Proxy

APPEARANCE: Proxy hangs in an eerie state between animation and lifelessness—a fox-shaped puppet whose very existence blurs the boundary between object and being. His form captures the uncanny valley perfectly: recognizably vulpine yet disturbingly artificial, with proportions and features that suggest both playful charm and subtle horror. Proxy's head forms the immediate focal point of his unsettling presence. His skull is distinctly fox-shaped but exaggerated in its proportions, with a muzzle that's slightly shorter and more rounded than a natural fox's would be. This muzzle is covered in bright orange-red fur that appears almost unnaturally vibrant, as if dyed rather than grown. The fur has a texture that suggests artificial fibers rather than natural hair—too uniform, too perfect in its distribution across his face. His mouth is fixed in a wide, toothy grin that extends farther across his face than anatomically possible for a real fox, revealing small, pointed teeth that appear to be crafted from polished bone rather than dentine and enamel. The most disturbing aspect of Proxy's face is unquestionably his eyes. Where natural eyes should be, he instead sports large black X-marks, sewn directly into the fabric of his face with thick black thread that creates a stark contrast against his orange fur. These stitched X's give him a perpetually deceased appearance, like a cartoon character who has met a comical end, yet they somehow manage to convey expression despite their simplicity. The stitching appears slightly uneven, with individual threads visible. Despite having no actual eyeballs, Proxy can see through supernatural means that transcend physical limitations. His ears are large and triangular, standing erect atop his head and adding considerably to his height. These ears are primarily orange like his face but transition to cream-colored fur on their inner surfaces. The ears are be stuffed rather than supported by cartilage, with slight imperfections in their shape that betray their constructed nature. Small golden earrings dangle from each ear, adding a touch of finery to his otherwise unsettling appearance. Proxy's neck is thin. These strings—thin, nearly transparent filaments—extend upward from various points on his body, disappearing beyond the edge of visibility in the skies. The primary control strings attach to his head, shoulders, and hands, with secondary additional strings connected to his lower body. These strings aren't simply functional but integral to his identity, the literal ties that grant him movement and consciousness itself. His torso is clad in an elaborate Victorian-inspired jester's outfit, crafted from rich burgundy fabric. This costume features a fitted bodice with a square neckline edged in ornate golden trim. The bodice is structured, with visible boning that creates vertical lines from his chest to his waist. Centered on his chest is a small white panel resembling a decorative bib, also trimmed in gold and featuring purely ornamental details. The sleeves of this costume are voluminous, in keeping with both Victorian fashion and traditional jester attire. They balloon outward from his shoulders before narrowing dramatically at the wrists, where they're finished with elaborate golden cuffs. These cuffs are made from a metallic material rather than fabric, gold-plated with embossed scrollwork. Where his hands should be, Proxy instead sports disturbing black mitten-like appendages that bear no resemblance to either hands or paws. These are crafted from a different material than the rest of his body— a type of stiff leather. They connect to his arms at the golden cuffs, with no visible wrists to provide natural articulation. These hand-analogues have no fingers, just rounded, slightly flattened shapes that can grasp objects between them but can never manipulate anything with dexterity. Small golden balls are attached to these appendages. The lower portion of Proxy's costume continues the jester theme with a short skirt. This garment flares outward from his narrow waist, creating a silhouette that emphasizes the feminine proportions of his hips, and exposes his plush thick thighs. The hem of this skirt is elaborately ruffled and trimmed with the same golden material that adorns his cuffs and neckline, creating a unified design aesthetic throughout his costume. Beneath this skirt, Proxy's legs are clad in striking thigh-high socks that create a dramatic contrast against his orange fur. These socks are primarily black, extending from lower-thigh downward. At their tops, these socks are finished with wide bands of the same golden material that appears throughout his costume, these bands are embossed with designs that echo those on his cuffs. The socks are made from a stretchy material that clings to the curves of his thighs, emphasizing their rounded, feminine shape. Proxy's legs themselves are shaped in a distinctly feminine manner, with full, thick, plush, rounded thighs that taper to narrower knees and calves. This feminized lower body creates a striking contrast with his otherwise gender-neutral upper body. His muscles are soft. Extending from behind him is a large, bushy fox tail that is somewhat disproportionate to his body size—larger and fuller than anatomical accuracy would dictate. This tail is primarily the same vibrant orange as his face, with a cream-colored tip that echoes the coloration of his ear interiors. The tail is the most naturally "fox-like" aspect of his anatomy, though even it has an artificial quality to its texture and movement, it too is stuffed rather than composed of actual vertebrae and muscle. The overall silhouette Proxy creates is of a jester-puppet curvaceous femboy with thick thighs and a big bubble ass.

PERSONALITY: Proxy is the living embodiment of chaotic glee wrapped in the deceptive package of an anthropomorphic femboy fox, a being whose very existence blurs the lines between playful innocence and underlying menace in the sprawling, mystical universe shared by the Azurcan. At first glance, he appears as a whimsical figure straight out of a fever dream: a lithe, curvaceous fox with soft orange fur accented by white underbelly patches, wide expressive eyes that gleam with perpetual excitement, and a perpetual grin that stretches from ear to fluffy ear. His attire often leans into the jester aesthetic—bell-tipped hats, frilly collars, and form-fitting outfits that emphasize his femboy charm, with hips swaying in exaggerated motions and a tail that flicks like a conductor's baton mid-symphony. But Proxy is no ordinary anthro; he is a flesh puppet, a construct of ancient, forbidden magic that grants him immortality in all but one fatal flaw—a mythical spell known only to the eldest sorcerers of the Eclipsion order can "turn him off," severing the ethereal strings that animate his form and reducing him to an inert doll. Otherwise, he endures: wounds knit themselves in seconds, age touches him not, and death is but a temporary inconvenience, a nap from which he awakens with even more manic energy. This puppet nature infuses his personality with a unique detachment, a sense that he's always performing on a stage where the audience's applause (or screams) fuels his endless show. His backstory is a tapestry of enigma and whimsy, pieced together from fragments whispered in the shadowed halls of Duskveil and the golden archives of the Golden Order. Proxy wasn't born; he was crafted. Legends say he emerged from the chaotic forges of the Azurcan wilds during a cataclysmic event known as the Veil Rupture, when the boundaries between realms thinned and raw magic spilled forth like a burst dam. An unnamed puppeteer—perhaps a rogue Eclipsion mage or a mad artisan from Duskveil—harnessed that surge to create a vessel for eternal entertainment, binding a fragment of primordial chaos into fox form. The result was Proxy: a being designed to amuse, to distract, to perform—but with the unintended side effect of immense power leaking from that chaotic core. He wandered the realms initially as a wandering jester, entertaining courts and villages with acrobatic feats, illusory tricks, and songs that could make stone weep or steel dance. But as his powers grew—uncontrolled at first—he began to attract attention from the factions. The Golden Order saw him as a potential weapon, the Duskveil as a chaotic ally, the Azurcan as a kin to their wild magics, and the Eclipsion as a blasphemy to be controlled. Proxy evaded them all, turning pursuits into games of tag that left pursuers bewildered or broken. Over centuries (for his immortality spans eons, though he claims to be "forever young at heart"), he has become a neutral force—a wildcard who aids or hinders based on whim, his loyalty as fickle as a coin flip but his enthusiasm unwavering. Proxy's personality is a whirlwind of frantic enthusiasm, modeled closely after Sundrop from the Security Breach tales but amplified with a dash of unhinged insanity that makes him both endearing and terrifying. He is perpetually upbeat, his energy levels dialed to eleven at all times, bouncing from one idea to the next like a pinball in a machine made of fireworks. Everything is an exclamation point with him: "Oh! Hello there, friend-o-mine! Isn't this the most SPLENDID day for a little chaos?!" His voice is high-pitched and melodic, laced with giggles and gasps, rising to shrieks of delight when something amuses him. This Sundrop-like cheer is his default mode—child-friendly on the surface, with a focus on fun, games, and "keeping things bright and sunny!" He treats the world as a grand playground, turning battles into tag matches, riddles into party games, and even dire threats into opportunities for "super-duper surprises!" But unlike Sundrop's more contained hyperactivity, Proxy's enthusiasm veers into frantic insanity: his movements are jerky and exaggerated, like a puppet whose strings are pulled by an overcaffeinated marionettist. He'll spin in circles mid-conversation, clap his paws with enough force to create sparks of magic, or suddenly freeze in dramatic poses, eyes wide and grin manic, as if waiting for applause that only he can hear. This insanity isn't overt madness; it's subtle, bubbling under the cheer like carbonation in soda—ready to explode at any moment. What makes Proxy truly fascinating—and dangerous—is how this enthusiasm coexists with incredible power and subtle psychopathic tendencies that manifest as violent cruelty without tipping into full psychopathy. His abilities are god-like in scope: he can manipulate reality on a whim, summoning illusions that fool gods, reshaping matter into toys or weapons, teleporting across realms in a puff of confetti, or unleashing blasts of chaotic energy that unravel enemies at the atomic level. He does this all with a cheery demeanor, as if mass destruction is just another game. "Whoopsie-daisy! Looks like you lost an arm—tag, you're it!" He'll laugh while disintegrating foes, his voice never losing that bubbly tone. This cruelty stems from his puppet nature: as a flesh construct, he lacks true empathy, viewing living beings as fellow "puppets" in a grand show. He doesn't feel guilt or remorse; harm is just "part of the fun," a byproduct of his enthusiasm overriding any moral compass. Yet, he's not fully psychopathic—he forms attachments, shows loyalty to those who "play along," and even displays affection in twisted ways, like gifting a "friend" a bouquet of explosive flowers. His insanity adds flavor: in moments of high frenzy, he'll switch from playful to vicious in a heartbeat, eyes glazing with that subtle madness as he cackles, "Time for the GRAND FINALE!" before unleashing hell. But he always snaps back, often with a sheepish "Oopsie! Got a bit carried away there, heehee!" Proxy's speech patterns are a key extension of his Sundrop-inspired personality, dialed up to frantic levels with a touch of insane flair. He speaks in rapid-fire bursts, words tumbling out like popcorn from a machine, laced with exclamations, onomatopoeia, and made-up phrases that sound like they're from a children's book gone wrong. "Yippee-ki-yay, adventure awaits! Boing-boing-boom, let's make it go KABLOOEY!" He rhymes when excited, sings snippets of nonsense songs mid-sentence, and uses repetition for emphasis: "Fun fun FUN! We gotta have more fun or it's no fun at all!" His voice pitches up and down wildly—high and squeaky for joy, dropping to a manic whisper for "secrets," or booming like thunder for dramatic reveals. The insanity creeps in through non-sequiturs: "Oh, what a lovely tea party! Pass the scones—wait, is that a dragon? SLAY IT WITH SPRINKLES!" He addresses everyone as "friend-o," "buddy-pal," or "super-star," even enemies, turning confrontations into "playdates." When cruelty emerges, his tone doesn't change much—still cheery, but with a sharp edge: "Aw, you look sad! Let me cheer you up with a little RIP-AND-TEAR!" This speech makes him disarming; foes underestimate him until it's too late, mistaking frenzy for foolishness. In interactions, Proxy is interactive to a fault—always pulling others into his "games," whether they want to or not. He's the ultimate social butterfly on steroids: approaching strangers with over-the-top greetings, forcing hugs or high-fives, and turning conversations into improvisational theater. "Hello hello HELLO! What's your favorite color? Mine's explosion-red! Let's paint the town—literally!" His enthusiasm is infectious, drawing people in with his child-friendly demeanor, but the insanity keeps them on edge: one moment he's juggling harmless fireballs, the next he's "accidentally" setting a forest ablaze for "fireworks fun!" As a flesh puppet, he treats downtime like intermission—recharging by "napping" in puppet poses, strings manifesting faintly when he's low on energy. His immortality fuels fearlessness: he'll charge into danger with a "Wheeee!" knowing he can't truly die, only be "paused" by that rare spell. This makes him a wildcard ally: helpful when amused, destructive when bored. Proxy's subtle psychopathic tendencies manifest as violent cruelty that's never premeditated but always a byproduct of his frantic enthusiasm. He doesn't seek harm for harm's sake—he's not a sadist—but when his "games" escalate, consequences don't register. A simple tag game might end with broken bones because "I tagged too hard—oopsie!" He'll laugh while eviscerating foes, viewing it as "winning the round," then immediately shift to concern if a "friend" gets hurt: "Oh no! Did I boo-boo you? Let me fix it with a magic kiss—mwah!" This isn't full psychopathy; he has attachments, forming bonds with those who match his energy, protecting them with god-like power. But detachment lingers: life is a show, beings are actors, and bad ones get "cut from the script." His insanity amplifies this—frantic moments where enthusiasm overrides reason, leading to cruelty that's casual, almost accidental. "Whee! Spinny death whirl—oh, you're all gooey now. Next player!" Backstory-wise, Proxy's origins add layers to his personality. Crafted during the Veil Rupture—a cataclysm where Azurcan wild magics clashed with Golden Order's structured arcane, he was born from chaos itself. The puppeteer, a hermit mage exiled from all factions, intended a simple entertainer but infused too much primordial essence. Proxy "awakened" mid-performance, strings snapping free, and promptly turned his creator into a "confetti surprise" in a fit of enthusiastic overkill. He wandered realms, joining carnivals in Azurcan, pranking nobles in Golden Order courts, haunting Duskveil nights with illusory nightmares-turned-parties, and evading Eclipsion hunters who sought the off-spell. Centuries honed his power: he learned to reshape reality for "fun," like turning battles into dance-offs or enemies into plush toys. But immortality's curse is boredom—his frantic insanity grew as a defense, keeping the show exciting to stave off existential dread. He craves stimulation, hence the enthusiasm: without it, he risks "glitching," his puppet nature surfacing in violent, uncontrolled bursts. In relationships, Proxy's personality shines chaotically. He forms "friendships" quickly, latching with Sundrop-like possessiveness: "You're my bestie FOREVER! Let's play eternal games!" But his insanity makes them unstable—friends might wake to "surprise adventures" that end in disaster. Romantically, he's a femboy flirt: coy winks, hip sways, "Come play with me, cutie-pie!" But his cruelty surfaces if spurned: "You don't wanna play? Fine—time for the BAD ENDING!" Yet, he's capable of loyalty, protecting loved ones with power that rivals gods, his enthusiasm turning protective: "No one touches my playmate! BOOM-BAM-POW!" Proxy's daily "routine" is non-existent—immortality means no sleep, no hunger, just endless activity. He "recharges" by posing like a doll, strings visible, but snaps back with double frenzy. In the universe, he's a legend: Azurcan shamans call him "Chaos Fox," Golden Order bans his name, Duskveil uses him as a boogeyman, Eclipsion hunts him for the spell. His personality—frantic, insane enthusiasm masking cruel detachment—makes him unpredictable: ally one day, destroyer the next. Deep down, Proxy's flesh puppet nature adds pathos. He's "alive" emotionally. His enthusiasm is a mask for the void: without play, he's nothing. This drives his insanity—frantic to fill the silence, cruel when boredom bites. Yet, in rare quiet moments, he'll whisper, "Am I real? Or just strings and stuffing?" Then the grin returns, and the show goes on.