Post by tiburce on Mar 1, 2009 11:17:53 GMT -6
Name-[/i] Tiburce
Gender-[/i] Khan
Alliance-[/i] Dark
Herd- None
Rank- None
Breed-[/i] Thoroughbred
Age-[/i] 6
Appearance-[/i] A rather bulky Thoroughbred, Tiburce stands intimidatingly at 16.3 hh, pallid flesh stretching like a canvas over his bones. Darker gray creeps up his gammes, ceasing at his hocks.
Personality-[/i] Coming Soon
Past-[/i] I really haven't played Tiburce yet, and I thought I would let his past unfurl within his posts...is this all right?
RP Example -
This is from a character named Erida..I have not yet roleplayed Tiburce.
Browline rose, quirked in an odd fashion as her gaze slid downwards towards the source of the scent. Her leatherstrap cracked throughout the lithosphere, her one remaining sphere focused intently on the trespasser. How cute, a brave little knight come to investigate. Hypodermic needles were unsheathed in anger, frustration, but certainly not fear. A cackle resurfaced, detonated from her air sacks. It was cruel and spine-tingling, surely an unwelcoming introduction to the poor beast. Erida watched, infuriated, as the vagabond approached - no, stalked - towards her. Enamels delved deep within her labrums for only a moment before being released to the cartography again, her emotions rising. She would fight fire with fire. In fact, my girl was up for a battle. Instead of erecting, her battered orioles clung even closer to her diadem as the brute hessian spoke. Lost? What a pity... Now, a smirk blossomed on her visage, what a silly young boy to risk his life. He ventured closer to her still, his russet canvas mere feet from where she stood. She urged to fly at him, to rip that smug little carpetry off his little bones.
How dare you approach me. Run along now, skip, run, flee. I detest your company. A snort emitted from her narettes, obviously he wanted a taste of Erida. In realization, her mood surrogated in a split second. Her hyde was tensed, muscles the same. Ah, how sweet. An admirer? The acidic lyrics were spat in mock concern, her prodigious gullet flexed and unflexed as she waited for a response. The banshee grew quite bored with the situation, her vast barrel heaving as she circled the baron. And to what, Her caudal chafed slightly the flesh upon his nigrescent proboscis as the circumference continued. is your purpose? Erida could be quite cunning, with effort, but brute force was the mischievous call she intended on answering. A siren, if you will, one that will drag you right off your ship if she must. The nightshade locks hung freely as they pleased, entwined was the furrow of plenary wan. Had it been a sign of age, it would have increased in size and engulfed her bodice. And yet, the streak had been there since birth.
Her story was quite different than others, and yet so simplistic and distinct that it almost made her laugh. She had not come, like so many other self-proclaimed "darks", from a mirthful covey of Lights, nor of Neutrals, who, as it turned out, could be quite bi-polar. My dear girl has seen that, for sure. She was not born into the typical epic whispered by the demons and devils of the world, in which her parents were at her mercy. No, Erida was emanated by a dyad of archfiend practitioners. She was born, like the others in the iniquitous harem, to be what her parents were. A warrior on the ever actively gruesome battle field, defending her clan and those to come. Kiho, her crooked dam, paid little attention to the embarrassment that was Erida. No, it was not that she had neglected her evident talent of distortion, but a son would have been well-liked. The foolish little hellion was quick to learn, but her muscles would be weak against a vagabond. Her sire, Roho, had trained her well. By the time she was a mere decade old, Erida was more well-practiced than the leader of the herd. Although he was older than her - by five thousand years - Fero knew that one day she would be his Queen. Many years - and battles - later, Erida had become slightly known as a machine, detached from her quarrels, trained by the best. Fero watched year after year as Erida became more and more of what he wanted - the perfect contessa. She had known it, too. Years of plotting finally ended - but not without dragging Fero's current matriarch down with it. The assassination was quick, but Erida had sacrificed much in the process. Her left receptor had been lost, and with it, the majority of her sight. Together, Fero and Erida ruled over the Kumari harem in its prime. And then, suddenly, Fero disappeared, taking Erida's life with him. But behave, Erida's back in business. Her thick chaplet tossed as the lamentations in the adjacent timberlands increased, her one working retina wild, chromosomes churning within her flesh. Goosebumps were whisking hastily over her serpentine, making the beast uncomfortable. A snarl ripped from her well-muscled gullet, echoing in the startlingly ardent zephyr. Beads of sweat lurched from her pores in her attempt to scout out the intruder, but the efforts were lost to a manic case of deliria. A cackle rose from her depths, insane and threatening, like a hyena. The right oculus which serviced her as well as it could quivered slightly, enveloped suddenly but resurfaced almost immediately after. Narettes were bloated, heaving in the hot air with utter dislike of the situation. A stench reached her nasal receptors. It was revoltingly sweet, as if the stench of a virgin temptress. Her twisted damask ribbon was thrust from her aperture, tracing the protoplasm along her estuary. A faint taste of claret blossomed upon the taste buds and, to her dislike, mimicked the sapidity of her own lymph. Her attention was given back to the behemoth, as if she had demanded his attention. And you find yourself worthy to accompany such a wench as I? I, myself, believe I am too much to handle. But then again, you have not even acknowledged my presence with your cursing.
Feathered coronets were released upon the cartography with much power, though little effort was needed. As the nightshade dame appeared in the lithosphere, a defiant shriek was given, shredding her eardrums and quite possibly those around her. Salmon labrums curled in disgust as she surveyed the perishing atmosphere with little amusement. Chromosomes spilled freely from her ebon drenched barrel as her breathing slowed within her shredded lungs, then stopped. Through the lucid perforation disgorged the useless oxygen, as well as a trail of claret, marking only the feculence with evidence of her arrival. Thestrals were a dime a dozen upon these lands, but she retained no alliance with the disfigured existences that carped the wildlife in these regions. No leathery annexes extended from her withers; instead, a pale cicatrix circled the flesh where wings would have been, should she have Thestral lineage within her veins. This alabaster track traveled north, culminating when it hit her annihilated left headlight. It divulged a deep gouge, replacing the oculus with dried blood and liquid matter that could only be the remains of a long forgotten optic. Had Erida held any memories within her deranged skullcap, she would have snarled at the thought of the belligerent assailment. It was not in her nature to regret, and surely this would be no exception to the rule.
A deep detonation surfaced from her endemic air sacks, not that they were of much advantage to my poor old girl anyhow. Her bleached aft boasted the mosaic backdrop of an Appaloosa, though her lineage spoke of many desecrations entwined. Irish Draught as well as a tinge of Friesian bridged her chromosomes, little did her ancestors know that they were creating a devil. Her dappled corpuscles twitched in doldrums. Should a migrant oscillate across her egress, they would have thought of her to be of the vagabond race. Her corpse was riddled with pronounced muscles, and she carried a rather conspicuously large skullcap, which was perched proudly upon an ample amount of nape; the perch had definitely proved its usefulness through the years, and Erida would be a little known warmonger had it been less than what it was today. Her matted and filthy nest of a mane aggrandized a peculiar streak of white through the center, which spun to her right, much like the head of the infamous barber Sweeney Todd, and there was little doubt as to whether the mongrel huntress mimicked the murderer's state of mind as well as his hair. Despite her masculine appearance, the murderess was purely witch. She had a humble assemblage in attention for stallions, needless to say, my Pet only had one to call her own in her enduring existence. Although her memory lacked what the common household plant had, she remembered him as clear as ever. Fero was a fool, and the Earth was well rid of him.
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