Post by Pocket Kitsune on Dec 31, 2009 22:31:44 GMT -5
Morte
[/size] ”And on the tip of my tongue were words that always came out wrong. Lying on ice, you will be, before the day is over. It's a case in point, baby, that you never thought it through. Stupid me to think I could depend on stupid you. ”[/b][/font][/color]
[/right]
this is me in the flesh
,[/size][/b][/font]and you just get to stare ,[/center][/color][/size][/b][/font]
NICKNAME(S): N/A *
AGE: Three *
GENDER: Male *
[/ul][/font]
taste the sky,
and let me walk this earth ,
[/color][/font][/b][/center]and let me walk this earth ,
WEIGHT: 100 lbs. *
BUILD: Morte has an overall lean look to him, and though he is indeed graced with a generous layer of muscles, this is evident only through a display of brute strength, and is not visible to the naked eye. *
GENERAL: *
Morte is as chilling in color as his name. His pelt is a pure jet without flaw. Unlike others of his kin, not a single strand of his pelt is colored or flecked with lighter hairs--neither white nor the common peppering of recessive white that often decorates the muzzles of typically black pelted wolves. No, instead his is a purity rarely seen in the wilds. His coat is sleek, clinging to his form in a manner that displays the sharp rise of his narrow shoulder blades and the deep breadth of his chest. His pelt tends to be more sheer--suited to more temperate climates than more harsher environs.[/ul]
The sole peculiarity to his form is his face. The entirety of his head down to the tip of his muzzle is a startling and severe bone white--and shaped, most strangely of all, like the hollow form of a ram's skull. But whereas the sockets of such a skull would be blank and soulless, this white rings around even his eyes-which blaze a fierce and glowering gold in color.
Only his face carries this anomaly--and to be sure, is the only out of the ordinary thing about him, appearance wise. In all other respects, he is certainly an attractive youth, once one gets past the chilling, off-putting decoration nature painted upon his face. If they can.
thoughts that make me go insane
,[/size][/color][/font][/font]but make me who I am ,[/center][/size][/b][/color][/font]
PERSONALITY: Morte is a wolf who rarely speaks without reason. Far from a conversationalist, he prefers to keep his words and his thoughts to himself. Though behind that steely silence, races a keen mind. Because he zealously harbors his words, there is never a moment when his mind is at rest. Ever the thinker, Morte is often one step ahead of everyone else when it comes to drawing conclusions or discovering a solution to a freshly arisen problem.[/blockquote][/font]
Because he so rarely speaks, many think him to be standoffish out of spite, or an inflated sense of ego. Yet just as often, they are startled by his moments of insight or reassurance when he does speak up. He has the ability to put others at ease just with a well-placed and soft-spoken word.
While not the warmest wolf, and not precisely the easiest to strike up either conversation or friendship with, he is quite loyal. Once he grants you his trust and respect, it is yours to keep until death separates him from their side. He detests displays of brute force, and finds others who rely on throwing their weight around in a violent display to be incredibly weak minded and not worth his time.
Though one would not think so to look at him, he is, at heart, a hopeless romantic. Although his ideas of "romance" aren't strictly conventional. Overall, he has a calm nature and an even temper, although stirring him to anger often provokes vicious results.
LIKES:( At least 3 )
• * Snowfall
• * Time alone to reflect
• * Understanding
DISLIKES:( At least 3)
• * Harassment
• * Over talkative company
• * Aggression
all over my shoulder,
[/color]but it keeps coming back to haunt me ,[/b][/font][/color][/center][/size]
PARENTS: Locke & Lefey *
SIBLINGS: Eisen, Poltergeist, Kestrel *
OTHER: *
HISTORY:
It is neither an easy nor fair childhood when your mother is mad. And Morte's mother was most certainly that, if the half-whispers and rumors that traveled in her wake were to be believed. Lefey, for all the madness that griped her, was a stunning vixen. Her pelt was a polished cream of the abalone, and indeed, the play of light along her fur colored it into wisps of smoke-blue from time to time. But perhaps most lovely of all was her eyes--each a brilliant ivy green. It is said that her name originated from the times of the human's greatest champion of myth, King Arthur. And that the cunning witch by that same name had given Lefey a strange and wicked blessing when she was but a pup.
The power of visions. Of course, all of that is only hearsay. Although indeed, Morte's heritage does stretch as far back as that fabled era. It was these visions that gave her her madness. She often raved about strange prophecies that left her foaming at the mouth--and as a result, she frightened off any kindness from stranger or family. But well into her third winter, her beauty caught the eye of a lone wolf by the name of Locke. He himself was quite the handsome brute, and full of vanity and pride.
For many weeks, he watched Lefay as she spent hours upon hours looking into the reflection of the waters. He was utterly captivated by her beauty, and slowly, a plan hatched in his mind to claim her for himself. And so one night, when the moon was full, he shifted so that the dark pelt of his face would cast itself into the reflection of te waters. Lefey, convinced that she beheld a foreshadowing of the future, grew obsessed with the image in the waters.
But he did not approach that night, nor the next--casting a spell of his own around the hapless vixen. When he finally did show himself to her, Lefey was beside herself, rushing heedlessly to his side. His cunning made him feign demure modesty--but it was far too late, and the spell was complete. She left at dawn with the mysterious male, never to be heard or seen from again by her birth pack. By winter, she was pregnant.
And by the early weeks of spring, she had given birth to five healthy pups, of which Morte was the first. While others shrunk from the strange marking on his face--even his own siblings, slinging cruel barbs and mockery at him often--"bone face" being the favorite among them--his mother revered it. She would often spend hours licking it's intricate design over and over, crooning soft praise into his ears and telling him how lovely it was, how special.
And for a while, this comforted him. Until he aged yet further, only to find that none of their kin nor kith would have anything to do with him--fearful of the unnatural marking the silence that hovered thickly around him. He soon came to resent the marking and his mother both. The marking, for making him different, and his mother, for her madness and the similar mockery she endured behind her back, alphess or no.
By the age of a year, he began to suffer a dull pounding in his temples, and always, this was followed by short, pinwheeling images in his mind. Always flashes, and never whole. Confusing puzzles that often happened mere minutes afterward. For example, the cry of a hawk would ring in his ears, and moments later a hawk would alight on a branch.
Horrified, he confronted his mother, who naturally, was thrilled that he had also inherited the "Gift." She began to train him on how to control and compel the visions. But when Locke caught wind of this, he sternly swore him to silence, fearful of having yet another of the mad ones among his pack. For the years had dwindled his affection and lust for his mother, and he considered her little more than a hindrance now--a breeding machine.
However, his opinion changed when such visions proved...useful. He had an intuitive sense of where the herds of game could be found, and so for the first time in his young life, found himself not mock, but for a shining moment, respected. Revered. Perhaps even loved by someone other than his poor mother. He quickly rose through the ranks of the pack, once again declared a potential heir by his father, a title stripped from him by curse of his unusual birth mark.
And so the seasons went. Yet one night, he awoke from restless dreams of fire, burning. The destruction of their home and the death of more than half of their pack. Troubled, he woke his father and spoke of this vision. But Locke only scowled and turned him away, scoffing at his words. It would be his downfall. For that very night, just hours before dawn, a brushfire, started by man, quickly consumed the very woods the pack called home.
Wolves, confused and fearful in their disorientation, scattered far and wide in a chaotic mass. When he was several miles away, only then did he realize his mother, who had been running at his side, was no longer among them. Morte, fearing the worst, swung back to look for her. He found her. And he found her aflame.
"Mother! You're rotting away," he informed her in helpless horror. "My dear, the world is rotting away." Those were her last words before her maw sprang open and closed around his shoulder, her own madness and pain from the flames at last getting the better of her. Morte fled then, his shoulder roaring in pain from that burning bite, leaving his mother to her gruesome death.
But when he returned to his pack, he was met not with welcome, but accusation in the eyes of many. His own father denied him reentry, blaming him for the fire, and for the death of so many of their own. Most of all, for the death of his mother. And so Morte fled into the wilderness that night of his second year, wounded, confused, and heartbroken.
He discovered Dachau not long after, but stuck to the unclaimed lands for a full year. His visions he has long since repressed, to the point where they practically no longer exist.
