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Tarin
May 13, 2007 7:49:41 GMT -5
Post by mooki || tarin on May 13, 2007 7:49:41 GMT -5
Name: Tarin Age: 3 summers, 4 moons Gender: as brutish as they come
Pack: Blue Faerie Rank: Lead Warrior
Mate: none Pups: none
Physical description: (eyes and pelt all rolled into one, with some extra details) Tarin is a very regal, dignified sort of wolf. You can tell just by the way he stands. His pelt is a thick, tangled mass of every shade of brown, grey and cream. He is a very muscular wolf, evidently more of a fighter than a runner, and handsomely built. His expression is always kind and caring, though occasionally, if the light is right, you can see insecurity and fear in his hazel eyes.
Personaltiy: On the outside, Tarin is perfect. Calm. Wise. Friendly. He's perhaps not the loudest of wolves, but for some reason, it's difficult not to respect him for his calm, collected ways. When he does talk, it'll always be something smart and logical. He's witty, though he's not the sort to brag about it. Somewhat old-fashioned, and very gentlemanly. A real charmer in his own way. He's protective of those he loves, and a bit of a fatherly figure really. He's caring, loving, tender - almost perfect. Almost.
But, as all great wolves, Tarin has his flaws. His pack. At times they are his greatest strength, but at others they are his Achilles heel. He would do anything rather than see them die, and can also be too forgiving. He's definately not what you would call the hard-hearted sort, and always gives second chances. But everybody has their limits. Who knows how long it will take for this brute to snap?
History: Tarin never tells anyone about his youth. If you were to ask him, he'd quickly change the subject, or fend it off with excuses. The most he'd ever say is that it was just your normal day-to-day puppyhood. But the truth is far from normal. Indeed, the truth is something altogether different.
He was born into a small clan of timber wolves, not too far from the lands of Irow, as an only pup. His mother, Zita, was no more than a lowly omega, a slave if you will. The strange thing was that she was the daughter of the alpha - a hate-ridden black wolf known as Raz - and yet the whole pack treated her as an inferior. Tarin never knew who his father was. For as long as he could remember, his pack had been at war with another neighbouring pack. They despised each other, though no one quite knew why. Tarin grew up in a world of bloodshed and betrayal, of hatred and fear. It seemed there was no hope for him.
But there was hope. Somewhere, close at hand, there was hope. One day in early winter, when Tahrin was no more than a few months old, Zita fled the pack he had once called home, taking her little pup with her. Of course Raz was furious when he found out, but by that time, mother and son were far from those dreaded packlands. They travelled for many days - no, weeks, it seemed - until they could travel no more. They were lost. Hungry. Tired.
And that was when he found them.
Tarin remembered that moment all so clearly, even though he was barely concious at the time. A glistening white figure, tall and proud, seeming to radiate light, emerged through the trees. He had nuzzled Zita affectionately, and they said all sorts of things - none of which Tarin could remember, I'm afraid - and then, with a grave expression, the mysterious white wolf strode over to Tarin and stood for a moment, his hazel gaze running critically over the limp little pup. "So you have come home at last, my son," he murmered thoughtfully. Suddenly he broke into laughter, licking his son all over and picking him up by the scruff of his neck, before starting the long trek home.
As it turned out, Tarin's father - Arthas, he called himself - was alpha of a great pack, far mightier than Tarin's had ever been. He made Zita his mate, and Tarin his heir. For the next few years or so, the three lived in perfect bliss. Arthas taught Tarin how to hunt and fight, and how to be a true leader. Never had he felt so happy in his life. For once there was no fighting, no war; only peace. He could have lived that way forever.
But it is true what they say - good things do not last forever. Far away, in their old packlands, Raz was stirring up a plan. One cold, stormy night, when Tarin was returning from a hunt, he overheard a conversation between his mother and father. Both sounded anxious and worried, and before he knew it he was hiding behind a rock, listening to what they were saying.
"Are you sure the scout got it right?" asked his mother nervously. "I mean, it could be another pack. Or perhaps they have come to make peace."
"No, my love, he is certain," came Arthas's voice. "They have come to fight. Their numbers are far greater than ours - we don't stand a chance."
"That's what he's been doing, isn't it? All these years, and my father's been building up his wolves, training them for this very moment."
"He might spare you," his father murmered, his tone soft, so that Tarin had to strain to hear. "He spared you once, he can do it again. You remember the last time you came?"
"Yes, but that was only for a few weeks. It's been years, Arthas. Besides, you know the history between our packs. Always fighting, always killing. And Raz is so twisted by hatred now..." Her voice trailed off, and Tarin guessed that she was crying.
"We will fight them, my love," Tarin's father replied soothingly. "But you and Tarin must run. Flee this place, build up a life of your own. I will find you, if I can. Now go."
A little whimper escaped the fae, and for a moment they spoke in whispers. Tarin couldn't make out what they were saying. Suddenly, out of the blue, a howl echoed through the clearing, threatening and bloodthirsty. "Go! Find Tarin!" hissed Arthas urgently, and Zita, still sobbing, sprinted towards the trees. Seeing Tahrin, she breathed a sigh of relief, but before she could say anything a towering black shape shot out of the forest, heading straight towards the fae. Tarin instantly recognised him as Raz, his grandfather. But before either one could cry out, he was upon Zita, pressing her to the ground, his teeth digging into her neck. Tarin cried out and leapt towards the brute, pushing him off, and they fought for what seemed like an age. At last, after many wounds and scrapes, Tarin closed his jaws on Raz's chest and ended that spiteful, twisted life of his. As soon as the alpha was dead, Tarin raced back towards his mother, but it was too late. She was dead.
Tarin did not care to remember how many lives he took that day. it could have been only a few, it could have been a hundred. All he remembered was that by the time morning came, he was the only wolf left standing. And then, just as his father had told him, he ran. He ran for weeks and weeks, only stopping to hunt, drink and sleep. He never saw Arthas again, nor any of his packmates, old or new. He was completely alone. And so, after a few months of travelling, he found his way here. As for the rest of his tale, well, that's up to you.
Picture: clickie
Role Playing Sample: "And she shall bring the birds in spring, And dance among the flowers. In summer's heat her kisses sweet, They fall from leafy bowers."
The sweet voice was barely a murmer amidst Mother Nature's great requiem; and yet it rang so true and pure above the rest. It possessed such a clarity, such a tender tone, that seemed to reach every den, every burrow, like golden sunshine after a storm. Even the robins stopped in their merry song to listen, and the squirrels turned their heads in surprise, searching for the source of such a glorious sound. Their beady black eyes came to fall upon a familiar figure, moving steadily through the grass. A young vixen, no older than two summers; in the prime of her life. Her gait was joyful and carefree, her delicate head raised and her green eyes bright. Every so often she would pause to admire a flower or some woodland crittur, and a vivid, charming smile would light up her face, before she would break into song once more and carry on her merry wander. For this was no ordinary fox. This was Cariad, the tender-heart, the sweetest of souls. And here, in the midst of the homeland she knew so well; here she was in her element. Her strides were strong and youthful, her gaze ever-shifted, her eyes bright with intrigue at nature's masterpiece. No matter how many times she passed through these lands, they would never lose their beauty for her. And as the little figure moved off through the tall green grass, her singing rang clear once more, the notes sweet, the words distinct;
"She wanders 'cross the valleys fair. The kiss of fall surrounds her. The days grow old and winter cold. She draws her veil around her."
((For another of my wolfies, who I'll probably bring in later.))
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Tarin
May 13, 2007 8:05:33 GMT -5
Post by Angeli on May 13, 2007 8:05:33 GMT -5
Wow, that's very good. Accepted.
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Tarin
May 13, 2007 8:08:24 GMT -5
Post by mooki || tarin on May 13, 2007 8:08:24 GMT -5
Heh, thankies.
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