Levi....something. Who knows.
Appearance: Levi is thin. Almost deathly so. His ribs and pelvis are well defined. He is also rather pale and covered in scars, lash marks and burns. On the back of his keft shoulder blade is the number 682 branded into his back. His former call number. Levi himself is rather tall, standing at 6'1 with oily black hair reaching just barely past his shoulders and wide, almost doe-like blue eyes. One eye however is glassy and dead, surrounded by nasty scar tissue.
Race: Human
Age: 17
Description: Being a former slave Levi is naturally cautious, almost twitchy and stiff when interacting with people. As result he secludes and hides himself for months on end. Left to his own devices he could spend years in seclusion. His time alone has caused him to...crack a tad though. He whispers to himself and to his 'others', filling the halls of whatever building he's claimed with the faint murmurs of his ramblings. Being so socially distant coupled with being practically raised in an environment where death is apparent and food is scarce, he has developed the habit of anything he can cut down and fit in his mouth. Including the unlucky human or two he found he could overpower.

His den was quiet. His little storefront, a former local boutique of some description, secure and quiet and serene. His candles glowed faintly and warmly, shadows dancing on the cardboard and metal walls of his improvised sleeping area. Privacy was key. He grinned slightly as he sat, staring at his hands in his lap, long fingers curling and uncurling his fingers. His clothing could barely be defined as such, more like a raggedy old shirt coupled with a pair of jeans he had scavenged....somewhere. It was hard to remember.

Levi stiffened at the noise of a door opening, of the faint sound of footsteps. Of the sound of more doors opening in a hurry. It seemed to be moving away from him, from his den. But who knows if it would make its way back. His arm shot out and he snuffed out his candles one by one, standing slowly and silently, moving on heavily calloused feet out into his living space. He had hoarded the mannequins into the corner, a bucket of old paint and a paint brush next to them. One mannequin head, set aside to dry, had eyes crudely painted on its surface with a tad too much paint, the excess dripping down white plastic cheeks. Those he had finished were scattered about the building, his eyes in the dark. They told him of the happenings here. He trusted them. They were his mouth-less little messengers. They helped keep him safe.

Grabbing an old pipe from the floor he made his way to the door leading into the connecting hallway of the long little mall. He opened it slowly and peeked out, staring down the dark hallway. It bent into a corner a little ways down, but the mannequin at the end of the hallway was there, its body positioned so its painted on eyes saw down both halls, so his apprehension lifted slightly. He finally slithered out, closing the door silently behind him before slowly making his way down the hall.

~~*~*~*~~

Dahlia made an almost indignant squawk as she was scooped up, the sound like the hiss of a skipping tape. When she was placed back down she began to glare the winged man down, glowering at his back as he disappeared into the expansive building. She snapped to attention at the other male, eyes bloody red as she stared him down. With a huff though she ignored him, grumbling about her legs and the fragility of flesh. She hated it. Even as above humanity as she was now, she was still cursed with their fragile body. She detested it. Hated it. It only lowered her already foul move to an all time low, her grumbles becoming low and static like hisses.