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son of wither
Posted 04-19-2018, 06:34 PM | This post was last modified: 04-19-2018, 08:37 PM by Lóegaire
Lóegaire
Rogue
Male, 2.25
Endomorph
37 in, 132 lbs
5 ep
© joel
day becomes a sequence of color and moments. it was possibility on the rise. he watched them like reels of tape, each break of given time he was an audience to nature. the hours did not cease. he found this peaceful, waking realm; timeless. the art of a wilderness as old as he and his very gene. violets ripple in pathways, traced in other mauve paints that suggest a great burning. above, some wick is lit and the view begins to glow. the sliver of his dab eyes flicker in response. their olive sheen hung at the level of grass and weeds he was passing through. they search in a tailored urgency, one molded over seasons and his own profound wisdom in waiting. given idleness was a tedium, he crafted his urgency to be a momentum. a stored energy to channel. he navigates the hills at pace with his pulse. purpose curbs his sober stare.

conviction emits from the articles of his makeup. a thin net veiling his unassuming gestures. his monolith frame refused the nerve to be uncertain in this new country; with its alien scents and motley territories. stimulation greet and leave him in a flurry. fresh senses borne of new textures, he stole glances as he moved; noting the ground change beneath him. and the smell. it held a rare account of his memory - dread. it was stale in the air, the foul laden earth wrung between his toes. mire was something he was accustomed to, dreading his thick locks with grease and dirt. his journey in total, has caked him in segments of past lands. it curled his dual hair, its density fringed by knots. he knows somewhere, he bleeds, too. the high of triumph, in being close to a result, distracts him entirely from the wounds he earned to wander. to be free.

the prospect in him held no expectation. to grant himself that relief was to, in essence, be in ignorance of logic. without the anchor of reason, meant madness. he was of poor state when he was unfastened. of the two siblings, his brother knew well the spur of impulse. submitting to that urge was defying his method - his network was a bond to uphold boundaries. he crossed them at will, paired with his mind's calculated pace. loegaire was the wood, the concrete. an element of immense security, of openness driven by the pillar of remaining. his scars, his scars are his journey, where as he also explored, touched atmospheres in turn with enduring their seam. mercurial in material, he is impact. it was diligence keeping him floored, as the haste seized his thrumming veins. he is a union of nature, defined by storms and droughts.

it wished to join what inhabited the other side. (he would give his eye for the knowledge) his direction was ambiguous, as he followed the range of rock formations until an opening was revealed. and he cared not for how long this process, he was relentless. mud welcomes his paws with a give, its moist expanse folded beneath his virile finesse. pockets formed under his tread, foam surfaced and gargled as he crossed the borders of what mildly appeared remote. the musk was absent of a population, and so few to identify that it remained stale. salt, salt of the marshes was received differently. he paused, muscles wrought with tension and coils as he tilts his skull upward. lips flinch, as he inhales the smell of what proceeded lifetimes ago.

Marroquin Icarus



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Posted 04-20-2018, 11:05 AM |
Gorgon
Rebel Beta
Male, 5.25
Meso-fighter
30 in, 130 lbs
15 ep
© sorceror
Lóegaire
The mud. The heat. The faint sense that he was being watched. He was almost not completely used to it and it annoyed him slightly. Still, he had to come here; he had to make himself useful. He wasn't the guy that hung around the ridge, appeared to stick his nose in other peoples' business, and then disappeared again to god knew where for another few weeks. He was better than that.
Besides, he'd been given free reign to accept anyone he wanted, and the obvious course of action was to find people who'd support him, and not his rival. Or rivals. Roswell was a piece of shit, and Gorgon had every intention of upstaging him, but Charlotte was still an unknown quantity. He couldn't trust her, he suspected, even if she was the only person in the pack he felt any sense of loyalty to.
Couldn't trust her yet.
He slogged along, squinting up at the sky every so often. The sun beat down on his patchy hair. He limped slightly; he was finding himself with more lingering pain than usual, as the weather turned colder. A few vultures circled overhead.
not today, he considered, somewhat smugly, and spotted a shape on the horizon. The man-at-arms paused, dark eyes narrowing to consider a moment, and then surged forth through the mud in that direction. It looked like the stranger was alone. He would be able to approach without worrying about being ambushed.
How he'd managed to end up in the local pack that literally everyone hated, he wasn't sure, but it made him more cautious than the necklace-wearing peasants that also lingered in the mud flat.

The stranger was, to his eye, someone who showed some promise. He approached carefully, expression neutral, nodded at the younger man with slightly affected courtesy, and spoke without preamble.
"Name's Gorgon. You looking for work? I'm hiring."
Rebel was plagued with teenage angst and layabouts; he needed anyone who might have half a working brain. He stood at a prudent distance from the stranger, a faint smile hovering on his scarred face, and waited to find out.
It seemed, unluckily, like half the people he approached stared blankly at him when the word job came out of his mouth, but he couldn't help that. If he tried enough times, it would pay off eventually. Right? Right.
The alternative was that he was just wasting his time. He preferred to pretend that wasn't the more likely possibility.



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Posted 04-22-2018, 09:57 PM | This post was last modified: 04-23-2018, 03:08 PM by Marroquin
Marroquin
Rogue
Male, 2.50
Meso-fighter
35 in, 130 lbs
0 ep
© morrow
"look here, darling, this is how you break a ribcage." || smothering it was, the filth of the land before him. it was the last of the unclaimed explored, and for well reason. beneath each step, the soft squelch of mud accompanied him, his paws feeling mildly grateful for the cool sensation. as it were, the sun had full reign here, and the thick pelt covering him felt ill-suited for the heat of it. he had seen the seasons here, and understood that as autumn settled the days would cool; it did not ease his discomfort now to think of the future. his ears swiveled, the tall peaks turning just east to him, as the sound preceded the sudden arrival of their scent. he was upwind, his presence no doubt already revealed, despite the thick odor of the mire. instinct urged that he turned and leave, the type of instinct that made his tendons shudder and his muscles ache. but an even deeper instinct insisted he stay, insisted that he seek the company of others and the allure of potential companionship. he reeked of this land by now, and yet he understood that his scent was a dangerous one. he could get killed in lands with a title like rogue, whether it was for the lack of an alpha to reign him in or the threat he posed to a pack and it's stability. perhaps it was both. he'd not seen enough of the wolves of this land to make a proper assessment, and so his arrival was one littered with caution.

his ears turned back slightly in hesitation upon reaching a distance suited for greeting, his eyes moving to the white behemoth first. his own gaze sharpened, his posture shifting slightly as he regarded the titan. despite the sheer bulk of him (which was, presumably, quite intimidating) there was something still charming. he laid the reason on those eyes, glad to have caught them in the light of day: kohl rimmed and absinthe like the poisons brewed in the witch's wildwood. they were familiar, and while he was certain he'd never come across this wolf before, he found his gaze moving away with reluctance. the red wolf was the smallest of the gathered trio, and scarred more visibly as well. he hummed in thought, wondering if the smaller wolf was unlucky and unskilled in art of war, or if the scars were in fact the testaments of his strength. he found he could not decide, and that that in itself made the wolf more of a potential threat than the behemoth. "what payment do you offer, gorgon, for the services you seek to... hire?" his voice was unassuming as the rest of him, smooth and charming, despite the harsh contrast of his gaze. he spoke the name carefully, his accent a tangle with this language, slowing his words and giving them an unintentional melody. "or perhaps the offer extends not to me?" he looked to titan once more, and his gaze would have been appraising if they knew how to convey such a thing. his ears, however, turned slightly towards gorgon, still not feeling entirely at ease in the presence of strangers. "i am certainly not as well endowed as he." there was the hint of a smile, and it curved his oiled lips softly, speaking his admiration into reality when his eyes failed.



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Posted 04-23-2018, 12:37 AM |
Divine
Lypso'ru
Divine Beta
Female, 5.00
Endomorph
32 in, 110 lbs
209 ep
© Lou
Lypso'ru & Amaranthe


They traveled at good speed from cove to the gateway of their ever expanding home, the wolves that gushed in from the sidelines and left their mark on Doutaini. Like the many years before when Lypso herself had arrived here, a shattered essence of the wolf she had become, frightened and malnourished waiting on a saviour to shine the way. And shine he had, she remembers the day fondly, the behemoth Jarilo in all his albino glory, he had brought with him the relief of hope and redemption and Lypso had clung to the very idea of what he'd offered. It was why she returned here each season, to offer the same safe passage to those wanderers unsure of their destination, of what fate had waiting for them. With Amaranthe happily loping by her side, the slope of the pits soon greeted them with outstretched arms, a welcome all in its' own though Lypso could see through the mirage ti what it stood for. Mangled and dead, the carnage of that lonesome tree reached upwards in curling tendrils, long passed branches of rotting wood that never truly faded away into the years it had stood there. They took a soft pause there, looking out at a small gathering of wolves, necklaces absent from the thicks of their throats. She took that as an invitation. "Come Amy," she whispers, encouraging her daughter with a light nudge of muzzle to temple, before she set off into the wasteland.

It was upon approach that she realized one of the three wasn't actually a rogue, but a rebel. A wolf lead by her aunt Charlotte, she wasn't sure even she could trust a wolf like that, even with the love she held for her family- or what was left of it. There were two others that those bright, sapphire eyes assess briefly, ears of silken shades flickering forwards to garnish the light features that bordered them. Golden, the pendants sit like a talisman at each of their throats. "Howdy there!" Amaranthe sings, a goofy grin spreading across her rather attractive, teenage features. As white as her mother with hazelnut eyes, a golden star lacing the fur on her forehead. She is a chipper little thing, her tail flutters back and forwards like a sailing flag. Lypso, a little more refined and introverted than her daughter, drops her muzzle in a gracious greeting. "Greetings travellers, welcome to Doutaini, my name is Lypso'ru and this is my daughter Amaranthe, we are of the pack Divine here..." she flashes each wolf a shining smile, her large, opal-like eyes glittering with excitement, though she can't deny her gaze lingers on the large white brute just a slight time longer than the others. Recognition, or something else perhaps? She moves on smoothly, "may we offer you any help?"

Phone post!!

Please tag me if I forget to reply within 3 days. <3



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