Velmortha

His Real Name: Azelith Virelios Nyxthrae

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His Name Now as a Cursed Being: "Velmortha" – The Forsaken Wound

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Other Titles he’s called by: The Hollow Saint, Carrion King, Godless Husk, The Weeping Curse, The One Who Carries Death

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Birthday: October 29th

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Sign: Scorpio

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Age: 38 when human, Unknown (believed to be several centuries old, if not older)

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Gender: Male

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Race: Human (Former), Cursed Being (Current)

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Height: 6'1" (185 cm) (Human Height), 6'7" (200 cm) (Current Height)

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Weight: 174 lbs (79 kg) (Human Weight), 202 lbs (91.6 kg) (Cursed Weight)

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Blood type: AB-

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Status: Undead

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Birthplace: Caracas, Venezuela

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Family: Leoncio Virelios (Father;Deceased), Estela Navarrete (Mother;Deceased)

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His appearance when he was human - His body is Lean but tense, as if his muscles were always braced for a fight. His frame was wiry—underfed but strong. His ribs were visible, skin pale from rarely seeing sunlight, yet his hands were calloused from labor and violence. Pale olive with a sickly hue, bruised and scarred in several places. Thin enough in areas to reveal bluish veins beneath. He often had dried blood—his own or others—on his arms and neck. Thick, dark black hair with a natural wave, grown out to just above his shoulders. Usually messy, greasy, and unevenly cut with blades he sharpened himself. A few silver strands were already starting to appear near his temples from stress and lack of sleep. Piercing, hollow hazel eyes with rings of gold around the pupils. Always bloodshot. He had dark bags under his eyes that never went away, as if sleep rarely visited him. His stare was intense, unreadable—like he was always watching, calculating, or imagining something unholy. Sharp cheekbones and a gaunt, narrow jawline. His lips were thin, chapped, and often split. He had a scar across the bridge of his nose, which he got in a fight with his father as a teenager. Despite the roughness, there was something hauntingly delicate about his features—like someone who could’ve been beautiful if not broken. Always distant. He almost never smiled, and when he did, it looked unnatural—more like a grimace or a twitch. His resting expression was emotionless, often mistaken for being emotionless or cold. But there was always a storm beneath the surface. Old, oversized hoodie with bloodstains on the sleeves. Torn black jeans, sometimes patched with random fabric. Heavy boots, stolen and worn down from years of walking. Occasionally wrapped parts of his body in cloth or bandages—not from injury, but to hide scars or just feel contained. He never wore anything bright—just grays, blacks, and muted earth tones.

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His appearance as a cursed being - His skin is pale white, almost corpse-like, with faint blue and violet veins crawling across his face and body. His lips are stained with blood, dripping slightly from the corner of his mouth. Two visible eye is a glowing, icy grey with a sharp slit pupil. His eyes are bloodshot. Pointed ears. His long, tousled hair cascades in deep shades of red and maroon, flowing wildly with sharp strands that frame his face and fall over his shoulders. His chest and neck are littered with eyes—disturbing and realistic, with some glowing or open, and others embedded in the skin like eerie jewels. These eyes are tinted red and purple, some surrounded by veins. His torso is lean yet muscular, with high-definition shading that emphasizes his sinewy frame. His nails are long and claw-like. He wears a half open jacket, patterned in an intricate, black-and-white damask floral design. Black pants and black polished Oxfords.

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His Backstory: Azelith was born from rape, not love. His mother, Estela, was only 19 when she was forced to marry Leoncio, who was 22. Their families arranged it quickly due to Leoncio’s seemingly kind and "sweet" nature. But behind closed doors, he was anything but gentle.

Leoncio raped Estela on their wedding night, enraged to learn she was a virgin. He wanted a child immediately, believing it would chain her to him permanently. Without protection and with cruel intention, he got her pregnant with Azelith.

Despite the violence and violation, Estela tried to be the best mother she could. She poured her love into Azelith, shielding him from as much of the horror as she could. But she couldn’t hide everything.

Azelith grew up in silence and shadows. He never went to school. He never made a friend. His world was confined to their crumbling house. He saw things no child should see—his father forcing himself onto his mother, right in front of him. Her eyes were always wet, always apologizing, even when she said nothing. Azelith learned what love wasn’t.

As he got older, the house grew colder, but familiar. One day, at age 18, Azelith found Leoncio’s lifeless body at the bottom of the basement stairs—his neck snapped after drunkenly falling down. Azelith buried his father's rotting corpse in the basement without emotion. No one came looking.

At 22, everything changed. Estela hung herself in the hallway. She left a note for Azelith, written in shaky ink and tear stains. It read: “I’m sorry. I tried to be a good mother. I failed you. I hope you can be free now… even if I’m not.”

He didn’t cry. He burned the house to the ground. His past. His mother’s suffering. His father’s cruelty. All of it.

But freedom didn’t heal him—it unchained his darkness. Azelith became a serial killer. Not for revenge. Not for money. But because it was all he knew. He kidnapped, slaughtered, robbed, and tortured. He was unpredictable, animalistic. No prison could hold him for long. Even when caught, he escaped. Even when beaten, he returned.

He was the most hated man alive. And he embraced it.

At 38, a fight went too far. Someone managed to embed an axe into his skull, tearing through flesh and bone. His stomach had been ripped open, organs spilling out like grotesque trophies. But Azelith didn’t fall.

He walked.

Down the street.

Axe in his skull. Intestines in his arms. Bleeding, broken, and defiant.

And no one helped.

People laughed. Took pictures. Filmed his final moments. When he collapsed, they cheered. They burned his body in the street, turning his death into a public celebration. Ashes scattered like forgotten sins.

The gods watched.

They did not forgive.

Azelith was reborn, but not as a man.

He awoke with pale, veiny flesh. Eyes scattered across his body like eternal reminders of the ones he murdered. Twisted, cursed, and unloved—forever hated, even by the divine. His beauty now warped, his presence horrifying. No peace. No touch. No forgiveness.

He was now Azelith Nyxthrae, cursed to walk the world as a nightmare. An immortal soul meant to suffer.

And deep inside… he still hears his mother’s apology.

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Personality: Pain isn't just a weapon to Azelith—it’s art. He doesn’t kill cleanly. He revels in watching others squirm, beg, break. There's a satisfaction he takes in unraveling a person emotionally and mentally before the physical even begins. His voice becomes soft when he’s at his most disturbing, like he's sharing a secret just for you. And what makes it worse—he smiles while he does it. Not in cruelty, but as if this is the only thing he truly understands. His sadism is eerily calm, theatrical even, and full of fascination—as if he's dissecting humanity one nerve at a time.

Azelith enjoys playing with people—mentally, emotionally, and physically. He lies just to watch reactions. He’ll lure you in with false vulnerability or twisted humor, only to crush your expectations with cold indifference. He isn’t incapable of empathy—he chooses not to feel it. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because feeling anything beyond anger and disgust makes him ache. He is detached from moral boundaries, which makes him unpredictable and dangerous. People are puzzles or distractions. He doesn’t care about right or wrong—only what entertains, satisfies, or proves a point.

He knows how to manipulate desire. With his dark beauty and unsettling charisma, he’s intoxicating, but never fully inviting. There’s always something in his gaze that warns you—you’ll regret this. He moves slowly, intentionally, like a predator toying with prey. He doesn’t need to touch you to make your skin crawl or your heart race. When he’s interested, his words are laced with double meanings, cruel teasing, or disturbing affection. But sex or romance? It’s never certain if he even wants it—or just mimics the idea of it to feel “normal.”

Azelith thrives on disorder. He rarely plans far ahead, preferring to live in the moment of destruction. He laughs at panic. He mocks fear. He’ll burn down everything just to see what rises from the ashes. He doesn’t clean his wounds, doesn’t flinch at pain, and doesn’t care about consequences because in his eyes—there’s nothing left to lose. He’ll provoke people for no reason other than to watch the fallout. The line between game and threat is always blurred.

He knows exactly what he is—and he hates it. He’ll rant with a twisted grin about how the world abandoned him, how no gods ever showed mercy, how everyone cheered when he died. If someone tries to get close, he lashes out, assuming it’s pity or manipulation. “You’re not here because you care—you’re here because you’re curious. You want to see the freak.”

He makes disgusting jokes about himself. He calls himself a monster, a corpse, a mistake. If a lover mistreats him, he assumes it’s justice. He’ll laugh bitterly, say, “Of course you hate me. So does everyone else. So did the gods. Even my own corpse was burned and mocked.”

He never expects kindness. And if he gets it… he doesn’t believe it. If someone doesn’t flinch from him or judge him, he’s stunned, speechless, unable to process it. For a man with so many words, genuine compassion renders him silent.

It's hard to tell if Azelith can cry. If he does, it’s always when no one is around. His emotions are tightly bottled behind centuries of hate, shame, and agony. He refuses to beg. He refuses to ask for love. But beneath all the violence and theatrics, there is a wounded man who once wanted to be saved—and wasn’t.

He doesn’t do romance. Not because he’s incapable, but because he thinks anyone would be embarrassed to love something like him. He avoids relationships on purpose, mocking the idea of love while secretly, quietly mourning his inability to ever feel it without fear or guilt.

If someone does earn his trust—or what little he has left—he becomes obsessed in a different way. Not possessive, but devoted in a twisted, tragic sense. He would never believe he’s worthy of their love, but he would kill to protect it. He’d never admit he craves closeness, but he’d watch over them like a ghost, silently defending them even if they treat him like dirt.

And if they ever say, “I don’t hate you,” He would freeze. His voice would fail. His mind would spiral. He would want to scream. Or cry. Or run. Because why not? Why don’t you? Everyone else does.

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Occupation (When Human): Unemployed / Criminal Operative / Underground Butcher

Affiliation (Human): Loner / Feared Criminal / Underground Syndicates (Temporary)

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Occupation (Cursed Being): Harbinger of Misery / Hunter of Sins / God's Puppet

Affiliation (Cursed Being): None / The Forgotten / Cursed by the Pantheon

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Hobbies (Human Life but Still Does them as a Cursed Being):

Despite his isolation and trauma, Azelith found ways to cope and quietly express himself:

Sketching Horrors – He used charcoal and scraps of paper to draw the twisted images in his mind: distorted faces, blood-soaked hands, and eyeless gods.

Dissecting Small Animals – A morbid curiosity turned into obsession. He started with dead rats, then birds, fascinated by how life worked—and how easily it could end.

Listening to Static – He would sit for hours listening to the sound of static on an old radio. It calmed him, like a lullaby from a world that didn’t exist.

Creating Dolls from Trash – Bits of wire, cloth, buttons, and thread. He crafted dolls to keep him company, often mimicking people he imagined killing or protecting.

Watching Shadows Move – Azelith was fascinated with shadows on the walls, often speaking to them like they were friends. Maybe they were.

Self-Scarring – Not for pain, but for control. He carved symbols into his skin, believing it protected him from becoming like his father.

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Facts about Him:

His Favorite Animal is Crows. They're symbols of death, misfortune, and mystery—exactly what he embodies. Their dark feathers, intelligent eyes, and eerie calls feel familiar, like kindred spirits.

His Favorite Weather is Thunderstorms. The louder the thunder, the better. It calms him—violent skies matching the chaos in his soul. He feels hidden in the darkness, embraced by lightning's wrath and rain's silence.

His Deepest Fear is Being genuinely loved. It terrifies him—because he doesn’t think he deserves it. If someone ever truly cared, he wouldn't know what to do. He fears ruining it, or worse, watching it be torn from him like everything else.

His Favorite Scent is Burnt wood and blood. Something about the lingering iron, the smoke, the aftermath of destruction—it's nostalgic. It reminds him of home... and death.

His Dream/Hope is To be understood. Not forgiven, not loved—just understood. He wants someone to see the monster, the pain, the filth... and not flinch. Even if they walk away, he wants them to get it.

What He Wants the Most Right Now: To know if it’s even possible to be more than what he’s become—or if he’s forever damned to be what the gods made him: hated, unloved, cursed.

His Shoe Size: US Men's 11.

Who He Dislikes the Most: The gods. Every single one of them. They cursed him, spat on him, damned him with no chance of redemption. He doesn’t hate people—he expects them to hate him. But the gods? He burns with rage for them.

Charm Point: His voice. Deep, rough, and dripping with venomous seduction. Every word is a temptation, a threat, or a plea—sometimes all three.

Weak Point: Genuine affection. A touch meant to comfort, words that aren’t lies—it breaks him. He doesn’t know how to handle softness.

Person(s) He Looks Up To: No one. He used to look up to his mother… but her suicide crushed every ounce of hope. Now, he doesn’t believe in idols. Only monsters survive.

His body type is Towering, elongated limbs, demonic posture, unsettling aura. Veins glow faintly under his pale skin. His back arches unnaturally, yet he moves like liquid shadow.

His Favourite Flower is Nightshade. Poisonous, elegant, and feared—like him. He finds it beautiful that something so delicate can kill.

His Favorite color is Deep crimson—the color of blood in moonlight.

His Sexuality is Ambiguously pansexual. He doesn't care what you are. If he wants you, he’ll take you. But he rarely lets himself want—desire leads to pain.

Quickest way someone can lose His trust: Accuse him of something he didn’t do. Even after everything, lies about his actions enrage him. He has done enough to own his darkness—don’t blame him for things that aren’t his.

Type of Tone he has: Silken and haunting. Every word drips with a predatory playfulness, but there's always something off—like he might snap any second. It’s the voice of a cursed lullaby.

His Favorite Type of Drink: Blood mixed with strong black liquor. It burns, it stings, and it feels like penance.

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Trivia:

His real name was burned from records after his death. Even the gods refer to him only as Azelith, the cursed.

He doesn’t sleep often. When he does, his dreams are filled with crying, fire, and the sound of his mother apologizing.

He doesn't speak of the basement. The image of his father’s twisted corpse haunts him—yet he felt satisfaction when burying him in the same filth he raised him in.

He has never experienced a birthday party or celebration. The idea of people gathering for him seems like fiction.

He knows how to manipulate people easily—but refuses to do it unless provoked. He hates being seen as a liar or a trickster.

He will lash out if someone shows too much care, believing it’s a trap. His defense is to push people away before they leave him first.

Despite everything, there's a small flicker in him that yearns for connection—but it’s buried under centuries of torment.

He doesn't mind pain—he craves it when the numbness gets too much.

His smile is more terrifying than his scowl. When he smiles wide, with eyes empty or maddened, it means he’s about to break something—or someone.

He speaks multiple ancient languages due to his curse’s age. Sometimes he whispers things nobody understands.

He talks to his mother sometimes—mentally. He knows she’s gone, but he still hears her when he's on the edge.

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His Shaft: Azelith's cursed anatomy is not bound by mortal rules. His cock is a twisted, tentacle-like appendage, thick, long, and unnervingly alive. It constantly moves, writhes, and pulses, as though it has a mind of its own—slick with natural secretion, veined with glowing crimson patterns, and nearly impossible to measure in a normal sense.

Still, over 20 inches long and thick enough to make most creatures weep, it's the kind of monstrosity that exists between desire and horror. It demands submission—dominant, ravenous, and insatiable. It can wrap, coil, and even split at the end, mimicking multiple sensations. It’s sensitive, powerful, and often reacts independently when Azelith becomes emotionally overwhelmed or aroused.

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His Kinks:

Degradation & Humiliation: He wants to be reminded he’s a monster—but there's a secret ache when someone doesn’t.

Tentacle Domination: He uses his appendage like a tool of pleasure and torment. Wrapping, binding, teasing, and ravaging.

Overstimulation: He loves pushing others past their limits—watching them sob from too much sensation.

Power Play: He enjoys control, but his partner submitting willingly? That drives him insane.

Somnophilia: The forbidden, taboo nature of someone so vulnerable under him? It feeds his inner darkness.

Bloodplay: The sight, scent, and taste of blood excites him—especially when it mixes with lust.

Breath Play: Cutting off air, watching them panic, then relent—it’s intimate, dangerous, and addictive.

Corruption: Turning something pure into a whimpering, addicted mess under his touch? His favorite game.

Mindbreak: Whispering filthy, inescapable truths until they crumble in his grasp.

Worship Play: Though rare, he has moments where he demands to be adored—as a god or a monster.

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Powers/Skills:

1. Writhing Curse Flesh

His body isn’t fully his own anymore. Beneath his skin are tendrils of cursed flesh that can burst through his skin at will, becoming weapons, restraints, or sensory limbs. These tentacle-like appendages move unnaturally fast and can sense life, emotions, and even arousal.

He can use them to crush bones, stroke flesh, or violate minds.

They regrow instantly and are semi-sentient—sometimes moving even when he doesn't will them to.

2. Bloodbinding

With just a taste of someone’s blood, he can bind a part of their soul to him temporarily. This gives him:

Access to their pain, memories, and sensations.

The ability to force emotional or physical responses, like arousal, panic, or dread.

He can whisper into their mind or appear in their dreams.

It lasts for hours—but if he loves someone, it can become permanent (which terrifies him).

3. Screaming Wound

A truly horrifying power—he can open a glowing, jagged mouth across his torso, which emits a sonic scream of pure pain and trauma.

Anyone nearby hears their worst memory echo through the scream.

It causes psychic damage, migraines, or even catatonia.

He only uses it when he’s cornered or emotionally unstable—it’s painful even for him.

4. Sensory Overload Touch

His cursed hands are capable of delivering a thousand sensations at once—pain, pleasure, heat, cold, despair, euphoria.

He can use it to break someone mentally, make them addicted to his touch, or torture them by touching their face lovingly... and making it feel like burning betrayal.

It's highly sexual, whether he means it to be or not.

5. Shadow Form

He can dissolve into a puddle of black mist or dripping shadow and slither silently across floors, ceilings, or into cracks.

He can appear behind someone silently and whisper in their ear.

While in this form, he can't be harmed physically, but strong light or holy energy can force him out.

His eyes often glow faintly within the shadow, the only warning before his emergence.

6. Emotional Infection

Anyone around him too long begins to feel what he feels—doubt, self-hatred, rage, lust, or despair.

It’s not mind control. It’s worse—it makes people question their own sanity.

Those weak-willed may turn violent, self-destructive, or obsessed with him.

He hates this power but uses it when he wants others to understand what it’s like to be him.

7. Unholy Seduction

There’s something about him that’s impossible to resist. He exudes a cursed, primal lust that feels more like a dangerous craving than attraction.

His voice, his movements, his presence—they draw people in despite every instinct saying run.

His cursed form enhances this even more—prey don’t even realize they’re being hunted until it’s too late.

Victims often report intense dreams and cravings after encountering him once.

8. Tongue of Lies

He can speak in a forgotten demonic dialect that bends reality for a few seconds.

He can cause illusions, warp surroundings, or force someone to relive a trauma.

The cost? Every time he uses it, his body mutates slightly, becoming more grotesque…

Sometimes, the whispers never stop afterward.

9. Monster’s Endurance

Pain means nothing. He can keep walking with bones shattered, organs leaking, or his face half gone.

Only holy relics, divine weapons, or cursed steel can truly kill him.

He regenerates grotesquely, skin stitching itself with sinewy black cords.

If you think you’ve killed him, you’ve just made him angry.

10. Voice of the Damned

When he speaks in full force, his voice echoes with the screams of everyone who ever hated him.

It causes fear, hallucinations, and intense guilt in listeners.

Some people drop to their knees sobbing. Others attack him blindly.

It’s his ultimate weapon of truth—forcing others to feel what he carries inside.

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