02-24-2012, 08:22 PM
Character Name: Kinkade
Character Birthdate: February 14th, 2011
Gender: female
Species: Canis Lupus Labradorius
Is your character a Luperci?: No
Other 'Souls Characters: -
How you found 'Souls?: Google, of course!
Are you joining a pack?: New Dawn
If joining a pack, are you joining IC or OOC?: IC
Character profile or three writing examples:
Sample 1 : The heat was a rather unwelcome sensation compared to the cool feel of the thunderous valley. Sand surged up between her toes and spilled over her paws, and despite her small stature it felt like the desert was pulling her under with every stride. Her magenta eyes squinted against the sun; it had just begun to set, but it was blinding to her nonetheless. Dusk was falling, and soon the night would bring a cooler temperature and sweet, sweet relief. So with hope in hand, she trudged onward and across the sandy dunes, until at last she was too exhausted to go on. She slumped unceremoniously to her belly, panting, aching, and utterly exhausted from the trek. Her eyes burned from the windswept grains and the sweltering sun, and only when the moon peeked shyly through the clouds and the last of daylight faded from the sky did it diminish. Victorine laid there, with her muzzle draped across her paws until the clouds had dissipated and the stars twinkled brilliantly overhead. The moon was full, or near enough, and a dazzling light fell over something in the distance. Curious, she lifted her head and stared hard at the shimmering glare, squinting her eyes even as she rose to her paws to discern the phenomenon.
As she drew closer, a chill swept viciously along her spine. Stretched before her were twin mirrors, infinite in time as they swirled into the ground with their bits of stardust and bittersweet memories. Victorine knew this place, though she'd never seen it. Her father had often spoke of a great battle, one where he lost Victorine's aunt and uncle to the magma pools. They'd never gotten the chance to visit together, though he'd always fondly revisited the idea. 'We're going to go pay our respects to your aunt and uncle,' he'd say; or 'If you peer into the glass, you can see the shattering necklaces of those who gave their lives.' It was all rather boring to her, at the time, but now as she stared at the very memorial Zephyr had raved about before he died, her heart sank into her paws. With weak knees she stole closer, defeating what few yards held her at bay. Short, tentative strides delivered her to the edge of the glass -- she knew only because of the way her dull nails clicked upon the surface, for she was far too absorbed in emotional turbulence to notice reality. She halted here, sucked in a deep breath, and peered over the edge.
It was as he described -- and his recollection had been nearly flawless. The glass spun down, down, forever down into the earth, and within its depths shimmered the shattered necklaces, protected by their divinity from being forgotten. A tidal wave of emotions fell over her, and she staggered back. Her eyes stung as she let herself sink to her belly, overcome, by the twin panes. A single tear would fall and splash upon the memory, a memory of so many lives simply gone. "Must this be the world we know?" she whispered quietly, absorbed in her rumination. Though she hadn't existed then, she could see the battle, raging behind her eyes. Like a projection, she glanced to the pools and envisioned the raid, the horrific agony, the screams and cries of the dying...
Overwhelmed, she scrambled to her feet and suddenly darted over the glass, skidding to a halt in the center as she stood on shaky limbs and lowered her face to stare down into the memory, the very nostalgia of her father. She didn't know them -- not one of them. How could she? They'd died before they had lived! But she was connected, somehow, to every one of them. This was home, the place her father whisked her from at such a young age. The rawness of it churned her stomach, and she sank to her knees feeling so, so small, in a world so very big. Wolves, they were. And there was nothing she could do to go against such an undiluted nature. In that moment, she flung her head back and pinned the stars with heavy speculation. "Is this what you want?" she asked, squinting as if to peer through the stars to their heavenly thrones, as if to beg them to come down and tell her all was not lost! Could they not change lives with their boundless power and settle mirth over their people? Why, why, why? "WHY?!" she cried, a futile sound full of courage and hopeless, heedless faith. As her voice died in the night, she lowered her maw and crumpled on her uncle's pool, the glass shadow of himself forever suspended beneath the stars.
Sample 2 : She descended from her place among the dead in a whirlwind of furious lament. There was fire in her arrival; her very presence a blazing inferno, and it scalded each member of the scandal as they were pierced with cold, bitter eyes. Axila drifted among the crowd, bringing with her the deafening silence of her scorn. They do not know her, but she does not care. Purposely, her transcendent form twisted and bent about those gathered, winding with deliberate lethargy until she sidled alongside Elric. She said nothing, only peered down at him with harsh speculation. Her treacherous cirling continued, like a vulture bearing down on dying prey. Again she paused, this time near Bangarang. Her cerulean gaze flicked to the girl’s toes and up again, judging the relative without verdict. A frown pulled slightly over her tight lips, but she said nothing. At last, she reached her destination. His blood does not color her ethereal paws, as they gingerly found purchase near his blood-drenched corpse. Her lips parted as if they meant to speak -- o, how she mourned him so. In a swift, sweeping motion, her crown bowed and she placed her ghostly lips gently against his temple, murmuring something inaudible to her fallen son. The lids of the motherly apparition fluttered, closing briefly in the precious, heartfelt moment -- her moment of despair, her goodbye. With unearthly speed her crown snapped away, lifting as she whirled and trapped the three beneath a murderous glare. The ridge is far too quiet, until finally the departed queen spoke, and commands like daggers flew from her razorblade tongue. “Close his eyes,” she snapped, jerking her maw to stare pointedly at Bangarang. She eyed Vitani, still pinned beneath Femur’s paws, and glanced towards Whitley and Remy. A disgusted sound fled her lips, but she peeled herself from the ruthless scrutiny. Her eyes glanced to the sky, to her beloved Rat; she was lost for a moment among the mortals, her visage conflicted with wrath and contemplation. She cares little for the goings-on of the Rebels now, for she has long departed and her son is a casualty of civil war. “It is a way of life,” she mused to herself, coming back down from her rampant thoughts. She shifted to saunter forward, with strides as decisive and rigid in death as they had been in life. “You,” she said quietly, her sights set on Bangarang as she halted before her, poised and dangerously still. “My son will be laid to rest by the Rebel custom. Please choose the skull of a suitable creature for him and place it with the others. He will be given the farewell of a warrior.” Axila wheeled to face the rest of them, challenging them, daring them to refuse her son the proper ritual.
Sample 3 : Carnage seethed in the mind of the black beast -- he felt their thoughts, pounding, throbbing in his mind and he’d had enough! Enough, enough, enough! He’d followed his beta, his promise of looking after her true with every careful stride, but their voices rang and their thoughts screamed and he could but look with horror and see her. The red queen flung spittle and lies from a tainted tongue, and the sinew that coiled about his sturdy bones undulated with rage -- flawless, inexplicable virulence. the propriety, the majesty, the cordial ambiance of his presence fell away like satin shrouds, to expose the naked realism of grotesque truth. He has shaken and trembled the confines of his cage, the hellish demon sheathed beneath the abysmal, mortal flesh of man -- he has seen and done nothing, clawing at the flesh to no avail. The furious glare of the hellhound found the scene, his ears already snapped against his crown as she choked his most trusted with venom, forcing her impudent presence upon women like a pestilence, a perilous plague that whittles away the freedom of the oppressed. Somewhere, in the folds of flesh that quaked with relentless, unbridled volatility, the shackles snapped and he was freed. The skin of constraint shredded to release a fiend, the wicked hellhound whose eyes narrowed dangerously as he launched into motion. Hackles raked the sky; hungry talons grappled the earth with ruthless vengeance. His jowls parted as they hunkered low between his shoulder blades, which snapped forward with folds of skin and flesh around his neck. His towering frame streaked across the pit, soundless wrath that has lost all sanity for so much as a snarl to pierce through their conversation. His lips bore no insults, no words -- for she had ventured beyond his capacity for rational insult. Dracul had reached the edge, and blindly he leapt from it to free himself from her weighted shackles.
As he barreled with speed he was unaware he possessed, his paws slipped and skidded over the malleable earth as claws dug furiously into the mud to steady his sprinting gait. Three doppelgangers sprung out from his form, side-by-side and matched to his pace as he trampled through the squelching grime. As silent a predator as he was, lethal and devastating as he moved to ravage her, to take her down into the filth where she belonged, his thoughts screamed to Elliot through blinding pain and anguish that even he could not conceal. She would feel everything -- his fury, his sorrow, the devastated loathing that coursed through his red-hot veins! ( Oppression! Lies! Slander! YOUR SHACKLES BE DAMNED! ) Incoherent snippets ripped through his mind as it slipped away, consumed by the retribution of a behemoth, a heathen powerless against the explosion to break the world from her draining existence.
He expected her to hear his noisy advance; though his larynx remained devoid of the resounding fury, the pit was unwelcome to stealth by the quality of the treacherous ground. Dracul, though lost in himself, recalled her familiarity with the powers -- he kept the doppelgangers close so she would not be able to tell them from one another, until the last moment when he was but a yard from her. They would break away, one darting at her head-on while the other two lurched for either side of her neck. Dracul followed the right doppelganger for Hekate's left side (which would be facing him if she didn't move, to his right and her left if she spun to retaliate), taking careful note to not merge or overshadow it as he lunged, jowls pried wide as he kept hunkered and ready for the assault. Lurching for the throbbing, sweet spot on the left side of her neck, Dracul would try to latch on without remorse, to squeeze and thrash and steal from her what she would surely pilfer herself. He was lost to himself, lost to the desperation, the bloodshed. He would ground himself, paws splayed for traction and balance and tail swept outward, before he cast his paws into the air with the intent to power the stout bitch into the muck and grime, where he could lacerate and maim and disfigure the flesh if he succeeded. He knew of her strength, her power, and fully expected her to retaliate with the blessed force.
Character Birthdate: February 14th, 2011
Gender: female
Species: Canis Lupus Labradorius
Is your character a Luperci?: No
Other 'Souls Characters: -
How you found 'Souls?: Google, of course!
Are you joining a pack?: New Dawn
If joining a pack, are you joining IC or OOC?: IC
Character profile or three writing examples:
Sample 1 : The heat was a rather unwelcome sensation compared to the cool feel of the thunderous valley. Sand surged up between her toes and spilled over her paws, and despite her small stature it felt like the desert was pulling her under with every stride. Her magenta eyes squinted against the sun; it had just begun to set, but it was blinding to her nonetheless. Dusk was falling, and soon the night would bring a cooler temperature and sweet, sweet relief. So with hope in hand, she trudged onward and across the sandy dunes, until at last she was too exhausted to go on. She slumped unceremoniously to her belly, panting, aching, and utterly exhausted from the trek. Her eyes burned from the windswept grains and the sweltering sun, and only when the moon peeked shyly through the clouds and the last of daylight faded from the sky did it diminish. Victorine laid there, with her muzzle draped across her paws until the clouds had dissipated and the stars twinkled brilliantly overhead. The moon was full, or near enough, and a dazzling light fell over something in the distance. Curious, she lifted her head and stared hard at the shimmering glare, squinting her eyes even as she rose to her paws to discern the phenomenon.
As she drew closer, a chill swept viciously along her spine. Stretched before her were twin mirrors, infinite in time as they swirled into the ground with their bits of stardust and bittersweet memories. Victorine knew this place, though she'd never seen it. Her father had often spoke of a great battle, one where he lost Victorine's aunt and uncle to the magma pools. They'd never gotten the chance to visit together, though he'd always fondly revisited the idea. 'We're going to go pay our respects to your aunt and uncle,' he'd say; or 'If you peer into the glass, you can see the shattering necklaces of those who gave their lives.' It was all rather boring to her, at the time, but now as she stared at the very memorial Zephyr had raved about before he died, her heart sank into her paws. With weak knees she stole closer, defeating what few yards held her at bay. Short, tentative strides delivered her to the edge of the glass -- she knew only because of the way her dull nails clicked upon the surface, for she was far too absorbed in emotional turbulence to notice reality. She halted here, sucked in a deep breath, and peered over the edge.
It was as he described -- and his recollection had been nearly flawless. The glass spun down, down, forever down into the earth, and within its depths shimmered the shattered necklaces, protected by their divinity from being forgotten. A tidal wave of emotions fell over her, and she staggered back. Her eyes stung as she let herself sink to her belly, overcome, by the twin panes. A single tear would fall and splash upon the memory, a memory of so many lives simply gone. "Must this be the world we know?" she whispered quietly, absorbed in her rumination. Though she hadn't existed then, she could see the battle, raging behind her eyes. Like a projection, she glanced to the pools and envisioned the raid, the horrific agony, the screams and cries of the dying...
Overwhelmed, she scrambled to her feet and suddenly darted over the glass, skidding to a halt in the center as she stood on shaky limbs and lowered her face to stare down into the memory, the very nostalgia of her father. She didn't know them -- not one of them. How could she? They'd died before they had lived! But she was connected, somehow, to every one of them. This was home, the place her father whisked her from at such a young age. The rawness of it churned her stomach, and she sank to her knees feeling so, so small, in a world so very big. Wolves, they were. And there was nothing she could do to go against such an undiluted nature. In that moment, she flung her head back and pinned the stars with heavy speculation. "Is this what you want?" she asked, squinting as if to peer through the stars to their heavenly thrones, as if to beg them to come down and tell her all was not lost! Could they not change lives with their boundless power and settle mirth over their people? Why, why, why? "WHY?!" she cried, a futile sound full of courage and hopeless, heedless faith. As her voice died in the night, she lowered her maw and crumpled on her uncle's pool, the glass shadow of himself forever suspended beneath the stars.
Sample 2 : She descended from her place among the dead in a whirlwind of furious lament. There was fire in her arrival; her very presence a blazing inferno, and it scalded each member of the scandal as they were pierced with cold, bitter eyes. Axila drifted among the crowd, bringing with her the deafening silence of her scorn. They do not know her, but she does not care. Purposely, her transcendent form twisted and bent about those gathered, winding with deliberate lethargy until she sidled alongside Elric. She said nothing, only peered down at him with harsh speculation. Her treacherous cirling continued, like a vulture bearing down on dying prey. Again she paused, this time near Bangarang. Her cerulean gaze flicked to the girl’s toes and up again, judging the relative without verdict. A frown pulled slightly over her tight lips, but she said nothing. At last, she reached her destination. His blood does not color her ethereal paws, as they gingerly found purchase near his blood-drenched corpse. Her lips parted as if they meant to speak -- o, how she mourned him so. In a swift, sweeping motion, her crown bowed and she placed her ghostly lips gently against his temple, murmuring something inaudible to her fallen son. The lids of the motherly apparition fluttered, closing briefly in the precious, heartfelt moment -- her moment of despair, her goodbye. With unearthly speed her crown snapped away, lifting as she whirled and trapped the three beneath a murderous glare. The ridge is far too quiet, until finally the departed queen spoke, and commands like daggers flew from her razorblade tongue. “Close his eyes,” she snapped, jerking her maw to stare pointedly at Bangarang. She eyed Vitani, still pinned beneath Femur’s paws, and glanced towards Whitley and Remy. A disgusted sound fled her lips, but she peeled herself from the ruthless scrutiny. Her eyes glanced to the sky, to her beloved Rat; she was lost for a moment among the mortals, her visage conflicted with wrath and contemplation. She cares little for the goings-on of the Rebels now, for she has long departed and her son is a casualty of civil war. “It is a way of life,” she mused to herself, coming back down from her rampant thoughts. She shifted to saunter forward, with strides as decisive and rigid in death as they had been in life. “You,” she said quietly, her sights set on Bangarang as she halted before her, poised and dangerously still. “My son will be laid to rest by the Rebel custom. Please choose the skull of a suitable creature for him and place it with the others. He will be given the farewell of a warrior.” Axila wheeled to face the rest of them, challenging them, daring them to refuse her son the proper ritual.
Sample 3 : Carnage seethed in the mind of the black beast -- he felt their thoughts, pounding, throbbing in his mind and he’d had enough! Enough, enough, enough! He’d followed his beta, his promise of looking after her true with every careful stride, but their voices rang and their thoughts screamed and he could but look with horror and see her. The red queen flung spittle and lies from a tainted tongue, and the sinew that coiled about his sturdy bones undulated with rage -- flawless, inexplicable virulence. the propriety, the majesty, the cordial ambiance of his presence fell away like satin shrouds, to expose the naked realism of grotesque truth. He has shaken and trembled the confines of his cage, the hellish demon sheathed beneath the abysmal, mortal flesh of man -- he has seen and done nothing, clawing at the flesh to no avail. The furious glare of the hellhound found the scene, his ears already snapped against his crown as she choked his most trusted with venom, forcing her impudent presence upon women like a pestilence, a perilous plague that whittles away the freedom of the oppressed. Somewhere, in the folds of flesh that quaked with relentless, unbridled volatility, the shackles snapped and he was freed. The skin of constraint shredded to release a fiend, the wicked hellhound whose eyes narrowed dangerously as he launched into motion. Hackles raked the sky; hungry talons grappled the earth with ruthless vengeance. His jowls parted as they hunkered low between his shoulder blades, which snapped forward with folds of skin and flesh around his neck. His towering frame streaked across the pit, soundless wrath that has lost all sanity for so much as a snarl to pierce through their conversation. His lips bore no insults, no words -- for she had ventured beyond his capacity for rational insult. Dracul had reached the edge, and blindly he leapt from it to free himself from her weighted shackles.
As he barreled with speed he was unaware he possessed, his paws slipped and skidded over the malleable earth as claws dug furiously into the mud to steady his sprinting gait. Three doppelgangers sprung out from his form, side-by-side and matched to his pace as he trampled through the squelching grime. As silent a predator as he was, lethal and devastating as he moved to ravage her, to take her down into the filth where she belonged, his thoughts screamed to Elliot through blinding pain and anguish that even he could not conceal. She would feel everything -- his fury, his sorrow, the devastated loathing that coursed through his red-hot veins! ( Oppression! Lies! Slander! YOUR SHACKLES BE DAMNED! ) Incoherent snippets ripped through his mind as it slipped away, consumed by the retribution of a behemoth, a heathen powerless against the explosion to break the world from her draining existence.
He expected her to hear his noisy advance; though his larynx remained devoid of the resounding fury, the pit was unwelcome to stealth by the quality of the treacherous ground. Dracul, though lost in himself, recalled her familiarity with the powers -- he kept the doppelgangers close so she would not be able to tell them from one another, until the last moment when he was but a yard from her. They would break away, one darting at her head-on while the other two lurched for either side of her neck. Dracul followed the right doppelganger for Hekate's left side (which would be facing him if she didn't move, to his right and her left if she spun to retaliate), taking careful note to not merge or overshadow it as he lunged, jowls pried wide as he kept hunkered and ready for the assault. Lurching for the throbbing, sweet spot on the left side of her neck, Dracul would try to latch on without remorse, to squeeze and thrash and steal from her what she would surely pilfer herself. He was lost to himself, lost to the desperation, the bloodshed. He would ground himself, paws splayed for traction and balance and tail swept outward, before he cast his paws into the air with the intent to power the stout bitch into the muck and grime, where he could lacerate and maim and disfigure the flesh if he succeeded. He knew of her strength, her power, and fully expected her to retaliate with the blessed force.