| IMPULSIVE | APATHETIC | SNIDE | AGGRESSIVE |
| DEFENSIVE | VOLATILE | SELF-CENTERED | EGOTISTICAL |
He is not the calm before the storm; he is the rage of flame. The wrath could only come from years of suppressed anger and emotion. Years of suppression—of playing nice—trying not to act upon the dark thoughts within his mind. His faithful love in life is violence, the rush of battle, the blood upon his lips, whether it be his own or another's. The adrenaline of fur flying, jaws snapping, teeth clacking is like none other he had ever experienced. A drug that he is addicted to that he can't get enough of. Conflict and turmoil are his bread and butter; he cannot live without causing it or being in the center of it. He is chaos incarnate; he wants to burn the world with him as the match. He wants calamities that are at a magnitude of 15 with him at the epicenter.
Thereupon his features, there is always something wicked, something cruel that rains over his mask like a day that never stops raining. He is the oncoming storm, the hurricane with no end. Thunder crashes, and lightning slices through the sky. The typhoon. The enemy in every story... and yet—oh and yet—there, if you bother to search hard or long enough, there be a sadness hidden and locked away. A sadness that is a plague and cannot be removed save for the final solution.
He walks with heavy steps, but heavy does not mean slow. No, his pace is quick. For everything in his life must be nimble and at the ready. He plays Russian roulette, but all the chambers are loaded, a quick trigger, he's always too excited to play with fire. He is overflowing with black ooze, a dark and icky substance only made of rage and hate—pestilence, a plague that only wishes to spread and infect the lives of all those around him.
Elarion is a walking bomb, and time is up.