whole by the abyss called death. Generally, playing dirty was a strong suit for him, either it be for additional contracts and more attention from the mentor himself, or being blessed with another form of attention and gratitude. Stealing attention from the first assassin had been a hobby in training for nearly a decade, being the favorite had been the first assassin's rank as he was the first to be labeled an actual assassin, the first to be completed with his training, and the first to even be brought into the house of the brotherhood. Jealousy for the second assassin hadn't compared to the first's, as it ceded before too long and rarely surfaces. Their mentor had chosen the first to be in the spotlight, as the other 6 were concealed behind a veil of neglected attention.
                 Jealousy in one of its purest forms managed to course itself in Phantilius' veins, riding the currents of wine and whiskey, enabling itself to run the show and hiding in another, rather strong embodiment of determination. Popping pills and swallowing them down with red wine had managed to overpower jealousy frequently, but also kept a rather low conscience level. Randomly attempting to kiss one of the people he claimed in the only family he had managed to occurred more than once, sober or not.

                 Seven generations ago, a young man decided to create a service for the community; a service to rid the district square of the problematic people that strolled the streets forever. People viewed an ingenious creator as a monstrous villain, so he hid his task in the corners of the society's imagination, his task of transforming donated sacrificial lambs from different families into camouflaged murders, equipped with knowledge and power to lead them in their tasks. He accepted the toddlers that were left upon his door year after year, and trained them in order to protect the citizens that feared him, even when the Peacekeepers could not.
                 The second year of his task he had received a single male, as it was planned to be, left with hardly any information. A single note held all the information to be sent to him, its contents held few facts in total. A name that was so scratched out and poorly written, his guess of "Phantilius Eros Atwood" could have very well been "Phetul Ares Trimoos". A birth date that was set nearly 8 months before hand, which had been deeply bolder along the edges of each word. Lastly, A gender, which was redundant to add considering they left no clothes.
                 Training had not started for young Phantilius until the age of 7, which was around the same age training started for the two before him. The year before green jealousy had started its race through his veins, as the others started nearly a year before himself. Phantilius' clumsy start didn't remotely rival the first session the Mentor's first trainee had, nor did it compare to Demitri's, who was not born as much a tremendous killer that the first had. Phantilius hadn't shown a sickening remorse for manslaughter the second had, but blindly killing anybody who walked in his way had not been registered in his agenda. Yet, as time and jealousy grew on, being able to kill without flashing remorse was almost second nature
                 Being a sex machine lovebird since birth, by age 10, Phantilius had already involved himself in a relationship with another, Acheron, and by age 14 the two endured being alcoholics hand-in-hand. Irresponsible as he was, Phantilius allowed Acheron had severed the thread connecting him and the training it took to endeavor into the assassin field, had he was born to do. Yet, he managed to pull through and be able to accept the final mission by the age of 16. He had been given a card with nothing but a name, and he was given rules that were forced to be abided with. Neither the first or second assassin may help him in his hunt, and he was allowed no contact with the leader.

Acheron Spinks

                 The one thing that stood in his way from being at the same rank as the glorified first assassin, was the love he wished for since. It proved to be a simple hunt, as Acheron was only minutes away, awaiting tomorrow's arrival that would never arrive. No excessive equipment were needed for the task, only a knife and a forgiving mind.

Comments of Other:
For the wonderful Kiah, and this plot^^ (Also, I'm gonna be doing small modifications to fix grammar and idiocy problems after forcing Vulpix to proofread this because she's amazing ;D)

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Finished^^

[✨ zozo.]

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