Though small, he is bloody, bloody-hued and bloody-souled, a young carnage who proves, by his very existence, that the idea of childhood innocence is a fool's lie.

A patchwork pelt of short, ruddy fur covers the boy's slim, waifish body, hues of sunset orange mixed with large, irregular patches of a deeper, darker, red-copper hue. A spiky mohawk of dark charcoal forms a small crest atop his lean, flattened skull; its color matches the plume at the end of his long, snapping whip of a tail. Narrowed, sly yellow eyes are surrounded by pale tan, arched above with sharply distinct black brows. His muzzle is small but chisled, his wide black nose sharp-edged, tri-cornered, framed with a healthy sprouting of sensitive black whiskers.

His character is worn like a badge, expressed in his slinky manner, in the shrewd way he watches his surroundings and never quite looks anyone in the eye, signs of a born liar. His voice, though high with childishness, has an insidiously raspy quality to it. His long-toed little paws show claws more often than not, the infantile toes armed with wicked little ebony hooks.

Only the gods know what kind of twisted tree this seed of bloodshed will grow into.

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