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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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poisonlecs‌:

Alecto was seated in her favorite booth at one of her favorite bars— though those who knew her would find it shocking that she preferred a place like this. It was rather high end, full of well-to-do witches and wizards that had nothing to spend their money on besides overpriced cocktails. It wasn’t the atmosphere she came for, though; it was the information. This place was a hub for important people. It was always easy for her to swindle a bit of information out of anybody that had one too many drinks.

Her eyes flickered up every now and then to survey the room. It was rather slow tonight— but that could be because not many other people enjoyed drinking heavily on a week day. Alecto was scribbling notes on the piece of parchment she had in front of her, but she detected the presence of another person in her peripheral.

“ If you aren’t here to buy me another drink, I suggest you keep moving. ”

Fenrir was not very well known and he intended to keep it that way. The Ministry had never identified him truly and the only man who could was a messy ball of self loathing, too consumed with guilt to point the finger. However, while his name and face was virtually unidentifiable and his true nature hidden, he still found a way to use his size and his cunning to his advantage. He needed to get paid, he needed work and protection work always paid the best. Money under the table, no strings, no names.

Having earned his money for that weak, he pocketed the galleons with a smug smile and moved through the bar towards the exit. The bar was not his scene, and though he wore black pants and a button down white shirt in an attempt to blend in, his long hair, golden eyes and sheer size made him stick out like a sore thumb. Attempting to keep his gaze focused on anything other than the irritating owners of many pairs of eyes that followed him, he caught sight of a bag sticking out from under a booth, ready to be tripped over or trodden on.

“I had only been about to inform you that your bag is sticking so far out, that it is practically begging to be tripped over or stepped on” he muttered, one hand moving to rest upon the table, leaning slightly towards her. “Should have known better than to attempt helpfulness” he shrugged, broad shoulders stretching the shirt uncomfortably. “What are you drinking?” he asked, (half demanded).

#convo:alecto

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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nvrcissa-mvlfoy‌:

“Well… That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. And quite a popular way by the looks of things.” Narcissa uttered in response as she glanced over in Fenrir’s direction briefly before turning her gaze back towards the crowds of people just ahead of her/

She couldn’t say that she new anything about the older man beyond perhaps seeing him in the passing, though she couldn’t be sure of even that, but she could easily tell when someone had no intention of being bothered by anyone else and unlike her sister perhaps, Narcissa knew when not to overstep.

He attempted a smile at her comment, careful not to show too much teeth, as it had been remarked in the past that his wolfish grin could be disconcerting to many people. Loren, wanker though he had been to Fenrir, had always drilled it in to him to behave a certain way around witches and wizards so as not to alarm them. Lambs, he had grinned, are easily startled.

“The most popular, I would guess” he shrugged, picking up a glass of fire whiskey. It wasn’t as strong as the stuff he was used to, but he was lad that it had not been watered down as most alcohol was. “Am I in your way?” he asked, eyeing her slightly, his eyes cold. She seemed to be dithering on the spot, or perhaps she was simply thinking, but Fenrir thought, a little more happily than most would have liked, that he was making her at least slightly uncomfortable.

#convo:narcissa

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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rxgulusarcturus‌:

Cheer For The Victors!

Event: Puddlemere United’s victory party

Location: Puddletown, Dorset

When: July 1978

It had been a match to remember. Puddlemere took the cup in one final swoop and the crowd came to life in a deafening roar. Being a fan of the team since he was young, his gut filled with a certain type of pride during the game. So much so that when the seeker caught the snitch he broke poise and yelled out.

Not one for after parties unless it was absolutely necessary, Regulus lingered at the sidelines. He watched in awe as people mingled with smiles painted on their faces. It was like the war had just ceased to exist. An ill-placed step had him backing into someone as he turned to find the drinks table.

“My apologies, I didn’t think to check behind me.”

He had never been the type to enjoy parties, not before his bite and especially not after, when he had been all but shunned by his family and society. Stuck in a crowd surrounded by oblivious, drunk witches and wizards was not his idea of a good time either, but he had come because he had the need to do so.

Lifting a drink to his lips, glad that at least they were serving decent alcohol for a change and not the usual watered down stuff, he almost spilled the contents down his chin as someone bumped into his side. His head wiped around and his eyes narrowed in annoyance. The young man had turned and not seen where he was turning.

“Perhaps you ought to get into the habit of doing so, you never know who you’ll bump into” he half growled, before finally taking a swig of the alcohol in his hand. “You’re lucky you didn’t make me spill”.

#convo:regulus

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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mors-severi:

Severus thought the large man looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him. Perhaps someone who had come into the bookshop recently? No… it didn’t seem quite right. Where have I seen you before? He wondered. “My leg. I… it got burned. Some idiot hexed me,” he answered, gesturing at the blistering leg that had been hit by one of Potter’s spells. “Accident.” The lie felt sour on his tongue–he hated covering up for Potter–but it was safer than to admit that he had been in a duel, especially given that his seemed to be the only one that had erupted so far that evening. “Don’t imagine you know a good spell to heal it?” Of all the magic Severus had ever tried, healing spells were the only ones he had never excelled at. Medicinal potions, of course, but spells, not so much. In fact, the only jinx he’d ever been able to heal excellently with a spell was his own sectumsempra.

His eyes moved over the man on the ground, much younger than he was, though the look in his eyes held the experiences of a man much older than himself. Fenrir instantly took a liking to him for that alone, but he was no less gruff or blunt with him. “And you let them?” he half barked, eyebrow raised. He knew a lie when he heard one, well practiced at dishing them out himself. If it were an accident, the man’s face would not have held such anger and... something else he could not put his finger on.

Crouching down so that he was at eye level, re rested his elbows on his knees and shrugged slightly at the question. “I know a few” he murmured, pulling out his wand. After a full moon, he had to patch himself up; he had to patch others up as well. His knowledge was basic at best, but the spell would work if the man let him use it. “Sure you trust a stranger to heal you?”

Puddlemere United’s Victory Party (1978)

#convo:severus

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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labellestrange:

Bellatrix frowned. She didn’t like having things kept from her, especially when she was sure that they were missions for the Dark Lord. Still, she had been around long enough to know better than to try to force Fenrir to talk when he was determined not to. You can keep your little secrets… for now…. She thought. Putting on a bored, neutral expression, she answered, “Who says I’m not drunk? But other than that, I’m nothing like the rest of them. What made you stop caring about Quidditch?” She was sure that she knew, but the longer she kept Fenrir around, the higher the chances she could figure out what he was really doing here.

Fenrir did not know Bellatrix well, but he knew her enough to understand that the shift in facial expression was her attempt to control herself. He almost frowned, preferring women when they refused to lock themselves away but he had found it to be a common trait shared by many witches and wizards in the society. His pack showed no such restraint. He had very little of it himself, only when it was absolutely necessary did he bite back scathing retorts or barked demands. “My apologies, what I should have asked was ‘why are you not as drunk and stumbling around as foolishly as those lot over there’?”

He raised his eyebrow and didn’t answer for several moments, preferring to watch her carefully as he took several sips of his drink and then a final sip for good measure. “Attitudes” he shrugged vaguely. Quidditch was a sport beloved by wizards. Wizards had cast him out of his family and society at the age of fifteen. His resentment held firm.

#convo:bellatrix

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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mollsweaslxy:

WHEN: July, 1978 WHERE: Puddletown, Dorset EVENT: Puddlemere United’s Victory Celebration Party

Molly had found herself in a pub, following her boys. They figured since it was the busiest, it would better their chances of meeting someone they deemed to be of importance. She sat down at an empty seat at the bar, turned at an angle so she was sitting sideways to the counter, and watched her kids, making sure they never left her vision. She quickly looked back as the voice of the young bar tender started hitting on her. She rolled her eyes and looked away, deciding just to ignore it.

By now she was used to it. Ever since her later years at Hogwarts, she had lost count of how many guys had hit on her solely for her figure. She had always been big breasted, that much was always apparent, but with kids, the most recent being twins, pregnancy had altered it significantly. “It’s not hard to match the redheaded kids with the one redhead in the entire pub,” she said to herself.

He had taken the first seat he had spied and sat himself in it, ordering beer and keeping his coat collar turned up against his neck. Celebrations were not his ‘cup of tea’ as the expression went, but he had come to observe those he despise, to learn more abut their weaknesses and potentially spot those who could become future werewolves. When he had first turned, he had been taken off of the streets and taught how to embrace his feral half. He had also been taught how to spot those who had potential to be one of them, and years later, after his mentors had passed, he continued.

The noise was driving him insane, however. Growling low in his throat, he made to take a sip of beer but was knocked by something he could not see. Placing the tankard back down again, he peered down at the floor and saw a redheaded boy standing there, holding on his coat. For what reason, he didn’t know, perhaps he had fallen and had used his coat for support getting up, but the boy continued to hold his coat, staring up at him. It was slightly unnerving, as if the kid saw right through him and his eyes narrowed.

“What do you want, kid?” he asked, gruffly. However, his ears twitched at the sound of a woman’s voice, sitting close to him but not close enough that anyone other than him at this distance would have caught the words. “Woman” he almost barked, “this yours?” he asked, though he suspected the answer to be ‘yes’. He was tempted to pull his coat out of reach but the kid would have fallen over and a pub full of witches and wizards would have turned on him. He was a werewolf, a fighter, but he wasn’t stupid. He had learned the art of self preservation.

#convo:molly #as requested :D

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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nvrcissa-mvlfoy:

WHEN: July, 1978 WHERE: Puddletown, Dorset EVENT: Puddlemere United’s Victory Celebration Party

The celebration was as many of the Ministry events were, the hum of excited chatter only just masked over by the sound of music that was appropriate for the occasion. There was plenty to do and see, and of course, everyone had turned out to celebrate Puddlemere once again taking home the trophy.

She had never been a huge fan of Quidditch, but Narcissa could appreciate the competition of it all, and beyond that she also knew the power of keeping up appearances. Gathering herself a drink from a nearby table, she turned to observe those around her, only to find another now at her side.

“They’ve put on quite the celebration, don’t you think?”

Being out in the company of the witches and wizards whom had turned their backs on him, spurned and cursed him, did not make for a pleasant evening, though he rationalised as only he could, that these were not the exact witches and wizards of the past. They did not know him, what he was and wasn’t and they knew nothing of his kind and though they would despise of fear him and his pack if they knew, he reminded himself that they did not and the night was not about them.

He had enjoyed Quidditch when he had been a student at Hogwarts, had even played the sport, but not since he had turned had he been near a Quidditch pitch or held a broomstick. Still, he had a new sport of his own, one that he delighted in and the large crowd was a perfect place for for practice. Moving to the drinks table, he grabbed a glass and necked the contents before reaching out for another. Free drink something he would never pass up.

“Any excuse to drink themselves stupid” he grumbled in response, not bothering to turn his head to the voice.

#convo:narcissa

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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mors-severi:

LOCATION: Puddletown, Dorset

Severus sat down on the ground a ways away from the edge of the crowd. He’d finally found a small place where he could start to breath again, and he thought that he would rather stay there the whole night and wait for everyone else to leave than to have to wade his way through the throng again. As he sat there trying to muster the will to see this party through to the end, a couple of people passed him and accidentally dropped something on his foot without realizing it. With a sigh, Severus grabbed the object and said, “Hey, this is yours.”

Fenrir had not been overly successful at blending into the crowd, given his physical size he always drew curious eyes, but he had not been recognised by any witch or wizard since the late sixties and so he was confident that he could enjoy himself without hassle. Walking through the crowd closest to the edge of the celebrations, he was jostled by several people who ran past him and glowered in annoyance at the back of their heads as they ran ahead of him. As he was about to push forwards after them, a voice from somewhere below his waist caught his attention.

Turning slightly, he raised an eyebrow. The item offered had not been dropped by him, but the young man on the ground seemed to believe that it had been and he decided not to argue. “Thank you, I wouldn’t want to loose... that” he drawled, taking the offered item and pocketing without a curious glance spared towards it. Eyeing the young man for a moment, debating between asking the question on the tip of his tongue and pushing on, he gave into curiosity and stayed put. “Why are you on the floor?” he asked, gruffly.

Puddlemere United’s Victory Party (1978)

#convo:severus

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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labellestrange:

“Oh, don’t get your wand in a knot,” Bellatrix said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “No one is close enough to hear, and even if they were no one is paying us any attention. Why should they, when they’re too busy getting drunk and celebrating this… momentous occasion.” She rolled her eyes, even though she too had come to get drunk and celebrate… Though, of course, she was celebrating the continued rise of the dark lord, not the trivial victory of a Quidditch team. “I didn’t know you liked Quidditch at all. I’m not going to lie, it surprises me.” She looked at him sideways, an expression of mild shock on her face. This was his opportunity to tell the truth, for she was sure that he wasn’t. Fenrir was many surprising things, but Bellatrix didn’t believe that avid Quidditch fan was one of them.

He almost growled under his breath at her suggestion, but instead settled for a raised eyebrow and a careful sweeping of the area around them. She was almost completely right, with a few exceptions here and there. Though no-one would recognise him and few would connect his name to his past deeds in their inebriated states, a lifetime of cautiousness continued. “If you believe so” he commented vaguely, his eyes still not returning to the woman who had stepped up to his side. “Why are you not drunk and celebrating like the rest of them?”

“I used to” he admitted freely, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. He had been a beater when he had studied at Hogwarts, before he had been bitten and made unable to return. Still, he knew that she was trying to get his real reasons for attending out of him. Unfortunately for her, his reasons were his own and none of her concern. “I won’t ask why that surprises you, I am sure I can guess...”

#convo:bellatrix

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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Declan Harp + Black coat

#fenrir:visage

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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labellestrange:

Bellatrix had just escaped from the clutches of an old windbag who had insisted on trying to give her a play-by-play of the game… as though she cared. After several minutes of trying in vain to get away from him, she’d finally left him tied up in ropes in a corner somewhere and walked off to get another drink. Making her way round the edge of the crowd, she suddenly noticed a great hulking figure keeping to himself, looking very out of place. Immediately, though he had somehow disguised his face, Bellatrix recognized Fenrir. He would only come if he was on official business, she thought, making her way over with urgency. If the Dark Lord had a job he needed doing, she would not be left out. “I’m surprised to see you here, Greyback,” she said, leaning against the pole next to him without looking at him. “What inspired you to appear?”

Fenrir had always been larger than most men, had been a larger boy even before he had been inflicted with the werewolf curse, which made it difficult for many people to approach him. His size was physically intimidating and he had seen grown men almost piss their pants once they had spotted him. Not Bellatrix Lestrange though. He watched her approach with narrowed eyes, wondering what she could possibly want.

He growled softly when she used his name, glancing around them to ensure that no-one had heard her. They did not know his face but some still knew his name, and if any of those people were present he would have to leave and find another opportunity to hunt. “Say my name a little louder next time” he drawled, sarcastically. His arms folded across his chest and his biceps bulged, his t-shirt stretching tight. “Just celebrating a well deserved victory by a champion team” he muttered, not willing to reveal anything about his true purpose for his appearance at the gathering to her, “which I assume is also why you can be found here today?”

#convo:bellatrix

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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WHEN: July, 1978 WHERE: Puddletown, Dorset EVENT: Puddlemere United’s Victory Celebration Party

Fenrir Greyback had not stepped willingly out in public, among witches and wizards in full celebration, in several years. Though his face was not as well known as his name was starting to become, and despite his confidence that he could fight his way out of any situation, he was determined not to act like his former alpha and keep his ego in check. His wolf side. The side of him so deeply rooted in his mind and body, accepted as a part of him, that he was almost unable to hide the image of the wolf, even on nights when the full moon could not be seen. His eyes always remained slightly yellow and his face scarred.

Standing on the outskirts of the celebrations, eyes scanning the crowds, he moved in the shadows in order to avoid social interaction. It never ended well for either party involved. Turns and facing a window slightly, he had to double take. One of his younger wolves had transformed his face to an almost unrecognizable version of himself. Though his size was intimidating and his eyes still had a slight glow to them, his scars were nowhere to be seen and his tattoos were covered well. He thought to himself that he needed to remember to praise the young wolf when he returned, before turning away from his reflection once more.

Finding a post to lean against, one able to support his weight without making the usual, alarming creaking noises, he settled in for a night of vomit inducing wizard watching. How he loathed them all, but needed to be there, close to but not entirely in the thick of it. Good recruits were hard to find and if he had to search for them himself, then so be it...

#aparecium starter #I tried to make this accessible to everyone #fenrir in disguise #intimidating but in disguise

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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BASIC INFORMATION;

NAME: Fenrir Greyback AGE: Thirty Five BIRTHDAY: November 18th BLOOD STATUS: Half-Blood EMPLOYMENT: Unemployed AFFILIATION: Death Eaters CANON INFORMATION: (x) FACE CLAIM: Jason Momoa

WHAT WE KNOW / KEY POINTS;

Fenrir Greyback and his family originated in Germany, however, Fenrir only spent the first two years of his life there and has very little memory of the time. Born in 1943, at the height of both a wizarding war and a muggle war, things were not easy for Greyback’s mother and father. His mother was a pureblood married to a muggleborn wizard, and they were both dragged into the different wars by their families. In 1945, having had enough of the fighting and fear, they fled Germany for the safety of England. Fenrir’s mother was heavily pregnant at the time. Several months later they would realise that they needn’t have fled to England, as the wars came to an end. However, they never moved back.

How Fenrir became a werewolf is a mystery that only he knows, as the rest of his family have perished. He was a student at Hogwarts for the first four years, having been sorted into Slytherin for his ruthlessness and cunning. However, he never returned for his fifth year. The summer between his fourth and fifth year changed his life forever. Waking up late one night and spotting his nearly twelve year old sister sneaking out of the house, he climbed out of bed and followed her to drag her back inside. He followed her into the shallow woods at the end of their garden, but before he had a chance to persuade her to come back inside, a twig snapped in the distance and a werewolf appeared.

The werewolf chased both the children, and as his sister was slowest it looked as though she would be caught. Fenrir stopped and let her run ahead of him, sacrificing himself to the wolf to give her a a better chance at surviving. Hearing his children’s screams and the werewolf’s howling, their father ran out of the house with his wand and a shot gun but it was too late. The werewolf was shot but Fenrir had been all but mauled by the creature. Despite having saved his sister’s life and having it be his sister’s fault that they had been out there to begin with, once his mother had cleaned his wounds, they had kicked him out of their house and told him never to come back. He was a monster to them.

When Fenrir was fourteen and alone on the streets, he fended for himself pretty well. He couldn’t go back to Hogwarts and since opinions against werewolves were that they deserved nothing more than to be destroyed, he couldn’t share details of his affliction. It wasn’t until he had been alone and taking care of himself, breaking into homes and stealing to survive for a year, that he was found by Loren. Loren was a monstrous werewolf who hated all wizards and collected abandoned werewolves like some muggles collected stamps. He was taken into the pack, fed, clothed and taught that he was the superior species. Every werewolf in the pack had been abandoned or hunted, and all of them were violent and angry. Fenrir, quickly influenced by his new family, acted the same.

Fenrir was a fast learner and with steady meals and grooming, became twice the size, and had twice the strength and agility of any other werewolf his age. His instincts kicked in. He was able to tap into his primal werewolf urges even when the full moon had disappeared from sight for another month and soon became one of Loren’s top soldiers and most brutal murderers. He learned everything from Loren, but after many years of watching as Loren preached violence and an uprising that would put them on top and have wizards bowing at their feet, he saw nothing come of it and lost his faith in him as a leader. As he shared his thoughts, he found that some of the others felt the same. At the age of nineteen, in 1962, Fenrir and his conspirators took control of the pack and Fenrir killed Loren to become Alpha.

He allied himself with the Dark Lord when he was approached to do so. He had heard of him by this time, they all had heard of him and the darkness that had begun to descend upon Britain, but he had not expected that the Dark Lord himself would wish to engage Fenrir’s special skill set. He was not deluded in his thinking; he knew that the Dark Lord had no love for werewolves but after having decided that more numbers would be needed to help their cause, the Dark Lord made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He and his pack began working for him. While hunters still attempted to take out members of his pack, his wolves grew ambitious, daring and added steadily to their ranks with every job that was thrown their way.

In 1965, when he was twenty two, he found himself dragged into the Ministry of Magic, luckily disguised as a tramp and without his wand on him. Two muggle children had been murdered and they were questioning anyone they could find. This was the day he met Lyall Lupin, an authority on Non-Human Spiritous Apparitions who had the look of hatred and fear in his eyes when he looked at him. Fenrir knew the man suspected his true nature, where others did not, since they did not know his face at this time and he was not registered as a werewolf with the Ministry. Acting bewildered and horrified at the talk of dead children, he fooled all but Lupin who called werewolves “soulless, evil, and deserving of nothing but death”. When Lupin was ordered to leave for his comment and Greyback was apologised to, he overpowered the man who attempted to wipe his memory, released three of his incarcerated pack members and fled the Ministry. Shortly before Lyall Lupin’s son turned five, Fenrir attacked him in a revenge attempt against the man who had told him he deserved death, the man who had reminded him of his father. He laughed later on that either he would kill his son or raise a son who he hated and feared. Whether this came to pass, he never knew, but he knew that the boy survived.

By 1978 his pack had tripled in size and his name had become a terrified whisper that few parents dared to utter. However, by this time Fenrir was a father of sorts himself, caring for his pack as a family and taking in many werewolves as Loren once had. He works for the Dark Lord and his pack work for him. He still does odd protection and assassination jobs where he can and lives out in a cabin the a large forest where very few people dare to tread, due to the rumors of vicious wolves and mysterious disappearances. His violent tendencies have not subsided with age, though having been taught well, he controls them well and keeps himself hidden. He is only seen if he wants to be seen. Though his name is well known, since he attacks as a werewolf, his human human is not as easily recognised and he keeps it that way, also using basic magic to alter his features from time to time.

EXTRAS;

POSITIVE TRAITS: Intelligent, Responsible, Resilient, Strong, Determined NEGATIVE TRAITS: Arrogant, Stubborn, Violent, Calculating, Manipulative BOGGART: His Father PATRONUS: Unable to produce a Patronus PREVIOUS HOUSE: Slytherin AESTHETIC / ASSOCIATIONS: Fenrir is the howling wind that rushes past your ears, moments before the storm rolls in. He is the low rumble of thunder that sends shivers up your spine. He is the creaking floorboards in the dark old house, that everyone tells themselves they are imagining. Fenrir is broken glass, shattered decoratively and dangerously on the ground. He is dark green and earthy brown, like the forest where he roams. He is the pale, silvery glow of the moon that shines bright against a near black sky. He is a thousand half read books and unfinished scribbling. He is a leader of those that are more than men. He is sharp teeth against flesh and blood that drips menacingly. He is the haunted house that parents warned their children not to play around. He is the rain that falls hard, drenching clothes through to skin, dragging people down. He is loyalty that flows like the magic in his blood. He is the bitter taste of black coffee that few can stomach so early in the morning. He is the strength of the old oak tree that has stood, unmoving, through every storm since it’s birth. He is the pain of a hundred knife blades piercing through skin and feels it more than he would admit. Fenrir is the nightmare that can never be completely shaken off when morning comes.

Fenrir is currently CLOSED FOR APPLICATIONS.

#fenrir:bio

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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Fenrir Greyback when he discovered Lyall’s kid was named Remus Lupin:

#fenrir:reactions #I couldn't not reblog #c'mon

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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#fenrir:visage

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fullmoonfenrir-blog · 6 years

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Overview

Fenrir Valter Greyback. Fenrir, in Norse Mythology, was a monstrous wolf. Valter is an Old Germanic word for “warrior”. The Greyback family were a half-blood family, his mother being pureblood and his father being a muggleborn, both of whom were of German descent and moved to England when Greyback was two years old. They were not very well known, and after Greyback was turned into a werewolf, it was assumed that the line would die with him.

Basics

Name: Fenrir Valter Greyback

Age: 35

Date of Birth: 18th November 1943

Birth Place: Cologne, Germany

Current Location: London, England

Blood Status: Half-Blood, Werewolf

Appearance

Eyes: Brown/Yellow depending on the time of month

Hair: Long, brown and matted

Height: 6ft 3inches

Weight: 220lbs

Scars: All over, everywhere

Tattoos: Upper arms, chest and back

**Important** Fenrir’s face is not very well known by the public, and only those who interrogated him when he was dragged into the Ministry in front of many wizards, including Lyall Lupin, are able to recognise him. He often wears disguises if he needs to venture out in public. He becomes more recognisable towards the end of the first war.

Extras

Boggart: The Dark.

Patronus: Bull.

Affiliation: Death Eater. Fenrir is a follower of the Dark Lord for his personal gain, rather than his belief in what the Dark Lord represents. He is siding with those he believes will give him and his pack the better chance at thriving.

Employment: Fenrir is unemployed in the tradition sense of the word. He was outed as a werewolf in 1965 when he sought revenge on Lyall Lupin and bit his five year old son, and before that worked in a dodgy bar that even those who enjoyed browsing Knockturn Alley would not dare to enter. He still spends time there.

After that act of revenge, he allied himself with the Dark Lord and though many of his pack have some sort of job, usually within the muggle world where their werewolf natures remain undetected, he is only hired for protection or murder by pureblood elders who don’t wish to get their hands dirty.

Personality Traits

grating ― irritating ― frustrating ― boring ― confusing at best ― awkward ― unreasonable ― psychotic ― disturbing ― interesting ― engaging ― affectionate ― aggressive ― ambitious ― anxious ― artistic ― bad tempered ― bossy ― charismatic ― appealing ― unappealing ― resilient ― creative ― courageous ― determined ― dependable ― unreliable ― unpredictable ― predictable ― devious ― dim ― extroverted ― introverted ― egotistical ― gregarious ― calculating ― impulsive ―intelligent ― sympathetic ― manipulative ― up beat ― violent ― calming ― badass ― flexible

Character Associations/Aesthetics

Fenrir is the howling wind that rushes past your ears, moments before the storm rolls in. He is the low rumble of thunder that sends shivers up your spine. He is the creaking floorboards in the dark old house, that everyone tells themselves they are imagining. Fenrir is broken glass, shattered decoratively and dangerously on the ground. He is dark green and earthy brown, like the forest where he roams. He is the pale, silvery glow of the moon that shines bright against a near black sky. He is a thousand half read books and unfinished scribbling. He is a leader of those that are more than men. He is sharp teeth against flesh and blood that drips menacingly. He is the haunted house that parents warned their children not to play around. He is the rain that falls hard, drenching clothes through to skin, dragging people down. He is loyalty that flows like the magic in his blood. He is the bitter taste of black coffee that few can stomach so early in the morning. He is the strength of the old oak tree that has stood, unmoving, through every storm since it’s birth. He is the pain of a hundred knife blades piercing through skin and feels it more than he would admit. Fenrir is the nightmare that can never be completely shaken off when morning comes.

Background

#fenrir greyback:need to knows

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