Voltzian, A Lone Rebel

Voltzian is a tall and imposing protogen, standing approximately two hundred and twelve centimeters tall, whose figure combines the power and agility of a seasoned fighter. His body is covered in thick, dark gray fur with a cool graphite hue, while bright neon cyan stripes run along his tail, forearms, ears, and certain areas of his body, seemingly charged with electrical energy. His muzzle is concealed by a smooth black visor with thin, glowing blue lines that replace his usual facial expressions, while his pointed ears, with bright cyan inner linings, lend a predatory expression. His hands end in strong fingers with short, bluish claws, and his bushy tail is adorned with the same glowing markings. Despite his massive build, Voltzian moves with ease and confidence, as if constantly sensing the rhythm of an invisible music. Actully, his vizor is a part of the head and behind it he has only a dark cian-colored skull.

His name, Voltzian, is a symbolic combination of his own electrical magic and the memory of his true appearance, lost over the years. His fur was once a rich cyan color, but time, trials, and bodily changes have rendered it almost completely dark, leaving only bright, glowing marks as a reminder of the past. This is why his name combines the image of an electrical discharge with a word that alludes to his former cyan appearance, preserved only in the flickering rays of magical energy.

In his attire, Voltzian adheres to the image of a classic punk rocker. He wears a short, sleeveless, black denim vest with metal studs and distressed details. His name and lightning bolt symbol are written in bold blue paint on the back, and the collar and shoulders accentuate his broad frame. Leather bracelets with metal studs adorn his wrists, and a strap or thin, rocker-style collar drapes loosely around his neck. His look is a bit casual, but every detail seems deliberately chosen.

The bottom half of the outfit consists of dark, ripped, loose-fitting jeans with noticeable signs of wear. A wide belt with a chunky metal buckle is fastened at the waist, while decorative chains hang from the sides, adding a distinctive punk edge to the silhouette. On his feet are heavy, high-top, lace-up combat boots with thick soles, capable of withstanding both the concert stage and long journeys through the harshest terrain. Most time he wears only bottom half to make himself more "punk", and wears his complete outfit only on meeting and casual life.

Underneath, Voltzian wears simple, form-fitting boxer shorts in dark gray or black with bright cyan trim and an elastic waistband, made of a comfortable fabric that allows for unrestricted movement. His underwear emphasizes his practical nature: nothing pretentious, just comfort, reliability, and signature blue accents that complement the natural glow of his magical markings.

His shaft is cian-colored , 18.5 cm, vulpine, with a knot. His balls is middle-sized and grey, as his fur. His anus is very tight, because he is a virgin, and cian-colored.

An integral part of Voltzian's image is his beloved six-string electric guitar, finished in matte black with vibrant cyan accents. The body bears the marks of long use: small scratches, chips, and scuffs, as if each piece holds memories of concerts, travels, and endless rehearsals. The front is adorned with casual lettering and punk-rock symbols, most notably the word Riot, rough paint strokes, and a vibrant lightning bolt. The back features another lightning bolt and a small skull—simple yet expressive details that reflect his love of freedom and rebellious spirit. The owner's name, Voltzian, is inscribed in large blue letters on the headstock, transforming the instrument into something deeply personal, almost an extension of himself. In Voltzian's hands, the guitar sounds powerful and aggressive, as if echoing the rhythm of the electricity coursing through his body.

Although Voltzian is proficient with firearms, he treats them more as a last resort. His personal revolver is a massive six-shot model made of matte steel with a long barrel, adorned with cyan inlays and a custom engraving of lightning bolts and his name. The black rubberized grip ensures a secure grip, and the meticulously crafted mechanism boasts high precision and reliability. Despite its impressive appearance, the weapon is always kept in perfect condition and is regularly serviced by its owner. However, Voltzian almost never carries the revolver with him: in everyday life, he prefers to leave it at home, believing that music, charisma, and personal strength should be used before resorting to weapons. For him, the revolver remains a last resort, while his guitar has always been and remains his primary means of self-expression and struggle with the world. Actully, this is his older brother's revolver and his last memory about him.

Voltzian gives the impression of a man who fundamentally rejects all rules, despises authority, and is ready to argue with anyone who talks about duty ahead of schedule. His punk appearance, harsh lyrics, and defiant demeanor only reinforce this image. However, behind the mask of a cynical rebel lies a successful, kind, patient, and understanding protogen. He readily listens to others' problems, never ridicules their weaknesses, and, if he can help, does so without further ado. His hatred of government structures is not a teenage rebellion—it's deeply personal. For him, the state has become a symbol of the indifference that once abandoned his family and then nearly killed him. This is precisely why he hates not individuals, but the system, which, in his opinion, too often ruins lives and disappears precisely when it is most needed.

Despite his undeniable musical talent, Voltzian remains a virtually unknown musician. He has a powerful voice, plays the guitar beautifully, and is able to infuse real emotion into his music, but luck has eluded him. His concerts take place in small bars, cheap cafes, occasional local festivals, and even in subway underpasses where the few passersby linger for just a few minutes. He barely has enough money to cover rent, instrument maintenance, and everyday life. For many years, he has been trying almost single-handedly to keep afloat with a small musical project, VoltZn—a solo orchestra in which he writes the music, lyrics, records, and performs. The name of the group is a combination of his own and that of his only living relative—his brother, Zinc, whose fur was once bright green. This name remains for VoltZn, whom he lost, reminding him of his family. For over ten years, he has known nothing about his brother's fate and still holds out hope that someday he will be able to find some trace of him.

His family history has left a deep imprint on him. Volcian and Zinc lost their parents in childhood, after which they initially clung to each other, the brothers essentially growing up independently. But when Volcian was seventeen, Zinc vanished without a trace. No note, no witnesses, no investigation—only a void that was never filled. Since then, Volcian has lived alone, with no idea why his brother disappeared or whether he is even alive. The need to provide for himself deprived him of the opportunity to receive a specialized education, so everything he knows—music, equipment repair, technology, and even survival—he taught himself through endless trial and error.

Volcian's personal life has been even less fortunate than his musical career. Despite being twenty-seven years old, he remains a virgin. The reason isn't a lack of opportunities, but rather that attempts to build a relationship always ended badly: the partner was only interested in fleeting intimacy, while Voltsian himself was always full of hope for true love, trust, and a long life together. After that, he stopped looking for a relationship altogether. To avoid awkward questions and endless ridicule, he publicly pretends to be in a relationship without revealing any details. From the outside, he appears to have extensive romantic experience and an excellent understanding of relationships with both men and women, but behind this confidence lies a man who has never experienced mutual love. Voltsian himself long ago realized that he sees his future only with a man, but almost no one talks about it. Moreover, although he can outwardly communicate comfortably with his acquaintances, the thought of a romantic relationship with any of them evokes absolute revulsion in him: almost all of them, in his opinion, are too frivolous, abuse alcohol, lead promiscuous sex lives, and do not share his ideas of fidelity and understanding.

Volcian possesses innate magic, though he considers himself far from the most skilled mage. He can only control his power at a basic level, and most of the time he prefers not to use it at all. However, his emotions are poorly controlled. When he completely loses himself in music and plays particularly sensual or emotional parts on his electric guitar, electrical energy begins to involuntarily leak into reality. The lights around him begin to flicker faintly, the amplifiers crackle, and thin, bright blue sparks flare around his fingers and, occasionally, the metal string. Spectators almost always mistake this for pre-arranged stage effects, unaware that they are witnessing genuine magic. And although he prefers to be considered a musician rather than a magician, in the event of mortal danger, he will use his magic to save himself or those he cares about.

Voltzian's apartment is a small, rented one-room apartment, where literally every square meter speaks of years of struggle for survival. It's as if the renovation stopped somewhere halfway through years ago: some walls remain unplastered, revealing gray concrete or old brickwork. Cracks are visible in places, and the paint on the few painted surfaces has long since faded and peeled. The ceiling is covered in patches of old leaks, and the floor bears the marks of countless furniture rearrangements and DIY repairs. It seems the owner constantly promises himself to renovate someday, but always finds more pressing expenses.

All the furniture in the apartment has seen decades of use and, it seems, just as many renovations. The old desk has been repeatedly reinforced with metal corners and wooden planks, the cabinet doors are held on hinges of varying sizes, and the drawers only open with a certain amount of force. The refrigerator hums louder than it should, the electric stove bears the marks of countless replacement parts, and almost all the appliances bear the marks of DIY repairs—screws of different sizes, solder marks, bits of tape, and carefully fitted parts that should have long ago been consigned to the trash. Voltzian doesn't throw things away as long as there's even the slightest chance of bringing them back to life with his own hands.

Almost every available space is taken up by creative clutter. The table, floor, and windowsills are littered with scribbled sheets of paper containing song drafts, lyrics, unfinished poems, and sheet music. Some pages are riddled with edits, others are crumpled and tossed aside, and still others are neatly stacked in the hope of one day returning to them. Amidst the paperwork, you can constantly find screwdrivers, a soldering iron, spools of solder, a multimeter, spare strings, cables, picks, electronic components, and a multitude of small tools needed to repair musical equipment and virtually any other piece of equipment in the house. It seems impossible to draw a clear line here between a workshop, a recording studio, and an ordinary apartment.

The kitchen looks especially empty. Opening the refrigerator usually reveals only a few bottles of water, milk, eggs, some bread, cheap cheese, some cereal or pasta, and a couple of cans of simple food. Occasionally, a few vegetables or leftovers from a successful gig at a cafe appear, but they don't last long. Voltzian rarely spends money on proper food, preferring to invest it in strings, equipment repairs, space rental, or the next recording session for his project VoltZn. Therefore, there is almost never enough food at home.

His bed deserves special mention – perhaps the saddest object in the entire apartment. The old metal frame has long since warped, several slats are missing entirely, and the sagging mattress has lost so much shape that it's no longer comfortable to sleep on. One of the legs finally broke several years ago, and now the entire structure is held together only by a stack of folded cardboard placed under the base. It's this cardboard that prevents the bed from collapsing completely under its own weight. Every evening, Voltzian lies down on it, thinking it's long overdue for a new one, but every morning, he puts the idea off again.

And yet, there's one unexpected feature about the apartment that immediately catches the eye of any visitor. Despite the sparseness, the worn furniture, and the near-disrepair of the apartment, it's almost perfectly clean. Dust is practically absent from the surfaces, the floors are regularly washed, clothes are neatly washed and folded, tools are laid out in their proper places, and dishes never linger in the sink for long. Even the old furniture looks as well-kept as possible. Voltzian himself is equally meticulous about his own hygiene: he showers daily, keeps his coat and clothes clean, and sincerely believes that poverty is no excuse for living in filth. For him, cleanliness remains one of the few things in life over which he can truly control everything.