Perhaps having such a traumatizing birth day was the cause for his behavior. Maybe the metaphorical apple does not fall far from the tree. No one will ever know fully, but it's apparent that something is wrong with this boy right off the bat. It takes only a few seconds to notice that his gait mimics a bunch of ravers caught in a dance off to the death or that he is quite simply intoxicated by whatever means wyverns use to get drunk. The sad truth is that the freezing temperatures and neglect he suffered through while still in the egg have left him with severe nerve damage. His ability to communicate is also hampered by the same reason. Instead of sending complex images, this poor boy can only communicate through various colors, blunt, blinding and simple in his young age, he will, in time, learn how to master this disability by connecting emotions with the colors and making patterns out of them. He never gets frustrated or angry - rather he doesn't seem to realize that he's different, and if he does he isn't the type to worry about it. Sweet as can be, he follows in his parents foot steps by falling prey to his curiosity, breaking various objects - especially windows because when they break they sound pretty - and often getting in over his head.
It's a good thing that he can at least hold his own in battle, and those blocks of color serve their purpose in blinding adversaries. His scales' coloration hints at his icy tragedy as well, an ugly rust-orange color with a blue, ice-white layer over top of him. His extremities are tipped with jet-black, as if he had been tossed in fire instead of encased in ice. He has no feeling in these black areas. Taking after his Lordly father in size, which really won't help him as he gets on in years, this Agony also has his father's remarkably colored eyes. One can easily be drawn into them, as they are mesmerizing, golden flecks of color placed erratically across the lens. He rarely screams, or makes normal wyvern noises. Instead, he tries to mimic the melodic noises in human's voices, though he can never actually achieve human speech, the effect is a quiet lull and thrum of pitches, the ghosts of words rather than any sort of known language.
Sometimes the living become too preoccupied with the notion of death. They let it consume them, driving them to some sort of deep primal terror or sick, twisted fascination. With eyes that glitter like starlight on a moonless night and a pelt shrouded in a mystery blacker than the depths of any earthen bowels, this lady fancies herself to be a certain mistress of Death. She neither fears nor is completely consumed with the process, but rather respects it and accepts the end with a form of morbid and profound wisdom. This does not absolve her from being odd or creepy. When her prey has been captured she will grow silent and bow her head, almost as if she were praying before striking for the kill. If she were to witness a creature caught in the throes of death she would stop anything she was in the middle of doing to watch it till it was still and lifeless. Perhaps she is just curious as to what could possibly be happening, but after you catch her in the act of dancing around a hummgriff corpse, runes scratched onto the rock slate the small creature is resting upon you might realize she's more intelligent and frightening than at first thought. She is always observing people, rarely speaking or making a noise, and certainly does not act very wyvernly in any manner except perhaps in her appetite. It could be safe to adopt a stance of if you see an inky shadow creeping toward between the trees or down an alleyway you're at the mouth of, pray and run. But mostly pray.