Post by SCA'THY on Oct 10, 2012 16:21:40 GMT -5
| [atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 460px; background-image: url(http://i44.tinypic.com/34fb0ns.jpg);-moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; -webkit-border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px; border: 4px ridge #9c5f5b, bTable][tr][cs=2] SCÁTH. SEVEN YEARS OLD. FERAL. | |
[rs=2] | Name: Scáth Nickname/s: Scáthy, The Grinning Shadow. Age: 7 years Gender: male Sexuality: n/a (allegedly heterosexual) Breed: Dutch Shepherd Dog Pack: Feral Bought Items:n/a Likes:
Dislikes:
Fears:
Dreams:
Overall Personality: - cheerful (verging on manic) - unpredictable - dark-humored - intelligent - bold - high pain tolerance - cunning - paranoid - nomadic - curious - auditory hallucinations; usually benign 'clicking sounds' or 'whispers', occasionally seems to chat with himself. - can be excitable in the presence of others; twitchy, erratic, 'high' Despite being perfectly friendly towards whoever he meets, Scáth evidently has no problems with violence. He's a fairly independent dog who likes to do his own thing, going with the flow only if there's something in it for him. Integrity does not seem to exist in the Dutch Shepherd's mind and he often appears unable to distinguish the difference between right and wrong. Rules are frequently bent or even disregarded completely at his own convenience. The best way of describing this dog's wit would be 'gallows' humor'. For someone who once spent four days gnawing through a wall out of desperate starvation, he tends to treat the taboo topic of death very casually. If he had a catchphrase, it would probably be something along the lines of 'don't take life so seriously; no one gets out alive.' A true street dog at heart, Scáth is ultimately self-serving and can be very deceptive when he feels the need; though it would be a mistake to assume he lies outright. Though he can lie coolly and easily, creating believable untruths without batting an eyelid, Scáth has found that there's little point in bothering as very few would be inclined to believe anything he says in the first place. Between his ever-present grin and those manic burgundy eyes, the Dutch Shepherd would win no competitions for a trustworthy face; so naturally Scáth exploits this with devil-may-care bouts of flippant honesty. As one would expect from a seven year old Feral, Scáth is very resourceful and adapts quickly to sudden changes in his environment. His tongue is as agile as his paws, and he can be charming - in a coercive, sinister kind of way. A quick learner who seeks to gain from others around him, the Dutch Shepherd is the sort to discreetly observe a stranger's tactics, then implement/avoid them himself as appropriate. Scáth's lifestyle has not been without its psychological scars. Having spent seven years alone and having been attacked while sleeping in the past, Scáth cannot bear sharing a sleeping space with another dog. The paranoia is too deeply ingrained, too much of a habit, for his subconscious self to ever fully relinquish. Thus, if ever forced to spend the night with company, Scáth's rest is disrupted by nightmares and bouts of insomnia; more oft than not, his companion will awake to find he's spent the entire night watching them sleep. Additionally, over the years of solitude Scáth has manifested a peculiar propensity to hear sounds that aren't there. These phantom sounds (most likely borne out of a mixture of History: They say Scáth was a mad dog before madness became the trend and humans became the hunted. Certainly he was never the steadiest or most predictable of canines; growing up in a 10" x 10" concrete yard with no company and no stimulation (aside from being fed on occasion) made him a stir-crazy pup who circled endlessly and talked to himself, if only because there was never anyone else to talk to. Of course, keeping a bored Dutch Shepherd youngster in one's backyard is like keeping a coiled spring. Scáth got bigger and less fluffy; and his boredom became more destructive. It got to the point where the humans that kept him did not dare venture outside at all. Desperate for stimulation and half-crazed with hunger, Scáth chewed through the wall and escaped onto the streets. No one tried to 'rescue' him. A few weeks into his new lifestyle as a scavenging stray, Scáth was hit by a car - he survived, for it wasn't going very fast and only just bumped him, but it left a pschological mark as well as phsyical damage. Scáth learned - the painful way - that his pathetic, crippled appearance drew the sympathy of humans, especially the young females and their pups; long after his wounds were healed the shepherd continued to limp when he walked (and still does, out of habit. Whether Scáth actually believes himself crippled is unknown, but he certainly seems to have no problem running.) Scáth learnt a lot of things the painful way. Shortly after escaping his backyard prison, the young Dutch Shepherd ran headfirst into barbed wire - too focused on the maddeningly delicious sight of an injured pigeon to take note the taut, dangerously sharp coils - and walked away with horrific facial scarring. Due to the slow manner in which the skin of his jowls healed into puckered, rakelike ridges that marred the natural set of his muzzle, Scáth seems to wear an ever-present crooked grin; a sight that unnerved dogs then and still does now. Humans similarly alternated between avoiding the Dutch Shepherd and throwing things to scare him off. Having lost the sympathy vote due to his ugly countenance, Scáth was faced with fewer free handouts and had to adapt to hunting live prey instead. No one could have explained to Scáth why the humans began fleeing the city or why his world warped, reality descending into sanguine anarchy as dogs began to literally turn and bite the hands that had fed them. No one would have dared. As one of the oldest Ferals on the streets, Scáth took the change in stride; and while others are starting to suffer from the sudden influx of new dogs trying to scrounge off the same streets as seasoned strays, the Dutch Shepherd has proven himself to be as versatile as ever. Role-playing Sample: (Just a little snippet from a thread from a Supernatural rpg, to showcase my writing style. Meet An Ciannait Coinín, the Irish fairy.) The temptation to dunk this man in the lake was, well... tempting. So, so tempting... Ciannait liked dunking people. Regardless of age, gender or orientation, a human always had pretty much the same reaction when she finished: gasp, splutter, cough, scramble away. Simple. Reliable. Entertaining. But alas, the púca had made the decision to be - somewhat - discreet and refrain from suspicious acts that could provoke this nest of gunslinging rednecks. Which, sadly, meant no dunking. Human, it is your lucky day. I know it may not seem it, but trust me - it is. On the upside, the man had to be a novice still learning the supernatural ropes; either that, or his chivalrous morals were stronger than his hunting instincts. There was no suspicion, no interrogation. Just an endearing amount of honest stupidity, a rare characteristic in full-grown men these days (actually, a rare characteristic full stop). Also, his eyes stayed firmly fixed on her face, rather than straying lower down, as he set down his rifle and shrugged off his jacket. An Ciannait Coinín decided she was right to refrain from dunking him in the lake. A different sort... she mused to herself, head tilted to one side. The dark-haired girl held her ground, eying the hunter as he carefully approached - like she was a wild mare he was wary of spooking, which was ironically rather apt - and offered her his jacket. A strange sort... apocolypse hasn't really blown down your house yet, has it? "Here. Put this on before you freeze to death. You realize it's January, right? Snow, cold weather and water don't mix." A touching gesture; but Ciannait was more interested in the fact that he now had no gun. Oh, but she wasn't foolish enough to presume he was unarmed. She'd been in the game long enough to know that hunters were fond of stashing silver and iron on their person; but it was guns that the púca had come to be most wary of, due to their range and the fact that one could never be quite sure of what rounds they carried. She was no Hollywood werewolf, but a silver bullet was still fatal. At the thought of silver, the wound on her arm started burning again. Ciannait's jaw tightened, but she refrained from tending to it. The burn itself was hidden under a layer of hardened mud and chewed up leaves - dirt and grime to the ignorant human eye - and the púca had no desire to draw attention to the fact that she was injured. Injured. A savage antipathy simmered in her blood at the word; like a pain-maddened wild boar harassed by a hunting party, the urge to lash out and inflict damage was a powerful one. But she wouldn't indulge herself. An Ciannait Coinín was a creature of few rules and many frequently ignored 'guidelines', but she stood by one maxim; do not harm the innocent. There was certainly an innocence about this man - call it ignorance, call it a sense of humanity - and it was the only thing that saved him now. The only thing that kept the púca quiet, and let the hunter see the vulnerable girl he wanted to see. An agony and an ecstacy at the same time, this deception. An Ciannait Coinín warily shifted in her crouch; a pair of slender, white fingers accepted the proferred clothing with cautious ease, and it was scrutinised for a moment with something akin to suspicion - it looks large enough to swallow me whole - before being awkwardly slipped on. It drowned the púca. Her hands were lost somewhere far from the cuffs, and the coat itself nearly came down to her knees. It looked more like a blanket, swathing her petite frame, than a piece of clothing. Still, despite the bagginess, fabric chafed against the oversensitive skin of her seared arm and Ciannait had to bite back a curse in old Gaelic as she winced. Oh, but how she loathed burns. They were always the most painful of non-fatal wounds, and always took the longest to heal. |
SHADE. SIX YEARS. |
