Images of

A photo of Freyr. Don't laugh.

Played by Issendai

Nickname: Hi-chan

Alias: Hisoka Mizutani

Gender: Male

Age: 17

Birth Date: A very, very, very long time ago

Birthplace: Far, far away

Blood Type: A

Family: Freyr was created wingless by a God who then despised him for his winglessness and shut him up in a prison for millennia. “Family” isn’t his favorite topic.

Hair: Black

Eyes: Brown

Body: A slight, chipmunk-cheeked boy with a long mop of floppy black hair. He’s about 5’7”, and his years of farm work haven’t bulked him up appreciably. The picture I’m basing him on is here.

Marks: None in particular

Clothing: Comfortable, floppy, baggy things--sweatshirts and jeans and sneakers.

Most Prized Possession: Freyr isn’t attached to material things, so his most prized possession changes daily—a favorite sweatshirt, or a big basket of tomatoes from the farmer’s market, or a really good book. Hobbies: Gardening, chess, cooking. Drinking, dancing, flirting, and snogging aren’t hobbies, they’re essential parts of life.

Occupation: Awakening the Vengeful so they can go whup the Fallen!... Oh, that wasn't what you meant. Most of the time, he travels the world hiring himself out as a farm hand. If he absolutely must live in a city, he tries to find work as a landscaper’s assistant or a florist. School is Right Out. The uniforms are scratchy.

Food: At one time, Freyr had favorite foods. Now he just begs the universe for one really fresh, really clean thing to eat. He can’t stomach modern packaged, preservative-laced food, and spends a lot of time baking his own bread and shopping in farmers’ markets. This is not to say that he’s a health nut; most of his meals would make a human’s arteries harden on sight.

Fears: God. Annihilation. Once he’s wrapped his mind around those for the day, little fears like “being asked to set the time on the VCR” and “having to play dolls with Samael-Omega” pale in comparison.

Goals: To reawaken the Vengeful and finish this long, sad chase. If he does his job well enough, maybe God will forgive him. A long time ago, Freyr dreamed of wings, but he’s lost the hope of them now.

Positive Characteristics: Sweet, merry, fun-loving.

Negative Characteristics: Freyr takes out his misery on the people around him through subtle sadism. His "student" is not going to have an easy time of it... and neither will any Fallen who strays into his hands.

Power: Freyr is a wood mage. He also has a decent level of telekinesis.

Personality and History: Freyr is cheerful and puppylike on the outside, but his long servitude has soured him. First he was imprisoned for something he couldn't help doing, by the thing which made him do it; then he was freed and chased like a dog; then he was told to go follow a mortal/angel hybrid across the surface of the Earth for a few thousand years for the glory of God, occasionally tailed by more of God's jailers for the sake of appearances. He follows God because God is the only game going. Freyr doesn't want to stand against God because... because there's no choice. God will destroy him. And the Fallen are even worse than God... right?

At one time, Freyr wanted God’s love. What else is worth living for, after all? Now Freyr tells himself that he’s not interested any more because it will never happen. They tell him that helping the Vengeful in their final mission will earn God’s love, or at least his respect, but Freyr can’t fully believe it. God has betrayed him too thoroughly for him to ever believe that God would do something rational or sensible. At the same time, Freyr hasn’t completely given up hope. He just tries not to think about it because thinking about it hurts.

Freyr hates the modern age. He remembers the middle ages as a golden age, when forests covered the land and the world was fresher and more pure. The truth is that he remembers an age when his own soul was fresher and more pure, but he can’t see that. Nowadays he avoids modernisms as much as he can without seeming weird. No video games, no cell phones, no polyester, no food out of a plastic bag. After much struggle, he learned to use the phone, and he even watches TV sometimes. Gas stoves are all right because they’re the closest he can get to cookfires. Electric lights are bearable because he has learned at length the concept of “fire hazard.” Computers are a mystery, and the subway is an extended torture.

Freyr is, at heart, a gentle and loving person. He has no one to care for, though; the other Guides are too wrapped up in their own neuroses, and mortals are too impermanent. Angels are out of the question; they make Freyr bitter. So Freyr keeps up the cheerful front, does his duty assiduously, makes what temporary friends he can, and vents his misery in little barbs and stings. He’s very, very glad that soon the whole mess will be over.

Present: Freyr has just come in from the country to live in the Guides’ house in Tokyo. He’s looking for work and hoping that the Samaels will take their time in finding their way to the Guides’ house.

Writing Sample:

Freyr squeezed into the tiny bedroom and looked from side to side, wrinkling his nose. The room was crammed with castoff and leftover furniture and blanketed with dust and litter, souvenirs of long occupancy and long desertion. The window was choked with strands of dead ivy; the pot itself lay smashed on the floor. Amid the rubbish of Freyr’s old life, there was not even a single clean spot large enough to lay down his rucksack.

Freyr had expected to feel happy anticipation when he returned to his old room, but he only felt sick. He shifted his rucksack into a more comfortable position and raised his arms.

The breeze was gentle when it started. The papery brown leaves of ivy stirred; a dust bunny tumbled across the floor. Then a pencil stub rolled across the bureau and clattered noisily onto the desk. A manga flipped open. A few swirls of powdery soil trickled out of the smashed pot and skirled across the floor. Freyr smiled, and a vase with a dry, dead bud in it fell over and cracked. An ancient flashlight rolled across the floor until it caught against the leg of the bed. The wind brushed Freyr’s bangs into his face. He tossed them back again and raised his arms a little higher. The wind became an audible whistle. The cracked vase whipped off the bureau, taking the rest of the litter on the bureau with it. The bottles and pots and chipped glasses crashed onto the desk, sending the desk’s litter dancing across the room. The glass shards never hit the ground, though. Freyr grinned, and the wind became a howling thing, tearing at the faded posters on the walls and dragging the scraps of Freyr’s old life into a whirlwind which spun around him. His hair blew out from his head like a black halo. He brought his hands together, and the whirlwind contracted into a screaming ball above him. He flung the ball of garbage out the open window, and it spun away into the sky.

The room was clean and white, crowded with furniture but as neat and empty as a new dormitory. Freyr gently set his rucksack on the bed.

He stuck his head out the door. “Gremoryyyyyyy! I cleaned my room! Can I go out and play?”