He stands at six feet and weighs in at 280 lbs, unlike many petite and light Windwalkers. His father came from a long line of brutish Windwalker's, bred some time ago in a pure bloodline. He has thick, long limbs proportionally built for his size and breed, obviously. His chest is broad and deep, a small diagonal scar slashing across from where his neck meets his shoulders down to where his bodice slims into his limb. His neck is thick and meant to support his larger skull. His jaws are powerfully built, his canines large and his jaw muscle meant for crushing bone and breaking skin. His eyes are a deep amber, beautiful and strikingly pronounced in their rich color. His tail is thick and bushy, his muscle compact and prominent. Just as the scar along his left side. His ears are slightly long and the right one is slightly chewed up.

His fur is thick and ivory on his underbelly. As it moves toward his sides it slowly fades into a deep gray. The gray reaches along his shoulders runs along the side of his neck and finally moves to ebony around the ears and forehead. His paws are white, the top of his tail ebony, the sides gray, and the bottom ivory. His face is masked with a grayish black, and along his flanks there is black stretching over the rump.

Along his back, his spine to be more precise, there lies large, wicked spikes. They rest along his spine, starting at the base of his neck and spreading downward to where his tail meets his body. They face backwards, like many spikes, and are a rich ivory in coloring. They are about four and a half inches in length. Not only are his appearances on the outside rather putrid, but his mouth is as well. His teeth are yellowed, sharp in their strength and durability, yet hideous to the eyes. Between them can be seen the small specks of flesh and fur, lodged between the teeth. Small bits of bone and variations of these are often seen wedged against his gums. His breath is nothing short of decaying and all around defiled badly.

He has acquired one draconic wing coming from his right shoulder. It is a thin brownish-gold coloring towards the tips, yet a thicker maroon at the tops. His other wing is large, just as large as the other, on this time it is ebony, a sleek color that glistens in the sun and hides him in the moonlight. It is feathered, instead of leathery and is on his left side.

A deep set disease rests within his mind. Although not strictly psychotic, this brute does have a peculiar imbalance in his brain that causes him to think rather... sadistically. He wallows in the pain of others, inflicting it and feeding on the fear of his victims. This is not always the case, however, as he does like the pain others can manage to dish out upon him. Pain is his strength, mentally, and he dwells in it unlike so many others. The mechanics of his mind cannot be explained exactly, as his mental patterns spike up and down from time to time. It usually all factors in to the situation and the other creature in question. Another thing that falls under this category of mental impairments is his affinity for the blood and flesh of his kin. Since he was young he had always found comfort in the metallic taste of the blood. Ever since his jaws developed enough to grasp and tear the tough flesh of the wolf he started in on that.

Many claim he is not mentally stable to hold his own as a loner, but the tweaks in his mind are not as pronounced as an actual mental disorder. They are peculiar tastes in what he likes and dislikes. He is determined, and when he sets his sights on something he does not stop at anything to attain it. By this, he is respected. As well as infamous. He does not take 'no' for an answer, as it does not rest well with him. His anger grows with the word, especially in regards to females. He was handsome at one point, yet his appearance had been modified by nature, turning it chiseled and rough, not as appealing as it once had been. So when rejection comes to him, he refuses to let 'no' stop him. Thus comes the infamy with his habits of forcing himself onto others. In this is a hypocrite. Who isn't, right?

Anyway, he does things that go against what he says. He is manipulative, able to twist and modify words to fit the situation, twisting the mind of his target to the best of his abilities. He can play words to his advantage, planting thoughts of doubt and anger and despair. A compulsive liar, he is wicked in many aspects than just physically. He is the harbinger of all things terrorizing and vile, able to imprint his name and presence on others successfully. Cunning and wild, he does not let anyone get close to him. He had done that once, and failed to shut it out before it ruined him. His emotions are borderline vicious on any day at any time in all situations. His sick sense of humor lies with death and destruction, and he does not portray Lux as a good, civil species. In fact, many peg him for an Acerbus. However, he is not. At times he can control himself, holding back and letting potential victims go about their days.

He is not a family man. In his time he has had many females, whether wanting it or not, and has had them conceive his offspring. Never once had he stuck around to parent the pups except perhaps once, although it did not last for long. Pups are not innocent to him, nor are they ideal to be around him. He sees them as a waste of time and energy, and life. Why create life when you can cause chaos by taking it? In short, he is not the brute many would wish to be around. He plagues the outlands with his presence, and has for quite some years. With age comes experience and intelligence. While many think he is getting old and will keel over some day soon, he is strong mind and body.

Born nine years ago to a family that was unimportant to him at the time. His mother and father were fuck-ups, as much as could be said for that. His father had a heavy paw and his mother went with it because she was used to it. Isilzheha had a sister, Izanamii, whom he had grown close to. If not out of comfort and love but the bond of understanding and knowing they were on the same page. They stuck together and survived because of it. Isilzheha, however, was not as resilient as most would think nowadays. Back then he was young and weak. When he was a year old his anger and hatred and rage took the better of him. He lashed out, striking at his parents and had no troubles killing his mother. He was blind with the rage, acting like a machine. His father did not fall quickly. In fact, in the end Izanamii had to help him. Their father fought well, cutting and bruising Isilzheha pretty good here and there. He landed one blow, however, that could very well have been the end of him. His father's claws cut at his shoulder, Isilzheha jerking away but his claws were latched, tearing across his broad chest.

Blood gushed out, splattering upon the ground and drenching his fore legs. Still he fought, unwilling to let himself be undone. Not when he's come this far. Izanamii rushed in when Isilzheha faltered, toppling their father and ripping out his throat. Isilzheha, despite whatever Izanamii and he might have had once, was angered by this. She took his kill. With the energy he had left he threw himself upon her, teeth clamping across her face and mangling it as she tore away, pushing him off and scrambling to freedom in the trees. Isilzheha didn't bother following her, trying to nurse his own wounds when his adrenaline slowed down. He collapsed besides his father's body, beginning the healing process. It took a few weeks, and this was also when Isilzheha found his taste for the flesh of his brethren. He feasted on his parents' corpses in order to survive, yes, but he found it to be more appealing than the meat of any other beast.

When he healed he was up on his feet immediately, setting out alone in the world and feeling better for it. He had no issues with being alone. His problems with authority were very passionate. His ego grew with his age, his body growing larger and his muscles growing thicker. He was not nearly as fast nor agile as most Windwalkers but that did not bother him any. He could give two shits less. He did not care about the affairs of the packs or any of the goings on in the world. He only cared about himself and getting what he wanted and doing what he wanted. And that was all there was to it. He was a pillager and stopped at nothing. Of course he could not conquer all but that did not sully his outlook one bit. He never saw his sister again and at this point he was around five years old. He met some rogues, a band of mostly family members and despite Isilzheha's scarred and blood-stained appearance asked him if he wanted to join them. Isilzheha attacked on sight for no reason other than boredom. He managed to fell a good majority of them but had to flee if he wanted to keep his life. A cut was laid upon his side, much like the one upon his chest, and he took to the skies and lived to see another day. Such is the way of things. He met many bitches in his time, some willing and some not. Allura, Sabotage, Venus, Ceridwen, Nira, to name only a few. Nira was the only one to placate the beast, somewhat, and he even stuck around for a little while. The pups were barely under a year old when Nira faded from his life and he abandoned the kids. That was the one and only time he allowed himself to be vulnerable, in that sense. There was many more over the years, but his most recent endeavor happened when he was about eight years old.

Constance.

She was a young and reserved she-wolf. Exotic and mysterious to Isilzheha but he only wanted one thing. They danced with tongues, the foreign woman baiting Isilzheha with her native tongue that Isilzheha had no knowledge of. It only enraged him, but he refrained from trying to kill her. He ended up raping her, however, and still he did not kill her, as he was known to do to many. He never saw her again nor did he care to. And now we are here to the present day. What will happen now?