Post by jazzjazz on Apr 13, 2009 16:17:21 GMT -5
Name: Wasted
Age:5
Gender:Stallion
Breed: Painted Mustang
Color:Sorrel Overo
Markings:Many
Alliance:Undecided
Foals:none
Personality: He is manic depressive. His thoughts can be suicidal. He does himself more harm than good. He loves fiercely and is sadistically protective, obsessive even.
History: His sire was a maniacle overlord of a neighboring island, his dam was the beaten down washed up remains of a stallions plaything, his whimsy. Both were useless as parental figures. Carrying his sires temper and strange demeanors he set off, abandoning all that he knew, for the years he spent were wasted on the poor creatures that were ruled, rued, and ruined by his sire's disastrous reign of terror. He has little respect for loyalty and scorns them inwardly, and avoids them outwardly. He would have been ruler of his land, but after seeing his sire screw if up he has no desire to rule. He doesn't seek a mate, but it is in his nature to fall in love. Most likely with the weakest, frailest, creature that stumbles on his path. He has a predatorial like way of courting.
Sample Post: Step. Stumble. Climb. Stumble. Would he ever make it up this God forsaken hill. Dull hideous rocks and shards and pebbles tumbled down from his wary pace like rein. A narrow path was all that availed itself to his weary feet and yet he climbed. And climbed. And finally climbed some more. Stumbling as he went. The rock face looked sheer as he came upon it, but the goat path was easy enough to find once he was nearer to it.
Great. A hole. The already narrow passage decided to present the fool traveller with a gap in its sequence. What to do. Not much. Turning back wasn't even an option at this point. Going up was now the only way down other than falling a good fifteen or twenty something feet to the hard dry ground, callused and cracked from the lack of rain this summer. Ahh but spring was here, surely promising some sort of plentiful refreshment should he decide to sate his dire thirst.
Doubt it. What was the point. A warm breeze ruffled his russet mane, flipping it over his thick cresty neck to rest on the wrong side, and feathered his foreward tendrils over his eyes. Now he could hide, but could he see the damn path?
Hope you like him!
Picture: fc02.deviantart.com/fs45/f/2009/103/9/e/Wasted_by_JazzEphotos.jpg
Age:5
Gender:Stallion
Breed: Painted Mustang
Color:Sorrel Overo
Markings:Many
Alliance:Undecided
Foals:none
Personality: He is manic depressive. His thoughts can be suicidal. He does himself more harm than good. He loves fiercely and is sadistically protective, obsessive even.
History: His sire was a maniacle overlord of a neighboring island, his dam was the beaten down washed up remains of a stallions plaything, his whimsy. Both were useless as parental figures. Carrying his sires temper and strange demeanors he set off, abandoning all that he knew, for the years he spent were wasted on the poor creatures that were ruled, rued, and ruined by his sire's disastrous reign of terror. He has little respect for loyalty and scorns them inwardly, and avoids them outwardly. He would have been ruler of his land, but after seeing his sire screw if up he has no desire to rule. He doesn't seek a mate, but it is in his nature to fall in love. Most likely with the weakest, frailest, creature that stumbles on his path. He has a predatorial like way of courting.
Sample Post: Step. Stumble. Climb. Stumble. Would he ever make it up this God forsaken hill. Dull hideous rocks and shards and pebbles tumbled down from his wary pace like rein. A narrow path was all that availed itself to his weary feet and yet he climbed. And climbed. And finally climbed some more. Stumbling as he went. The rock face looked sheer as he came upon it, but the goat path was easy enough to find once he was nearer to it.
Great. A hole. The already narrow passage decided to present the fool traveller with a gap in its sequence. What to do. Not much. Turning back wasn't even an option at this point. Going up was now the only way down other than falling a good fifteen or twenty something feet to the hard dry ground, callused and cracked from the lack of rain this summer. Ahh but spring was here, surely promising some sort of plentiful refreshment should he decide to sate his dire thirst.
Doubt it. What was the point. A warm breeze ruffled his russet mane, flipping it over his thick cresty neck to rest on the wrong side, and feathered his foreward tendrils over his eyes. Now he could hide, but could he see the damn path?
Hope you like him!
Picture: fc02.deviantart.com/fs45/f/2009/103/9/e/Wasted_by_JazzEphotos.jpg