Axel Ivanov

starling — Offline

Axel Maximillian Ivanov
Witch – Energy Manipulation

Need to Know

- He/Him
- 37 (Nov 3)
- 6'2"
- Dark Brown Hair
- Light Brown Eyes (Gold Eyes)
- Unemployed in Northeast Portland
- Lives in Northeast Portland


⥋ His vagrancy is on unabashed display
⥋ Pale, and gaunt
⥋ His clothes are careless, and ragged, at times a bit too baggy, and almost always mottled with unspecified grime.
⥋ An absence of self-care is further evident in disheveled locks, uneven fingernails, and a bristle-peppered jaw.
⥋ His posture is a degree twisted, his features a hint crooked
⥋ His wandering maintains an otherwise strained fitness and displays a practical musculature

About Me

Ability Description

⥋ Energy Manipulation
⥋ Can manipulate atoms, molecules, particles, and subatomic particles, as well as the energy of said particles
⥋ However, cannot do so with any control, and therefore any manipulation results in varying levels of destruction
⥋ Relies on this destruction as his power. Cannot master whatever else it might have afforded him.
⥋ The degree of destruction is amplified by his emotions, and can manifest in varying ways
⥋ His magic takes a heavy physical toll, the materialization of which is dictated by the strength and type of destructive event.


⥣ Resourceful, Imaginative, Intelligent
⥥ Apathetic, Deranged, Chaotic, Deadly
⥧ Curious (with specificity), Determined (with purpose)


The exhale of an indiscernible whisper playfully shoved a strand of hair past his temple and across the bridge of his nose. Axel's hand unearthed itself from under a heavy quilt to chase the sandman's interloper away, teeth suddenly chattering in the tangible cold that slowly seemed to infiltrate. As weighted lids fought to rise, the room echoed with voices so veiled and muffled that the seven year old thought himself under water, the abrupt recognition of his name jettisoning him to the surface of slumber with the panicked inhale of a drowning man. Midnight's shadows impishly swayed, but beyond the scattered imaginings they inspired, the room was visibly empty. Yet, his eyes continued to dart, pads of naked feet skating along the floor in search of stability, his world tilting as another phantom breath teased his right ear.

When Axel finally reached her, his mother had not focused on the scratches at his collar, but the clothes she would have to wash, and the floor she would have to clean. HIs father had never gifted much besides ire. The morning would not see him spared his newfound fears, his expression twisting with the heavy, sleepless weeks that followed.

They became more than echoes within the year, their polluted silhouettes augmented in his presence, spirits daring to follow him in the sanctity daylight had once provided. The escalation was unexpected, so use to claws and nightmarish pressure that Axel would never have guessed things could intensify...but even his grandmother had spoken of possession. He should have remembered the scriptures he'd read in her lap, but the brutal tug at his stomach occluded the regret and reminiscence with vomit.

An exorcism occurred at his mother's behest, with its failure, the next year passing in almost complete isolation. His fits at school, and at home, finally prompted a more severe intervention. At least, those were the lies she'd told him, able to descry the fear in her features every time she met his gaze. His father didn't spare him a glance, but his sister's anguished eyes held him with desperation as a pair of orderlies pulled him through the front door. Dropped keys provided an opportunity for him to yank away, the moon shedding light on the forest trails he habitually cut through to avoid passing by the cemetery on his way into town.

His escape failed. A demon shook his legs to withered iron, eyes widening as he stared upwards from the forest floor and into the face of a man. At the stranger's chest, through flesh and bone, Axel could see a twisting, gaping maw, his pulse hammering out the speech the walking, bloody cocoon had uttered. The nine year old's screams rang like a beacon, the sedative the orderlies administered cutting through lucidity as his home and family were relegated to the vestiges of memory.

The Mendota Mental Health Institute of Madison Wisconsin was filled with promises of rehabilitation and ready smiles that tried to provide a half-assed ablution for more than a century worth of sins. Seven years inside its damned walls had shown him a torment he was sure Minos would have envied. Pharmacological therapy had cut a quick path to electroconvulsive therapy as he aged, but in recent months, he'd been awake for every procedure. His medications had stopped. New faces had filled the space around him, and although his head was restrained, he could make out suits and espy importance in his peripherara. As the knob turned, whatever words they had uttered were lost to electricity and pain.

The sun had grown cruel in its age, Axel's skin burning as he peered upwards and through the small window above the table where he was fettered. At his arm, a nurse fumbled, the needle missing his vein three times before the rush of fluids made him shiver. The air tingled with something indiscernible, a desperate itch in his bones forcing a grunt past the plastic situated between his teeth. He'd tried to root it, expose it, flesh riddled with the evidence of his endeavors, but the weeks had provided no reprieve, and the staff had provided no cure. Instead, they prodded him towards what he could only image would be his eventual mitosis. His skeleton had not ripped through sinew like he had hoped, but something had fillet him, the itch digging in like claws while spewing forth the excess with a violence that spotted his vision with black. He caught glimpses as he was heaved away, disfigured bodies and fluid walked over with an ease that could only be born of greedy purpose. The needle containing the epinephrine that had resuscitated him fell from the cavity of his arm and onto the dirt road as he was shoved into a black vehicle. He didn't care to look at the faces that surrounded him, learning long ago they carried no meaning. The voices carried no hope, and Axel knew these people had not saved him to help him.

He could not say how long they'd been driving, the construct of time eliminated through his life of seclusion, but the sky hinted a gradient of light and color through the abscesses of black smoke. Early morning, then. It hardly mattered. The earth was cold, and the glass was sharp. Gnarled metal smiled through his curator's cheekbone, the flesh that remained charred. It was a smell unlike any other, but he did not find it distasteful.

It was honest.

It was a satisfying irony that filled him as he turned his back to dying, garbled pleas, the wood line seeming to part like eager thighs to welcome him. A fitting homecoming, his fingertips brushing against bark as the images of books were conjured from behind the chaos of disorganized thought. A constant that made powering through broken bones and burned skin satisfying.

Touching civilization proved him a child in a man's body, and while he adapted and assimilated with exposure, he had no desire to integrate. He took what he needed by whatever means, but beyond sustaining, he did not wish to thrive. Elements of existence became easier. Spirits could not hijack him without permission, but their voices did not cease, and his was a flame they were desperate to follow. The itch was incessant, but it proved useful, and while he could not claim mastery, he had control, of a kind. Perhaps kind was the wrong word, for kindness had no place to call home beside him.

While he would have been glad for the rot death promised, the curiosity his youth had robbed him now ebbed past his apathy. It was what drew him from city to city, from person to person. From spirit to spirit. From husk to husk. The messy shades of life were intriguing enough to avoid inviting the scythe for now, and Portland begged him for exploration.


Face Claim: Adam Driver

-Has felt the presence of his own kind, but has never afforded confronted individuals to provide clarity about what he is, or who they are.
-Refers to shifters as, "husks."