"I am only the messenger "
User: Corp
Race: ????
Gender: Male
Role: Striker
Class/Level: Avenger/4
Locus is tall, gaunt, and very lean. His hair is a solid flat black color, pulled tight behind his head, with pieces of bone and vertebra woven into his hair. The total length of the braid runs to mid back and attached to the end is a thin flat blackened piece of Iron in the shape of a spear point.

His skin color is bone white and ash mixed together giving him a grayish haunted look. contorting and disfiguring his chin is a large pinkish scar that runs from the bottom of his throat to an inch below his nose. He normally hides this hideous looking wound veiling the lower half of his face.

Locus’s eyes are deep black and unsettling to look at. He often appears to be looking past people, as if he’s gazing into a separate reality.

Slung casually over his back is a wicked looking Scythe. The blade is curved traditionally as most are, but the sheer size of the weapon makes most people look twice. The blade iself is blackened Iron and still in good condition despite its use.

Even amongst his own people Locus has always been an outcast. Since his death he has always treated differently, and never really connected with any of the Forsaken.

Locus’s disfigurement and silent nature led to his own Isolation. His only solace could be found in darkness, and his only friends were the voices in his head. Their whispers eventually drove him from his people, and into the arms of his mistress.

His lover was darkness, the blackness of night, the cold of winter. Her touch was eternal solace and empty nothingness. In her worship he found meaning and focus, a level of uncaring, merciless clarity that only she could provide.

He abandoned his people and their plight, leaving for the surface world. Only here could he truly escape his people’s weakness's, and mindless vengeance. Here he would walk his own path, in service to his god.