* | 𝖋𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖎𝖗 𝖌𝖗𝖊𝖞𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Delphine.

“   Well then I suppose there’s work to be done.   ”   A last resort.   That’s all they were.   But there’s little sense in arguing what is clearly a moot point.   She knows he means the words,   and that’s enough quell her for now.   Delphine settles back into her chair,   heaves a sigh as her head lolls back,   the silence settling between them,   emphasizing the finality of the conversation.   The boy was one of them now.   There was little else to do but wait for him to fail.

E N D. 

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Amycus.

Honestly, Amycus knew he had about a fifty-fifty chance of walking right into certain death. Okay, sixty-forty… or eighty-twenty. Whatever. Greyback certainly didn’t owe him any fucking favors, but Carrow was a businessman. He knew what he was asking for would come with a heavy price tag. “Dot dot dot, to be decided or whatever,” he replied with a halfhearted shrug, pushing a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m smarter than I look and I have a lot of friends in high places.” Friends was pushing it. Associates, maybe. Acquaintances, barely. “I can be a priceless asset to you. A lot of people think I’m already a dead man, so what do you have to lose?”

The werewolf would’ve laughed if he wasn’t in the foul mood he usually found himself in after face time with the slithering bastard. “Considering what’s landed you in this position I don’t have much faith in that Carrow. And your friends the ones that are out for your blood. Really you don’t have much to offer other. In truth the question is what do I have to gain?”

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Delphine.

It couldn’t hurt to have one more grunt at their disposal,   but the distaste is hard for her to mask.   “   Generous of you.   ”   Gaze is fixed on a point ahead of them both,   and she tries to quell the sense of annoyance at the fact that the boy will undoubtedly become her newest underling.   “   The boy was raised with magic.   His loyalties are not to us.   ”   Fenrir isn’t one to allow his judgements to be questioned,   but Delphine hasn’t made it this far by being spineless.   If she can’t speak plainly to him in private,   then what use is she at all?   “   He won’t get second chances with me.   ”   

Generosity was hardly a trait that could be equated with the alpha, and while this decision of his wasn’t entirely sound, he saw an opportunity to reap some benefit and no downside as of yet. “There’s no one else that will have his loyalty should he decide to stray. The boy was staring at death at every door, and this was his only saving grace. Or at least the one the little wizling could stand to stomach.” Putting away his wand and living amongst the muggles would be a fate worse than death Fenrir would wager. “If he steps out of line I’ll wring him of his last breath myself.”

[56456546gfgf-deactivated2021111]

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Delphine.

She is never eager to show her surprise,   but she doesn’t necessarily hide it from Fenrir either.   Brow quirks up,   she runs her tongue over the tips of her teeth in thought.   “   And why is that twit’s life any concern of ours?   ”   She’s far from enthused at the thought of him becoming their problem,   but her tone is kept level,   not revealing even a hint of feeling.

Downing the rest of his drink before he lifted his arm to rest behind his head as his jaw worked. What was done was done, however Fenrir wasn’t entirely sure he’d made the right call in turning the lad. “Because I decided to toss him a bone. Come the next full moon he’ll be one of us until he manages to get himself blown up again.”

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Amycus.

Amycus Carrow was a dead man… at least that’s what he heard. Which was ironic, because he knew when he escaped the Order safe house, he was going to be killed. He was going to be killed either way, be it by an Order member’s hand - he would have bet on James if only for the poetry - or by a Death Eater’s hand. Probably one of the ones he named (fucking truth serum) if not by the Dark Lord himself. Someone needed to toss him a bone… so when he heard whispers about the werewolf fight club, he knew he had an out. Maybe. There was just one problem - he had to convince Fenrir Greyback, who already hated him, to do him a favor. Cool cool cool cool. Amycus did his best to remain cool, calm and collected as he walked into the warehouse searching for the man in charge. He even cracked a small smile as he approached the older male. “Actually, I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

The werewolf raised an eyebrow at the young wizard, though not a moment later an almost feral smile made it’s way across his face. Carrow was but a dead man, the death eaters believed him to be dead yet the order knew of the truth, in the time he had before that changed was precious he was here for salvation. “Then you better start by telling me what you plan on doing for this favor.”

[fcnrirgrcybck]

ASK ANYTHING

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[fcnrirgrcybck]

Delphine.

He was right.   As tempting as it was to give into impulse,   a moment’s satisfaction was nothing compared to the future they would all share.   “   It’s entertaining to watch their little squabbles.   ”   She muses,   mulling over his words.   “   To see the looks on their faces when they realize it’s all for nothing…   ”   It’s a satisfying thought.   Of course,   to ever see it come to fruition they had to get somewhere first.   “   A small handful of us would have turned that festival red.   ”

Fenrir smirked the very thought had occurred to him as well when he learned of the attack. “Their numbers were menial. For all their gloating, and wand waving going for the throat will always be more effective.” He said very matter of fact. It was a missed opportunity. “Next time. I have some news for you. Carrow is alive.”

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Remus.

Remus was tired and dreading the days ahead. He had another shift tomorrow and an early wake up on the day after. He knew why Dumbledore was pushing them to attend the festival – the risk was too high. But still. Another week without a single good rest. You’d think he’d be used to these by now. You’d also think he’d hate bars by now but The Three Broomsticks was a bit of a home away from home. Rosmerta was a kind soul – to him, at least. But the figure that loomed over his table, slamming down two pints, was definitely not Rosmerta. He could feel his skin prickle as he stared at the man with wide-eyed alarm. “Who the hell are you?” he asked. He wasn’t ignoring the stranger’s question. Or maybe he kind of was.

Pulling the chair back with a loud shriek against the stone floor of the tavern, Fenrir seated himself taking up twice as much space as the boy before him. He was pathetic, a true disappointment for what he was. The wolves lip upturned at his lack of recognition, the movement exposing a single elongated canine. “I lead the wolves around these parts. And my question still stands.”

[amorfatihq]

[fcnrirgrcybck]

I spotted FENRIR GREYBACK in Diagon Alley early today. Have you heard the rumors? Supposedly the HALFBREED (WEREWOLF) is affiliated with THE DEATH EATERS. Born on NOVEMBER / 11 / 1943, they are THIRTY NINE and identify as CIS MALE (he/him) and POLYSEXUAL. They work as a RADICAL LEADER; it makes sense, given they are LETHAL & BELLIGERENT but also ROBUST & PERSEVERING. When I think of them, I think of vicious canines dripping blood, torn seams and tattered clothes, the promise of violence ever present.

Rippling unkempt grey fur, a towering frame well over six feet, amber tinged irises, elongated canines dripping blood, the crimson smeared across his muzzle in stark contrast against the grey of his fur. A sight so gruesome it puts terror in the hearts of grown men. That is the sight of Fenrir Greyback in all his glory, though his hulking build when back on his human feet is no less imposing. One can just wonder where it all began for the savage, and in truth, Fenrir’s life before lycanthropy was entirely plain and without intrigue. The only son of two half-bloods who worked as shopkeeps in Scotland, had little to do with the larger Wizarding community outside their small town. Thus Fenrir was the perfect target of a pack leader who’d been looking to bolster his numbers and come up in the Scottish circles.

Fenrir was bitten and turned at the ripe young age of ten, however, instead of stealing him away from his parents he simply let him be. Come the night of the first full moon the pair were unable to do anything to temper his ferocity when he changed for the first time, his father was even severely injured in the process of his containment. As was predicted by his maker their fear outweighed their love for him and they were all too happy to give him up to Bleddyn when he returned for his prize the night before the next moon. From that point on he was raised at his maker’s mercy, taught to forgo all his previous notions, his humanity so that he could unlock his greatest bestial potential.

A decade later Bleddyn learned that perhaps he’d taught the boy too well, or failed to see the way his spirit had morphed over the years with nothing but hatred festering within for so long. Hatred towards the parents who would abandon him to the mercy of a monster, hatred towards the world that would sooner shun him then recognize him as a living being with just as much sentiment as any other, and most of all a hatred for the man who brought him to this place, and sought at every opportunity to beat him into submission. Fenrir’s seize of power can be described in no way other than savage. Bleddyn’s broken body speared through on full display for all to see for weeks on, a clear message to the rest on who was the new alpha. Anyone with even an inclination to oppose him joined their previous leader, in the same manner, the stench of death hung in the air for months after, word of the new merciless pack leader spreading like wildfire.

Fenrir Greyback was a brutal man, and many might not even venture as far as calling him a man at all but a beast. However, no one could deny the man has a vision, and the singled minded determination to see that vision come to light. What Fenrir wants in simple terms is to see his kind dominate, to overtake the Wizards in population and claim to purchase of worth. His sheer force of will more enchanting than he can be credited for as that very world he promises is one so many neglected and oppressed Lycans could for so long only dream of. In Fenrir, they finally found a leader that was willing to make those dreams a reality, werewolves from far and wide flocked to him to join his cause, his pack. Their reverence and loyalty towards him nearly fanatical.

Fenrir’s methods are simplistic almost, marking those who show potential and taking them in under his tutelage molding them to see the world as he does, the best results among those he turns young. Along with spreading the condition to others, he’s amassed quite the army of true wolves, his cubs birthed by a small number of his female followers. Admittedly he has little to no affection for his offspring viewing them more as pawns than anything else. In truth, the man is likely not to even remember the given names of most the cubs. His affection for their mothers’ even less noteworthy.

For all that was known about him in the Lycan circles, awareness of his being took longer to amass in his earlier year, in which he gained most momentum. His claim to blood staggering, in both the number of victims he turns and those he butchered for so much as looking at him the wrong way. Over the years Fenrir has been able to evade the Wizarding world long enough, never registering himself as a werewolf, and keeping as many of his followers from doing so as well. He was even brought forth a council on claims of being an unregistered werewolf many years ago however he feigned innocence able to fool the lot, though not without suspect by one. However, in his typical manner, he dealt with that in kind. In the last two decades, his claim to power has risen exponentially, his name enough to incite fear in the hearts of many. His terror such that even those who might look down upon him hold some amount of reverie towards his methods.

Few wizards give Fenrir Greyback pause, Lord Voldemort is one such man, less a man more a monster much like himself. Despite the brute force by which he so often works, Fenrir is not ignorant enough to incite the wrath of the Dark Lord at least until he has the force he requires to bring forth the future he envisions to reality. Their alliance hangs by a tether and the promise of prey, with even Lord Voldemort unable to deny the terror the werewolf inspires, and the complete absence of any empathy that might deter him from his mark. Thus the werewolf is one of the greatest weapon in the Dark Lords arsenal. While Voldemort may need the Lycan, Fenrir doesn’t evade his prejudice, thus he is never given the mark that bolsters the pride of the rest of his followers. Though this doesn’t bother Fenrir all that much considering he isn’t a follower simply an ally, his loyalties lying only with his kind, alliances able to shift any which direction.

FENRIR is played by Ally and portrayed by HENRY CAVILL.

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Amycus.

When:  Past midnight on April 16th, 1982 Where:  The current lycan fighting ring location

Perhaps the deed would weigh heavy on the heart of another man, a better man. Though who could really claim Fenrir Greyback had a heart at all. Which was why he had returned to the abandoned warehouse, in place of his current hideout. The warehouse had stockpiles of booze, and plenty of inebriated souls just as deprived as he to tuck himself into for an hour or two. His plans however didn’t include an interruption in the form of a dead man walking. Last he’d heard Carrow was dead, much to everyone’s relief. He could care less, although...there was no harm in killing a man already meant to be dead. “You really got a death wish don’t you Carrow?”

@ascarrow

[fcnrirgrcybck]

FOREVER LOST.

When:  The midnight of April 16th, 1982 Where:  Malfoy Manor Who:  Voldemort, Peter, Severus, Fenrir Triggers:  Disturbing Violence, Prejudice Slurs, Child Death

The werewolf's jaw ticked as he walked into the study, his base reaction to being given orders or presented with demands was to tear off a hunk of flesh and keep it for self-satisfaction. Yet, Voldemort’s calling wasn’t one he could forgo. Yet. The snake slithering around the base of an armchair in front of the fireplace was the only indication to the presence of the Dark Lord. However, it was not the first thing to catch his attention when he entered the room. No, it was the sweet yet equally putrid smell that so often belonged to the young. His lip curled in disgust, the hard set of his jaw and stormy disposition only growing in severity. 

“Fenrir, finally.” Came the hiss of a voice from across the room, Fenrir only made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a ’hmm’ as he strode closer to the flame, gaze sticking on the crib on the corner of the room a moment longer. Perhaps the snake had decided to make due on his debts in installments. The werewolf knew by now that his hoard has taken the Potter boy in hopes of striking an exchange for Carrow, the shit-eating tike seemed hardly worth the trouble to the Lycan.

“As you well know, Amycus Carrow has been abducted. Doubtless by cause of his own foolhardy. However, it can not be ignored that the Order is growing emboldened. Their treachery needs to be dealt with, in kind.” A twisted smile made it’s way onto the wolf's face as he understood now why he was here when he had no vested interest in the internal matters of his brood. “I can take the child off your hands,” Fenrir interjected, and while he didn’t know this when making the offer but upon learning the boys' father was a close friend of Lupins he would find the prospect even more appealing. 

“No. The boy must die. Tonight. Peter inform Severus his services are required. He must arrive promptly.” Fenrir glanced over to see the mousy boy materialize from the shadows. Misery was painted so plainly across his face, he even looked a tad bit greenish on the face as if he might become sick at any moment. Peter had known the boys' fate before the werewolf had even been called upon to carry out the deed, he knew when instead of an exchange, his fellow cohort delivered an ambush to the Order. The werewolf found himself on the verge of boisterous laughter at it all. Lord Voldemort certainly seemed to derive some innate pleasure from the boy’s misery, and his complete servitude in spite of it. His fear of the Dark Lord was nearly palpable. And that Fenrir understood better than anyone, being a man who took pride in being the subject of fear in others.  

 * Please read this next part with the understanding that it clearly depicts the murder of a small child. If that is something that might upset you please skip the upcoming two paragraphs. *

* * *

When the werewolf approached the crib in which the child lay fast asleep, his hulking form cast a long shadow against the flickering light of the fire behind. He could nearly taste the sweet blood on his tongue, though he was devoid of that pleasure knowing exactly what sort of message Voldemort wanted to send the Potters. So as much as he wanted to close his eyes and sink his teeth in, he could not. His claws would have to do, the picture clear in his mind to be extracted shortly after, too bad he wouldn’t have the viewing pleasure himself, not when that would be the Dark Lord’s gift to the Potters. 

His claws extended with the lift of his arm, his shadow projecting him larger than life, more true to the beast within perhaps. A single swift slash across the middle of the bundle and in an instant the baby blue of the blanket was stained with crimson all at once, then rapidly spreading, the sight of his spilling entrails visible through the shreds in the fabric. The boys' eyes fluttered open once, the wolf nearly having missed it. Yet the moment was no lost, Fenrir watched as the light in his eyes sparked once, before flickering out blank, staring into the vast chasm of emptiness that awaited him. The deed was done, the mess not his to worry about. Across the room, a strangled sob finally escaped the boy who was clearly far over his head in all this and trapped utterly without escape.

* * *

Greyback didn’t linger in the Malfoy study much longer than he needed to as a ghostly looking Snape completed his task. The wolf's work was done and he saw no reward in sitting around to sip tea with the Dark Lord, talking all proper while his patience grew taut. The wolf dripped blood along the polished marble walkways of the luscious manor only to crudely wipe the blood on his dark clock outside, not for the first time.

After his exit, the final preparation of the execution was being made. Pettigrew tasked with collecting the boys' blood in his masters' ink jar, stripping the bloodied blanket from the crib, and setting the thing ablaze soon after to become little more than charred remains. A letter is penned in the blood of the boy by Voldemort himself reading the following:

‘Potter, The price of your treachery shall always be paid in blood.’

“Pettigrew, ensure our gift is delivered to Potter’s mudblood whore. Tonight.” His parting words to the young wizard, whom had been there on the day the child took his first breaths, and there on eve of his demise. Left to burn in his own personal hell.

Harry Potter, the boy who did not live to see even the end of his second year, was forever lost.

[winnifredburkle]

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Oh and he knows That his soul Oh his soul is damned For what God would love Oh, such a wicked, awful man 

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Delphine.

when:  evening of april 16th where:  one of the werewolf clubs

“   I’d like to kill just one.   ”   Smirk blooms on painted lips as the sting of strong whiskey washes down her throat,   an obvious truth to her words despite the playful glint in her eyes.   No reason to pretend here,   around like minds.   She makes her way over the the other,   setting the bottle on the table between the armchairs,   an extra glass following suit before she relaxes into her own.   Legs cross lazily,   Delphine casts the other a glance.   “   Or maim   -   we could keep it as a a pet.   Might be good for the morale.   ”

While the werewolves gaze remained transfixed on the crowd from what he sulked low in the oversized armchair, he did raise a single brow at the words of her arrival. “As much as I want to let you and be there to watch, for now we’ll just have to be patient and play nice. In the end won’t matter who the good wizards are or the bad, they’ll all fall in line under us. And those that don’t well...you’ll be the first to have your way with ‘em.”

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Remus.

When:  The evening of April 9th, 1982 Where:  The Three Broomsticks

Fenrir wasn’t the sort to lose track of those he’d gifted with the curse of Lycanthrope until he’d come to collect, Remus Lupin however had been the exception. The curse hadn’t been a gift so much for the boy as it was a punishment for his father, a reminder of the price of his hubris. Thus Fenrir had kept his distance, and with the passage of time Lyll Lupin and his scion had faded from his mind. That was until the name began to reverberate amongst his circles once more. Remus Lupin was no longer hiding away from his kind, content in the privilege of his acceptance, protected by that crack pot old loon. Fenrir didn’t like it. As far as he was concerned he was a disgrace. So when one of his men tipped him off to spotting him, he wasted no time in finding him. It was time the boy meet his maker. Slamming down two overflowing pints on the table before him, Fenrir took a seat not bothering with formalities, as he leaned back taking a moment to size him up. “A lone wolf, sticking his nose in pack business. Sounds contradictory, doesn’it?”

@rjluqin​

[fcnrirgrcybck]

MURDER, MUTILATION, EXTORTION & RACKETEERING ALL IN A DAYS WORK.

It should come as no surprise that Fenrir has little to no time to be earning a steady income through hard work. Though that’s not to say he doesn’t put blood and sweat into making his money, just not his own. Among his pack there are those that operate a string of unsavory businesses through which the pack runs extortion and racketeering rings across Great Britain. These businesses include underground fighting rings targeted towards magical creatures, though every now and again you might hear about a couple of scrappy wizlings stepping into the ring. There are definitely plenty of wizards among the audience however, indulging in all the vices offered.

Other businesses include gambling dens, and the trade of illegal goods. However, the majority of their profits are made through extortion based on the gangly fear the pack is known to inspire. Seeing as it’s easer to cough up a lump sum when the wolves come knocking every month than have a pack of wolves to worry your family over. The fear keeps their pockets lined, and their victims quiet. Sure, a number of his men have been taken into custody but the examples made of those responsible has over the years made it more of a rare occurrence. The authorities are easily evaded also because of the fluidity of these establishments, along with the ingrained indifference the wizarding community has in the matters of magical creatures.

[fcnrirgrcybck]

Travers.

When:  Late evening, on the 11th of April Where:  A DE friendly, Knockturn Alley drinking establishment

By now news of the easter attack was plastered across every paper, the topic of every whining conversation in the vicinity. Six dead, a handful more injured. Not even a days work for the brute, not a dozen of his lads and they’d 'ev had a proper massacre on their hands. Knocking back the last of his pint he slammed it down on the table waving over the barkeep for another. Catching a swatch of the figure nearing him in his periphery the wolfs lips upturned at the corner, his sharper than average human canine peaking through as he turned to stand before the man, Fenrir towering over him in his full height. “Travers, I hear regrets are in order. I’d say shame ‘bout Carrow, but I could give a shite.”

@jonastravers​