Post by Storeh on Dec 15, 2010 19:29:27 GMT -5
Name: The Stranger of Our Holocaust
Called: Stranger
Breed: Chikao x Friesian
Gender: Stallion
Age: Six winters {Has no memory of it}
Height: 16.6 hh
Coat Colour: Ashen Colored Black
Mane Colour: Strands of Discolored Ebony
Tail Colour: Mixture of Placid Grays
Eye Colour: Bottomless Onyx
Markings: Entire Pelting Flecked by Shades of Gray
Image: N/A
Alliance: Neutral {Never Has Thought About It}
History: Drowning in a pool of meaningless memories, shadowed by the past that can never be chased away. The ability was passed down by his frail mother as if transferred in her last dying exhale, cementing itself into the core of his mind, molding the soft young shape as if putty in hand. Too young to witness the death. Too young to know what it meant. Yet destiny does not seem to care about the mind as it passes the fragile by. This is the only thing he has gripped onto as the hollow cave of his existence becomes nothing more than a replay of past events. The horrors, oh the horrors! To relive the auttrocity of man in their actions. So many days lay waste to haunted nights, chased by what is not supposed to be had. The body soon seeks the rain, submerges itself as if to give up to the inner plead. Keep on living, moving, with each shallow collection of breath. Brace yourself for the tortured souls calling out in the depths of your nightmares! The past is such a wonderful thing to those who are ready to take it...but to the colt with the bag full of broken hearts, it eats away his life.
Personality: The distance it takes for the mind to surface is enough to draw the few who dare converse farther into seclusion. Lifeless eyes reflect the hollowed-out core. When he speaks, which is not often, it is dull and without fruit. Meaningless. Too tired to care. No thought of reaching out for help that will never be offered. What is the point? There is no heart of stone under the shaggy malnourished hide, just an empty hole that aches and itches without promise of tomorrow. The stag knows that whoever he meets will become a past the moment later, something more for his mind to forgive. Never forgetting. Call him distant. Call him mean. Call him a social mediocrity. Give him a name. Give him a face. It is up to you to paint the picture upon the canvas that is him. Stranger. That is what he is.
Called: Stranger
Breed: Chikao x Friesian
Gender: Stallion
Age: Six winters {Has no memory of it}
Height: 16.6 hh
Coat Colour: Ashen Colored Black
Mane Colour: Strands of Discolored Ebony
Tail Colour: Mixture of Placid Grays
Eye Colour: Bottomless Onyx
Markings: Entire Pelting Flecked by Shades of Gray
Image: N/A
Alliance: Neutral {Never Has Thought About It}
History: Drowning in a pool of meaningless memories, shadowed by the past that can never be chased away. The ability was passed down by his frail mother as if transferred in her last dying exhale, cementing itself into the core of his mind, molding the soft young shape as if putty in hand. Too young to witness the death. Too young to know what it meant. Yet destiny does not seem to care about the mind as it passes the fragile by. This is the only thing he has gripped onto as the hollow cave of his existence becomes nothing more than a replay of past events. The horrors, oh the horrors! To relive the auttrocity of man in their actions. So many days lay waste to haunted nights, chased by what is not supposed to be had. The body soon seeks the rain, submerges itself as if to give up to the inner plead. Keep on living, moving, with each shallow collection of breath. Brace yourself for the tortured souls calling out in the depths of your nightmares! The past is such a wonderful thing to those who are ready to take it...but to the colt with the bag full of broken hearts, it eats away his life.
Personality: The distance it takes for the mind to surface is enough to draw the few who dare converse farther into seclusion. Lifeless eyes reflect the hollowed-out core. When he speaks, which is not often, it is dull and without fruit. Meaningless. Too tired to care. No thought of reaching out for help that will never be offered. What is the point? There is no heart of stone under the shaggy malnourished hide, just an empty hole that aches and itches without promise of tomorrow. The stag knows that whoever he meets will become a past the moment later, something more for his mind to forgive. Never forgetting. Call him distant. Call him mean. Call him a social mediocrity. Give him a name. Give him a face. It is up to you to paint the picture upon the canvas that is him. Stranger. That is what he is.
