BRUTUSThe Dancing Fool
The Jester of Glorall
name: Brutus
age: 16 years
gender: Male
eye color: Chartreuse
appearance: Brutus is a relatively small and scraggly male, standing 28 inches at his shoulders and weighing 65 pounds. He has a patchy, ragdoll look to him, some tufts of fur sticking out longer and in different directions than others without an real pattern. While most of his tail is threadbare, the very end of it still has long and wispy fur.
The majority of his coat is a cream color, topped with a blend of russets along his sides, legs, and on his ears. A blanket of silver lays over his back, as well as up his nose and over his eyes. A black streak runs his his forhead, and he has two more black streaks on either side above the russet. Black lines his eyes and trails off at the corners. Most of his face and paws are off-white.
personality IN SHORT: A little clumsy, rarely on time, but never sorry or awkward about it. Narcissistic and egotistic, but not vain. Playful. A performer. Energetic, strong-willed, and competitive... but lazy and mostly unmotivated. . Intuitive, but unwise. Clever, but nonsensical. Friendly and generous to friends, but not always reliable or kind. An undying optimist.
imprint?: Eh, he's old, but sure... why not.
SAMPLE! (Wow, this is really old...)
Brutus was born a fighter. It wasn't in the physical, war-mongering way, however. He had always been tiny and more prone to running away when the danger became too great, but that was sort of the point. Brutus was a survivalist... and he won every single battle that took place within his own head. In all the different ways that Brutus was a shattered man, his spirit had always refused to die. It would bruise and bend, but never break. With each trial and no matter how many times the world seemed to flip itself over on him, he always pressed on, and he always did so with that foolish grin that he kept because he knew he had won, even if no body else was able to see his little triumphs as any true victory.
It may have seemed out of character for him to seek such direct conflict. No, goading others and running almost blindly into trouble didn't count. He usually had an escape plan in those circumstances, or an unspoken confidence that things would never be taken too far. And perhaps, yes, a part of him didn't really care and he was slightly masochistic and suicidal without having the true will to die.
The truth was, he had been safe for the last three years because a king had taken interest in him. Bahamut, somehow, had seen some sort of potential or some sort of worth in the broken fool and had not only taken him in, but allowed him to be himself. He had allowed Brutus to be a part of something greater, something the Jester would never have thought himself capable of seeking out, but did not force him to give up anything that made him Brutus. When Weylin took over, he offered Brutus the same courtesy, even if it was only out of obligation to his grandfather.
Now he had neither of them.
Who would look out for poor Brutus? Who would tolerate his asinine antics? Who would see the spark of life, zeal, and wit behind a pair of eyes that seemed to speak nothing but of dull, broken breath harboring a spark of lunacy? Bahamut's direct line had nearly ended, with only Persephone left - and she hated him. The time had come again when Brutus had nobody left but himself, and even that he was obligated to share with Latika.
And so, with only half of himself at his disposal, and the other half latched desperately onto a broken-but-slowly-healing woman, he decided that he would be King. He had been, all along, within his own mind. The king of his world, the king of his life... but the world in his head would never be big enough for both him and Latika. It would never be big enough for the world of webs and connections that Bahamut's offered packlife had taught him. He would be King, because there was nobody left who would be his King.
He smelled of brine and seaweed, the wolf who fancied himself merfolk. The salt of the ocean had dried and crusted itself within his fur, causing it to stick and spike in every direction. There was sand between his toes, sand plastered to his snout, and bits of kelp accenting him in dark, sludgy green. Brutus was a walking piece of Glorall, and he did not know the face of his challenger. He had never even heard his name before, but that also meant that Silvertongue did not know Brutus, and that made them even.
Well, other than the fact that Silvertongue was a hulking brute in comparison to Brutus's slim, raggedy frame. It meant that raw strength would not be on the Jester's side, and certainly not size. That was okay. Brutus was used to running. He was fast, he was agile, he was practically a contortionist. Most importantly, he had an uncanny reserve of stamina and his mannerisms were unpredictable. The only thing that Silvertongue's larger size would change was that it would take Brutus a bit longer to dismember him... the boy did have a surprising ability to be entirely singleminded when he really wanted something.
As it was, he would be the first to dart into the fray. Brutus did not have any meaningful words for his unlikely opponent, nor did he have any taunts. He ran, he flung himself, but not to land upon Silvertongue. No, instead he skirted around him wildly, lickety-split, with his rump and tail tucked under himself because posturing was never something that the Fool did. For a moment, it seemed that the boy had completely forgotten he was to be battling and had instead decided to frolic through the lengthy grasses, circling Silvertongue like a maypole. His tongue lolled sloppily out of his mouth, the whites of his eyes overpowered the chartreuse, and on a second he planted his paws at Silvertongue's side and threw himself in the other direction like a ragdoll. His jaws parted and his teeth snapped down sharply at the soft tendon of Silvertongue's back leg, and then his head would jerk away with the intention of ripping. He would maim, he would disable. He would dismember.
It was possible that the larger wolf might try to kick at him, but what was he, a horse? There wouldn't be enough power to cause any real damage, and it certainly wouldn't get the limb out of Brutus's reach. It would be like putting his paw right in the alligator's mouth. Instead, Brutus anticipated the larger wolf turning around to meet him, and so after making his go at the back leg, he would swing his rump around himself to turn his body back around and open his mouth of needle teeth wide. A paw raised, as though to push upon the potentially oncoming chest (worst case, he would be knocked back, right?) because he didn't want Silvertongue to get too close to anything put his reaching jaws. And those jaws aimed for his face, his eyes, or anything he could get his teeth into because he couldn't be completely certain the other male would react the way he expected. He would bloody it and disfigure it, make it harder for him to see through the thick red fluid.
ooc name: Lorikeet
chatango: ColoredPencils
rules?: I DO WHAT I WANT
Oh, how beautiful it used to be,
just you and me far beyond the sea -
the waters, scarce in motion,
quivering still.
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