08-06-2008, 08:57 PM
Character Name: Grayson
Character Birthdate (including year): September '05
Whether s/he is a regular wolf or a Luperci (not applicable to non-canines): Luperci
Gender: Male
Your e-mail: weatherhaven@peoplepc.com
How did you learn/hear about 'Souls?: Random find
Initial post:
Finally, he had found what he was looking for.
It was the Optime's firm belief that - if luck were indeed to exist - that it was nothing spontaneous, nothing innate, nor was it a gift bestowed by a higher entity or could ever originate from whatever item. Finding the territory hadn't been all that difficult. The scents of wolves laced the land like protruding veins, heavy enough that he knew he was nearing a population despite managing to miss meeting anyone during his long days in the forest.
Finding a pack in his condition would have been quite the feat if he had been someone else, he decided rather smugly. The mystics said that he would be needing a lot of 'luck'.
There's that L-word again.
They kindly tended his wound and then prayed. For him, he remembered. His nostrils still stung from the horrible, disorienting incense that refused to leave his coat, a warm piquant afterthought of the overpowering aroma the mystics constantly shrouded themselves within. Would he always be marked as having contacted that eclectic group by the unnatural spiciness wafting from his ashen coat?
It was an unsettling thought.
But luck! He hadn't needed theirs. Luck. Pah. What a stupid thing to believe in. You made your own luck. You made your own life. It was simple...there was nothing external about it.
The lean Optime hadn't realised he was leaning against a gravestone until a small tickling made him blink down at his elbow, where he saw a bright yellow gardenspider frantically trying to navigate the matted gray hairs. He chuckled, wondering when he had stopped paying attention and entered a cemetary, of all places. With a grunt, the traveller who called himself Grayson pushed himself off, forgetting about the arachnid and the wet crimson imprint he left on the stone. He forgot that he was, essentially, trespassing. He just wanted to find someone, ages-old law be damned.
Besides, they can't kill me if I'm already dead.
No. Not dead. Not yet.
He took a step, then fell quietly into the leafy detritus, slinging a muscular arm over a decrepit statue of what might have once been a gargoyle in an effort to catch himself. His flesh ached over the hard rock, and as his muzzle was pointed at his chest, he caught a hint of something sweet and rotting from beneath the dirty bandages there, lingering on the edges of the spicy incense smell. "Fuck." Gray's other hand clutched listlessly at the burning wound behind the cloth. His arm slipped - he was soon lying on his belly.
"Fuck...luck," he mumbled into the cool decomposing leaves.
Character Birthdate (including year): September '05
Whether s/he is a regular wolf or a Luperci (not applicable to non-canines): Luperci
Gender: Male
Your e-mail: weatherhaven@peoplepc.com
How did you learn/hear about 'Souls?: Random find
Initial post:
Finally, he had found what he was looking for.
It was the Optime's firm belief that - if luck were indeed to exist - that it was nothing spontaneous, nothing innate, nor was it a gift bestowed by a higher entity or could ever originate from whatever item. Finding the territory hadn't been all that difficult. The scents of wolves laced the land like protruding veins, heavy enough that he knew he was nearing a population despite managing to miss meeting anyone during his long days in the forest.
Finding a pack in his condition would have been quite the feat if he had been someone else, he decided rather smugly. The mystics said that he would be needing a lot of 'luck'.
There's that L-word again.
They kindly tended his wound and then prayed. For him, he remembered. His nostrils still stung from the horrible, disorienting incense that refused to leave his coat, a warm piquant afterthought of the overpowering aroma the mystics constantly shrouded themselves within. Would he always be marked as having contacted that eclectic group by the unnatural spiciness wafting from his ashen coat?
It was an unsettling thought.
But luck! He hadn't needed theirs. Luck. Pah. What a stupid thing to believe in. You made your own luck. You made your own life. It was simple...there was nothing external about it.
The lean Optime hadn't realised he was leaning against a gravestone until a small tickling made him blink down at his elbow, where he saw a bright yellow gardenspider frantically trying to navigate the matted gray hairs. He chuckled, wondering when he had stopped paying attention and entered a cemetary, of all places. With a grunt, the traveller who called himself Grayson pushed himself off, forgetting about the arachnid and the wet crimson imprint he left on the stone. He forgot that he was, essentially, trespassing. He just wanted to find someone, ages-old law be damned.
Besides, they can't kill me if I'm already dead.
No. Not dead. Not yet.
He took a step, then fell quietly into the leafy detritus, slinging a muscular arm over a decrepit statue of what might have once been a gargoyle in an effort to catch himself. His flesh ached over the hard rock, and as his muzzle was pointed at his chest, he caught a hint of something sweet and rotting from beneath the dirty bandages there, lingering on the edges of the spicy incense smell. "Fuck." Gray's other hand clutched listlessly at the burning wound behind the cloth. His arm slipped - he was soon lying on his belly.
"Fuck...luck," he mumbled into the cool decomposing leaves.