Rogue Obscuro
Member
Posts : 7
Join date : 2014-10-29
 |  Subject: Obscuro.  October 29th 2014, 17:28 | |
| Name: Obscuro.Gender: MaleAge: 5 years old.Pack: N/A.Rank Requested: Rogue.Appearance: Although white fur is not necessarily an abnormal colour to sport, it remains handsome and exquisite nonetheless on the likes of this oddball. The colour, in itself, is symbolic of all things pure and delicate, which makes for quite an unexpected twist when to truly get to know this unusual character inside-out. His fur is thicker than would be considered normal; fluffy and inescapably soft to the touch. It’s not rare to see his handsome features marred by brown and/or black splotches and marks, what with the way he lives, and often times makes his nightly den out of the forest floor itself, the stars his companion. He is not overly bothered with maintaining perfect cleanliness, but that is not to say that he does not possess the inclination to remain presentable. If possible, he will make due with the resources he can find throughout his near-constant travel to ensure that he is never too dirty.
His eyes are the colour of the leaves in summer: a vivid green that, although a touch darker than is ordinarily seen, is not so dark as to be labeled yet another oddity of his. There is nothing off-putting about the appearance of this male, but it can be difficult to pay attention to his looks alone when bombarded by the perplexing elements of his personality. He lives up to the common expectations of Rogue wolves. There is something wrong with him, unacceptable to the point that he could not properly function in a pack, and he is thus abandoned to the lands of neutrality where few can pester him with their false niceties and sympathetic looks. In truth, there is no such sadness deserving of sympathy to be spotted in his brilliant eyes. He does not dislike the life that he leads, but in fact almost feels sorry for all of the pack-dwelling wolves that do not understand how great it is. He is watched warily, cautiously, if not only because of what the whispers on the wind dare to call him. A Rogue is a force to be reckoned with, and although he is not terribly cruel, his lack thereof a proper mindset can amount to a lethality no true monster could claim themselves to know.Photo: History: He had the potential to be normal. It slipped through his grasp like the string of a balloon in the hands of a child. Try as he might, he could not hold onto that feeling of normalcy for long, for he was undeniably sick. It was entwined into his scent, pinching up the noses of wolves far and wide. He could not be clever, he could not be normal - growing up alongside brothers and sisters in a pack - because, admit to it or not, everyone was afraid of becoming infected.
It started with low humming at night, as though he could sing along with the birds and they would mistake him for one of their own. There was nothing wrong with being playful, with appreciating what most stopped appreciating when they got to a certain age. It was, in fact, quite charming: the way that he smiled so lazily, like he was always sitting on a throne where the paws of the gloomy and the jealous could not threaten him. He was the pack’s spark. The bright light that guided even the darkest of hearts into better days. He was loved, cherished, but he could no longer be so with his head not on straight. The sickness was something they all worried would spread like a nasty germ, contaminating every intelligent brain like it had his, but they were so incredibly silly to believe such things! Such rumours! He was different, and to be different was to be sick. To be different was to be dangerous; they did not like being rendered incapable of predicting his every move like they could with the others.
And so … they made out of him, of his charm and his wit, something ill. The way that he spoke was no longer unique, no longer made the heart of a pretty female skip a beat, because it was foretold to be one of the early signs of his sickness. The way they sought to make an outcast out of him was laughable, and often times he did laugh, because there was simply no way that he was sick. But in a handful of ways, perhaps, he was. The smell, after all, clung to him like it could not bear to leave him behind. There was something wrong with him, surely, but nobody had to fear of it spreading when it sought to live inside of his mind and his mind alone. It did not crave anybody else’s thoughts. It resided inside of his brain, collected there, and despite how it made the others look at him, he forbade it from leaving him.
It was for the best that he leave them. All of them. He remembered somebody saying something along those lines to him the day that they no longer wanted him around to infect their beloved home. It should have been hard to turn away from his family, from those that had once been his friends, his admirers, but he found that it was not; his heart did not grieve the loneliness that came from looking over his shoulder and seeing nobody there to scowl. He was alone, but alas, he would always have the sickness that plagued him; the sickness that he did not believe existed to the same extent as everybody else.
A pretty she-wolf with a name he could not recall, not even to this day, had followed him. It was funny, almost, that he could not quite remember the way that she had looked, but knew that she was pretty; his mind having blurred the delicate lines of her face and disfigured it to the point of no repair. She had not been with him for very long. One second she had been at his side, and he had been thankful for the companion, but the next she was gone. For some reason that strange aroma, that bloody aroma, always leaped to the forefront of his mind when he tried to remember her. Perhaps she had died, which in truth was pitiful, but it could not be helped and so he did not often dwell.
He never tried to join another pack. Solitude was something he had come to be fond of, despite the reliance on none other than himself. Nature was his pack, and it permitted him to roam so many vast kingdoms without having to fret over leaving somebody else behind. He watched no tail other than his own; he had his own back, and he liked it that way. It was plausible that he had once feared, and maybe even still did fear, the possibility of having to face another pack of wolves that could not understand him, or accept him for who he was. He had come to believe that he was different, as his former pack had claimed. There was nothing wrong with embracing the oddities of oneself, as long as he did not allow himself to expect that others could and would do the same. Yet, even still, he does not classify being different as being sick. He calls it what any other wolf of his current position calls it: Rogue. That smell, that lack thereof proper communication skills and behavioural patterns, were all something that he was born with. He is not sick. He is Rogue. Perhaps, in truth, one is merely the other, but he always did prefer a fancier term over one so morally inadequate.
[I didn’t put too much detail behind what others in his history called a “sickness” because it’s really nothing more than a disfigurement of his personality that will have others seeing him under a different, if not slightly disturbed, light. Also, as far as the she-wolf in his history goes … he killed her, but he does not remember it. He will forget trauma that occurs throughout his life by a heck of a lot of self-persuasion and force. This is what, as a Rogue, will in part make him an outcast and make him dangerous. He’s very well a tad sick in the mind, but the character himself will not know, nor will he accept, this fact.]Joining Keys: Member posted the joining keys and have been removed for the fair joining of future members. - Alphess QuinnHow did you find Age? I am Beta Irrationality/Lead Healer Cheshire/Warrior Banshee.Example Post: [A post of mine with Ratio:]
He knew what was coming, just as he knew that he would not be participating. When the Alpha male called to his pack members, limited strictly to that of the male gender, the Beta male had already been present, dark gold eyes calculative, thoughtful, as they reached up the length of the rock to look inside of the leader’s emerald gaze, reading the hunger, the ferocity, that was inscribed inside of their depths. It would not have mattered to him, had he been expected to take part in this test of the wolves’ overall worth just like the rest of them. He understood how deadly this test was going to be. He understood that, had he been expected to be a part of it, his life would be hanging loosely by a thread that his leader would feel no such obligation to prevent from running straight into harm’s way. But that was not the case. None of it was. The danger that his pack members were about to face was surreal - it would, certainly, feel like they were all still fast asleep and partaking in a chilling nightmare - and he would do nothing but stand along the outskirts of the show to watch, for that was what would be expected of him.
He had not taken an interest in the males gathering around them, caring not to see who was appalled by this quest, and who was eager to prove themselves to their beloved Alpha. When the wolf in question leaped down from the rock, the bronze, muscular second-in-command took a position at his flank, walking in sync to their destination, mindful to maintain a respectful distance between their bodies the whole way. He had not said a word since the male population of Erenyx had been called forth from their various chambers. Teren had this under control, and so for the time being, he would serve as nothing more complex than a watchful post.
He read the undertones of injury that Teren expertly wove into his woeful song, golden ears pricked, prepared, waiting for the bear to make an appearance and, thus, meet the wolves of Erenyx with a brutal challenge that they would all be expected to excel at, lest they fail miserably and suffer the consequences that would follow their failure. At the Alpha male’s side, he was poised, carved out of stone, his expression careless; a wolf could die today, a handful of wolves could die today, and he would not so much as blink to reveal a semblance of melancholy. He was uncertain of what the others would think of this challenge that was being forced upon them, but surely, now more than ever, it was becoming increasingly clear that Teren had meant what he had said when he promised to make this pack stronger - to make it more lethal. This test would reveal to him who were the weakest links, and from there he could shape them into something worthy of being one of his followers. And, if not, then they would wither away like a flower in winter, with nobody to save them, to help them, and to make sure they revived with the coming spring. |
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