¥Ferox¥
NAME
Ferox
AGE two and a half years old
GENDER male
EYE COLOR an alluring mixture of purples and lavenders that almost appear to swirl
APPEARANCE Ferox will be 29 inches tall when full grown, and he will weigh approximately 163 pounds. His pelt is long, fluffy and pure white in colour, with crimson marking the tips of his ears and tail. He is an all rounder, capable of strength and speed, though he is perhaps not as agile as he would have liked and his colour will never aid him when it comes to being stealthy. His flaws, if this is what you would call them, lie in his character and his youth.
Ability to imprint: yes
OOC: CASJ
Sample:
The vast majority of creatures do not understand the power of their words. Things uttered have a profound effect on the lives of others, breaking or making them. Words are like knives that puncture the world of the spirit, creating wounds that ooze the transparent into reality to give power to curses and make true blessings. Things spoken can shatter the bonds of the jailed, heal the hearts of the broken, give leaders their power and forge futures that exceed beyond the power of reckoning. Tobias, the little demon, fruit of Jaidah’s wounds, was not born a tyrant. He was born impressionable. Every word spoken to him, every action witnessed helped to fashion him into the shape he had taken on as an adolescent. Jaidah’s constant wheedling encouragement of his more dictatorial actions planted a seed of violence in his heart and slowly, ever so slowly, shut the door on his emotions. Then, as he grew older, it had been words from Heyel’s angelic jaws that had ordered his death, and the affirmations of his pack mates who had carried out the deed (unsuccessful or not). Thus things said had created the monster that plagued society that day, forcing every wolf with breath still in his bones to comb back through the mystifying past of the demon and wonder. Most blamed his mother but, in truth, every wolf that had taken part in his upbringing and said words of anger towards him, or towards other wolves, were the cause of his metamorphoses into evil. In much the same way, the words offered to the sons of Heyel and Zeivah carried with them a deep and profound message that would bathe each child and, with Ferox at least, aid him into an adulthood preordained, though neither parent could know it then.
He fought viciously, desperate to be free of the warm cocoon that had carried him through his short existence. Excitement peppered the young body, something more than mere instinct drove him on to struggle inside the fluid that kept him buoyed up, Zeivah’s final child. Perhaps his minute body sensed the danger his mother was in, and ultimately himself, or perhaps it was simply the irritation of the constant contractions that drove him forward, but it was clear he was not supposed to be there. Before him loomed an obstacle, the companion of his time as a captive, and he felt only a surge of frustration towards the creature that barred him from his freedom. He mouthed at the alabaster leg, trying to bite it but sloppy in his blindness, his thin lids registering the darkness before him until it was suddenly replaced with a blinding light and the unmoving blockage became unstopped. For too long, it seemed, he lay there without forward motion, the space he occupied becoming ever more cramped as his mother turned to welcome her first newborn into the world. He kicked out angrily, wishing things would move faster, wishing for his freedom and pining for something he had never tasted. Zeivah, already tired from delivering Seraphiel, gave an almighty heave. Gaping wide, the tiny Ferox was pushed from his mother’s exhausted body to flop on the dusty ground of Trenus. His ears heard sound, muffled by the walls of his cocoon and the fluid in which he floated, and disappointment overwhelmed him. True, he had hoped for much more from life than that. However, he suddenly felt an uncomfortable sensation creep over him, one where he could not breathe. Slowly his body fought for survival as the fluid that had been his home, slowly drowned him. Just when all was growing dark, the sac around him was torn open and the fluid released. Without the aid of his mother, he took a tiny breath, his own strength allowing him to live. At that moment, she drenched him with her warm tongue and the small inhalation became deep, true breathing that would carry him until his heart packed in and he returned to dust. When she was done, he raised his minute head and looked upwards, making out hazy blurs behind his eyelids. One was large and sinister-looking, his muzzle crinkling in the parody of a growl. The other was smaller, softer, warmer, and it was to this shape that he crawled.
Some aid sent from heaven came to help, and he felt himself propelled forward, knocking his tiny cranium against a large and yielding surface. Instinctively he pushed at it, tiny mouth gaping, searching for the teat. Upon its discovery, he latched onto it and sucked, enjoying the rich fluid, valuable as gold to diminutive gullets. Its warmth lent him strength and he suckled with renewed fervor, occasionally bumping the shoulder of his brother as he did so, His white fur stuck out in clumps, making him appear as an albino porcupine, truly an amusing sight. Had he been able to see it, he may have gasped with horror. Ferox, the arrogant one, true to form from his very birth. He felt those around him fade into blissful slumber, tense muscles relaxing, and soon he too was overcome with drowsiness. However, he noticed that the large, more imposing silhouette had settled beside the other, friendlier one, and it was to this that the brave boy squirmed. Eventually he bumped into the soft fur of Heyel and, after a few bumps with his muzzle and no teat upturned, he immediately fell fast asleep at his sire’s side, blending in to the white flank that rose and fell so steadily.
And so, the final prince of Trenus was birthed, a legend in his own right, son of the famed Heyel and his equally well known queen.
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Ferox –2/0.5 years old –Heyel X Zeivah - male – white with scarlet sword-tip marks – no mate – no imprint  |