sunnycide
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|  | I weave illusion as yarn...
« Thread Started on Oct 22, 2007, 10:41am » | |
Character Name: Shadow Spinner
Breed: Baroque Horse of Mixed Origin
Gender: Stallion
Alliance: Son of Cronous
Personality: He was once a son of Airion so he is very good at faking it. He loves to play the "tortured good guy framed as a baddie" and will often befriend the sons of Airion and daughters of Athena just to crush their hope and betray them before killing them. Even to his own side, he will lie as soon as look at you, and he often goes off by himself to come up with elaborate schemes. For the few cruel and twisted enough to interest him, he is always very quiet; simply because he trusts no one, not even himself. Some say he is going insane with so many lies, but he knows better. He is not insane. -shifty eyes- Or, at least, that's what he tells himself.
Characters History: No one knows that much, he makes sure of that. He likes to spread illusion around his history, glorifying himself and making legend out of the rather dull reality. Actually, everything was really quite different from his tales. As a foal, his curiosity got him captured by two-leggers. When he was three suns old, a saddle was thrown o'er his back and he was mounted. Naturally, as with all horses' first rides, he went psycho. Not being a very strong bucker, it was only luck that let him get his rider off. Unfortunately, his luck ended there. As the rider flew off, he threw out a kick to the back in good spirits and happened to catch the man in the head, killing him. The others watching were enraged and, tieing him to a post, beat him bloody. They let him go, thinking he would perish in the dry desert. Again, his luck returned, and he found his way to this new land, but his heart was turned cold as his blood dried on his coat and eventually washed away, leaving less scars on his pelt than on his mind.
Are you new to role play: No
Example post : I'll put two, because I'm not quite sure which style I'll end up using. 
Me using my fancy-muse:
The masculine stood on silently as the vix went through a quite strange process; going from quitetly listening to him, to worry, to almost crying, to being quite fine again. What an odd fae! He was just priding himself on dwelling on the fact that he would never make a mistake as to showing emotion to a stranger; when he made his little slip up.
Getting somewhat jumpy in this strange new land of darkness and despair, Ammar kept feeling prone to bolting. Perhaps not so much as what might be out there, but more what was he had said right here. The perfectly sculpted splashed mare 'fore him hadn't seemed to notice him, he hoped. He wouldn't be able to bear it had one more looked at him through despising eyes; eyes that thought they knew what had happened. His reputation had always preceded him where ever he went; he had always been shunned and looked at with distain, except for this place. Except for Avatrai. He had come here to escape, not a beast, but his own past. Even his name stirred up too many bitter memories to repeat that often. He watched the femme's eyes carefully, for they would tell whether he had been heard or not...
And he saw it. That glint of hate; the glitter of mistrust she had unknowingly mirrored in every other set of glassy pools he had seen whenever those words were known. Her next words bit into him like a mortal blow. You wouldn't be the first I've met, she muttered, making him sway and stagger. Even the voice of sarcasm in his head was too stunned to do anything but shut up, for the first time in many, many long years. Everything he had worked for; to forget about those horrid events, to make a new life for himself, suddenly fell apart as his memories came gushing back to him like a river exploding a dam that was his sanity.
No, please, don't hurt him! the vix had screamed.
A crack wrenched through the air, along with a strangled sob of a quine's dying screech.
Again he mouthed the words so familiar, the words voiced so many times since that horrible day. What have I done? he whispered. Then, more to himself to the vix, he began to make feeble excuses that he knew wouldn't really help anything. It was the last defence he had, the only grasp of sanity he had left, the defence that had held himself up over eight long years... It wasn't really my fault, I didn't mean to, she just sort of, jumped out, he stuttered quite unconvincingly. His words were true, however, he hadn't meant to murder his dam. He had been in a fight with his sire, and he had won. He reared over his father's fallen, but still living body, aiming not quite to kill but more to maim and to remind. But the defeated brute's lover had ran out, placing herself between him and her son, begging for mercy. Being part draft and not particularly nimble, he hadn't been able to stop himself. He had landed square on the femme's back, snapping it. The worst part was that she had lived. For minutes that seemed like an eternity, she had survived, writhing and screaming. That scream had implanted itself in the stag's mind, and he still woke up near every night sweating, with that scream still ringing in his mind.
Returning only ever-so-slightly to the real world, he returned his vision to the pie in front of him. He couldn't have run if he had wanted to. His feet were planted to the ground, feathers brushing it as if they were roots themselves. His entire bodice sagged, and his eyes were close to tears. As he stared over at the gravestones, barely seeing, those graves weren't quite as frightful. Rather, they were quite a bit more appealing. He was sure he was going to lose his sanity this time...
Me using my slightly more worn-out muse:
Moonbird strode in to this new land, her icy blue eyes taking in not the land, but the sky. The stars glittered and twinkled in every spare space available in the night sky; so many they seemed to push and shove to find enough room to shine. The silvery-grey light cast an eerie glow on the mare's pelt; playing with her fur and leaving it looking quite ghost-like. She floated rather than trotted, her unkempt mane flowing and pulsing with every beat. A full moon lit her path. The color of my coat, and the color of my name, she thought as the moon beat down on her from overhead. But not the color of my past. Not the color of my soul. She did not know quite the color of either of those things; sometimes she thought she belonged dead for her treachery, but the more she reasoned with herself, the more the color just turned to be a murky grey. So here she was, in this strange land, trying to tinge that unknown just a little bit lighter. But she still could not bear the thought of being some place happy and merry, with horses around her that had never known the taste of sorrow or regret. She still loathed much company, and did not look forward to what horse her whinny would bring. She knew, however, that she needed the aid of other horses to live; for she was still weak from her travels.
*******
Shaking herself from her thoughts, she lifted her head and whinnied; hoping her tone had not come out too inviting.
And, yes, I will enjoy a chocolate muffin.  My compliments to the chef!
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