Post by Fiction on Oct 22, 2006 12:41:48 GMT -5
~They call me~
Fiction
~With blood of~
Spanish descent
~Born as a~
stallion
~Clothed in~
white
~Having survived~
six summers
~Standing at~
16.2 hh
~Type~
normal
~History~
Fiction has been betrayed many times by those around him. His parents were of no support; they taught him nothing in the matters of the world, simply watched indifferently as he slowly fell apart. His herdmates, even despite his honest kindness towards them, constantly tormented him both physically and mentally. And he permitted it with an open heart.
After he left his original herd at age 2, he wandered about in solace until he began to court some mares in an attempt to create a band of his own. He had success - at first all viewed him as a chivalrous knight, saving the fair maidens from the bonds of distress, but it seemed as if they all became bored with him and eventually left. After all, who wanted a disinteresting stag that couldn't stir any emotions except those of basic love, happiness, and kindness? Where was the anger that made him strong? He eventually stopped seeking, simply stayed on his own, wandering the world, meeting friends who came and left again as surely as the tide comes and goes. He has battled many times, perhaps in an attempt to appease a hidden anger he cannot summon otherwise. His prowess in battle is significant - it would be difficult to beat this brawny, lion-hearted stag.
I believe it is also important to mention that in his birth herd, he grew up speaking both spanish and english. So, even while he always speaks in english, he prefers to think in the language of his heritage, which is spanish. He is also "in touch" with the elements, meaning he feels a certain connection to the nature and elements surrounding him.
~Personality~
Even though his eyes hold the gentle kindness of a noble gaurdian, his mind is tormented by his own solitude. He might offer his trust and undying loyalty to any whose path he happens to cross, but he knows that in the end they will leave him. He holds this knowledge with bitter acceptance, still harboring hopes within the recesses of his mind that someone might come along and love him and cling to him as an anchor so that they might still his spinning thoughts. His persona is enclosed in a cage - you can glimpse the beautiful beast within, but you cannot touch it. Who can break the bars?
~Example post~
Pistons carried the porcelain stallion over the emerald strands of turf, whisking over the surface like a dream that comes and goes only to be forgotten as soon as the dreamer wakes from their slumber. Deep caramel eyes were set like beautiful glass marbles within a finely chiseled head, surveying the world around him with lassitude and cynicism locked deep within their soft depths. He was the vision of weariness as his stilts carried him in a slow, rhythmic canter, muzzle lowered slightly to reach for the dust of the earth so that tendrils of mane cascaded like a waterfall over his face. He was shielded by this curtain of mane and forelock, hidden behind this mask of his from which he viewed the happenings of the world. From here, alone in his head, he was safe. No one could hurt him. And yet, he found it exhausting and hardly desirable to travel the world alone. Oh, how he longed for dear companionship, for one that he might love who could return such emotions in kind without being critical of his attitude. He lifted the weight of his head slightly, shaking his neck with a sort of tired anger so that his mane danced viciously in the breeze, whipping back to slash against his neck. Wind washed over his features, dousing him in the cool air of coming winter. He reveled in its presence, allowing the current to slide along his coat and carry his mane and tail in the air like proud banners. He was rueful at this thought of pride, for he wished he could feel as if he had succeeded in accomplishing one thing worth while in his life. He wished he could have strong feelings at all and act upon them as he wished. Instead, there was this massive void of emptiness where those feelings should have been, a black hole that sucked the life from his being and left him comparable to a dead carcass that waits for the vultures to end their teasing circles and fall to devour their prey. He most certainly could be compared to something already deceased, for he had no life in him, no vivacity. He was viewed as... boring, to put it simply, for he had lost his verve for life long ago to the desert winds of travel; he was not one to handle defeat easily. Rather than returning with the strength of a lion as some did, he simply settled with a quiet determination, angrily watching from afar as his life fell apart and attempting nothing that might alter its course. Fate could be twisted, but he lacked the strength it required to reach out past the fetters of his seclusion and touch the tangibility of his future. He simply curled up in the darkness of acceptance and wept over a life he did not actively participate in. He was idiotic, to be truthful, and he knew exactly what he was doing. But it seemed as if the chasm between his state and normality was growing as each second of his life sped away from his grasp. He was terrified to make that great leap of history, and even more so he was worried that he might fall into that abyss and be lost in the continuum of time forever. But still, he desperately wanted to change. He wanted to break free and not only leap over that endless void, but fly into the future. He wanted to seize the depth of his suppressed anger; unleash it on the Earth so that she might feel his pain and offer him at least the simplicity of understanding. He was so tired of this burden he carried upon his pearly shoulders, he was tired of dragging his harried figure across the many terrains without any active participation in what he did. It was as if he was living in a dream - one he simply could not escape unless someone discovered a way to pull him from its dreadful grasp. But no, no one was willing to look within him, to feel his pain and ask him to emerge from his protective shell of hiding. They all just left him without even trying.
A simple, bitter chuckle slipped past his ebony velveteens, emerging more as a warlock's cackled whicker than a laugh. Speed increased as his thoughts altered from their curious course, focus coming to rest on the beat his hooves created as they struck the earth. His heart thrummed with rhythmic beat within his chest, creating the metronomic cadence to which his flints danced. He appeared less weary now, his thoughts having consumed most of energy, distracting him from his movements. He wished to stop thinking now, still his turbulent mind and shift his consciousness to that of his movements as he glided over the earth. He concentrated on his steady breathing, noting each breath that was torn from the air, altered, and then released once more for nature to accept. He felt the fierce sinews stretch and retract in line with his thoughts as his desire to continue forward motion existed, pelt lying taut across his hindquarters with each stride he attained. Everything was a rhythm; the world moved to the beat of his hooves and heart, swayed with the laughing tendrils of silver mane and tail as the wind caressed his face like a loving friend. His pelt gleamed beneath the shy sun that peeked its head out from beneath a blanket of clouds, illuminating the pureness in his color. He appeared translucent - a work of fantasy painted into the dying scene of fall. He was like a breath of lucid air that appears only to drift into the atmosphere; like a broken puzzle waiting to be solved. Everything was connected within his body; everything even appeared to make sense except for the unfathomable mystery of the mind. Here there were veins, there a bone, over there a muscle; all connected to the brain and made operational by imperceptible signals that came from that void of unknowable knowledge. All connected, even when the mind spun out of place with disfunctionality so that the body, while retaining the perfect appearance on the outside, lay like a house that has burned from the inside - empty, broken, and burned within, but a beautiful vision of masterful art on the outside. He was not a work of fiction, he was a lie. His face was worn only as a player's mask, hiding the tortured mind that dwelled within, concealing the darkness that sought to consume like the hungry tongues of a flame. Like acid, his thoughts and past had already eaten away at his sanity, but still, there it remained like a stubborn warrior that does not give in to pain. Fiction wished to just end it, to give into those ashes that filled him, but instinctually he simply could not. Life was too precious of a thing to waste on comfort. He still had his duties he must perform on the face of the world. Besides, who knew? Perhaps there was someone out there just insane enough to actually take his pieces and force him to put himself back together again. He doubted the likelihood of that, though. After all, who else had stayed for him when it appeared that he needed them most? No one. And that was his answer - he was alone and he alone must pick up his shattered pieces with no one to watch or offer assistance. He existed in solitude.
