Post by Storeh on Jun 9, 2011 21:17:35 GMT -5
Call Me
[/size] JackMud-Blood
Veggenti x Chikoa
Stallion
3 Springs
16.5 hh
Coat is a Deep Bluish Grey
Mane is a Mixture of variations of Green
Tail is a Combination of White as well as Green
They Appear Bright Yellow
Small White Circles Across Pelting
Two White Diamonds on Neck
Blue Mask Upon Face
Image:
Of Decidedly Light Alliance
History:
Born the bastard child of a mare with no name to a stallion stricken once more with the woes of grief. Call Me Jack was served the cold hand of death early with the loss of his mother, father deciding to raise him though he himself was not to be seen with an illegitimate son, being the leader of the wisdom herd, though there was always a place for fate in his eyes. The foal's father seldom spoke of himself, of their relationship, teaching the manners as though he sang the praises himself. So many days where filled the sanctioned tellings of a war-torn past, of places beyond the Isola Dei Dei with exotic names. The young stag eagerly ate them up, witnessing them for himself later on as the powers gifted from his breeding emerged. He sough them as a gift rather than a curse, wishing to rid the world of its evils, cut others form the reach of its carnage, though the images of the blood did not wash clean from his mind. So young a stag, with a mission bound for glory, given himself a name for his father would not. How many times was it uttered for him to be called Jack, though never did it pass the lips of another. Behind the scenes, he observed for the years, wondering if there was such a thing as shame for another. Hard to say where the future shall lead him, though the stallion already catches glimpses now and again. Time was well as wisdom are on his side, though his years are few and his knowledge is ignorance.
Personality:
Call me Jack. Let me save you from yourself. Not a saint, nor holy, without the need to bite his tongue as he speaks in riddles. Punk-ass child without the heeding of rules, tethered to a stake for his life on the lines of another. On the outside looking in, do you want him to describe to you what is one? Marching to the beat of his own drum, he wants you to take his hand. Light? Dark? Neutral? Elemental? Bastard? Mortal? It does not matter, he does not care, for in the end, to the end, we are all a funeral procession. Service with a smile.
Son of storeh.deviantart.com/art/Greymarch-WIP-204668633.
Half-Brother of isoladeideiv2.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=accepted&action=display&thread=3387
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