Post by Scáth on Jan 21, 2010 14:07:33 GMT -5
º ßasics º
Calling: Scáth
Age: Four years
Gender:Male
Species/Breed: Dutch Shepherd
º I §ee you £ooking at me º
Pelt/Hair color and length: Scáth is a tall, dark, handsome canine; if one ignores the scars littered across his form. His black-brindle coat is short and hard with a distinct ruff at his neck. A thick, woolly undercoat that keeps him warm and dry whilst his outer coat acts as the ideal water-resistant barrier.
Eye color: His eyes are a dark burgundy.
Build (height, weight, overall structure): Scáth has a long, prominant jawline and a pointed muzzle; this gives him a sharp, alert look.
Scáth's legs are long, slender yet tough. These powerful limbs are able to propel him forwards at quite a distance with ease, even from a standstill.
These, along with his lean, streamlined frame, enable him to perform manouvers that require extreme agility and speed without a problem. This is a breed built for herding; running and sharp turns are in his genes.
Scáth's pricked ears are high-set and wide at the base, which gives him better hearing. Along with these are large paws with tough, streetwise pads.
He stands at 61cm, and weighs about 70lb.
Detailed Description (or picture):
º The þast Molds Who We BecØme º
History: Scáth was bred to be a shepherding dog. He was born on a farm to fulfill that purpose, but never got the chance. The owners of the farm were feuding with another family; at only a few weeks old he and his littermates were stolen when the quarreling got out of hand. Anarchy ensued, and the people holding the pups spitefully tried to drown them. The bag and its squeaking prisoners were discovered by a feral dog out hunting, who leapt into the river and dragged the slowly sinking bundle ashore; she had a litter of her own, and her maternal instincts demanded that she care for these unlucky scraps. Unfortunately two of Scáth's littermates did not survive. It was only himself and his sister who were licked and carried and fed in the dark warmth of the mongrel's den.
Scáth thrived despite the unusually harsh Winter, whereas the other pups did not. As a yearling running rampant in the sheep fields, his anxious surrogant mother tried to bring him back; it was her skinny frame that the bullets hit. Scáth fled in one piece, and roamed the island alone.
Everywhere he went the young shepherd seemed to bring misfortune on those around him..
Other canines began to avoid him.
At two years old he was hit by a horse-drawn carriage - 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 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, for hope of a few savoury snacks being tossed his way.
When he was three, drunkard with a knife cornered him and tried to cut off his tail.
Scáth attacked. The man lay, undiscovered all night, and ended up dying of blood loss.
Someone saw the limping black sog with a muzzle smeared red leaving the area; immediately it was open season on Scáth. Many strays and feral dogs who even vaguely resembled him were caught and destroyed.
His bad reputation grew, and when the army against man started recruiting, Scáth was one of the dogs who was sought out. After all, he'd killed a human before, and had no reason to want them alive.
Or so it was assumed.
Scáth conviniently disappeared off the radar that day, and could not be found. He spent his time at an unknown location, entertaining a golden-haired little girl with rosy cheeks and a delightful laugh, being fed regular meals by a smiling single mother.
Their innocence and simple kindness did not save them from the exterminators, however, and neither did Scáth. Whether the black-brindle loner even attempted to prevent their gruesome fate - or whether he was the cause of it - is something only he knows.
Personality: Scáth is mysterious, unpredictable canine. Though he is slightly feared and strongly disliked, very little is actually known about the black-brindle shepherd. He is a natural deceiver, and very secretive in his daily movements. He usually glides through life, sticking to the shadows like a wraith, passing others by without them even noticing his fleeting presence. Thus, Scáth has little trouble collecting desired information.
However, up front its an entirely different story.
One's first impression of Scáth is... Mixed.
Who on earth is this dark individual with the ominous crooked grin and the limp?
Unsurprisingly, even if you don't know who he is, there's more than enough evidence to indicate that this dog is far from harmless.
Scáth is.. Intimidatingly cheerful. He is also shamelessly casual, unfazed by threats, and has the unnerving ability to drop the whole personna for favour of becoming a ruthless, aggressive, potential killing machine.
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.
Scath is utterly amoral, and even the ancient taboo of killing his own kind does not appear to be much of a limitation.
It's all a tad bit psychopathic.
After the accident when he was two, Scáth always walks with a limp. However he seems to be perfectly sound in all other gaits, proving that the limp is more a pschologically-induced habit than out of actual pain.
Still, it's enough for others to underestimate him, and forget one very important thing...
Scáth is not a dog to be messed with.
º †here's No Place £ike Home º
Parents: Tanaí (father)and Gasta (mother, deceased)
Siblings: Dáth, Bán, Maidin (deceased)
Other Family: n/a
Friends: None as of yet
Group: Metnal
Rank: Warrior
º Prove ¥ourself º
Where did you find us? Mystical Island
If found in an ad please state who sent you: Erida
RPG Sample:
The blood. It was everywhere.
The sickly tempting smell was all the dog could smell as he trotted, a silent wraith, up the street to the place he had called home all Summer. The window was open, as usual; he nudged it open and dropped into the main room, ears pricked for any sounds.
Dark burgundy orbs narrowed, taking in the emptiness. Yes, it was late, but the mother usually waited for him.
The place was dark, and deathly quiet. Slowly, the unease grew. He should not be here.
Either the exterminators had got here before him, or...
A low sniffle distracted him from his thoughts. The Dutch Shepherd cautiously padded to the doorway and sniffed the air, before moving to the bedroom.
The sight made him freeze.
The mother lay, motionless in a lake of dark crimson, mutilated beyond recognition. The little girl stood back, a blanket trailing from one hand, her eyes glazed over with shock and horror.
She was alive. They had missed her.
Scáth whined quietly to catch her attention; she turned, tears running down her rosy-cheeked face.
"Scaw!"
The pup threw her arms around his neck and buried her head in his fur.
"Mamma hurt..."
She mumbled; Scáth did not speak human, but he understood well enough. The black-brindle dog stood numbly in her embrace, feeling her tears wet his coat and wondering what to do.
She would not survive for long. Sooner or later, they'd find her and slaughter her as they did with the rest of her kind. And if he protected her, they'd kill him too.
Scáth was fond of the child, but he was no housepet. He was not willing to die for a condemned being.
Scáth's ears picked up the unmistakable, scratching click of nails on wood, and knew what he had to do.
He raised a paw and gently pushed the child away. She sat down with a quiet thump, gazing up at him questioningly with those innocent blue eyes of hers.
He leaned down, giving her wet cheeks an affectionate lick, before closing his jaws around the soft skin of his target.
With a quick, sickening snap that was echoed by some distant part inside of him, Scáth broke her neck.
It was a clean kill, a merciful one. She would not have felt any pain, would not have had the chance to feel desperate fear at the realisation that this was her end.
Not like her poor mother.
Still, this train of thought did not draw attention away from the pain. This night would leave a permenant fracture on his soul.
This night was not one he'd ever forget.
"Oh, so you got it. I heard there was one left. Nice job!"
A mangy mutt with a bloodstreaked muzzle gave him a sadistic grin. The joy of violence, the exhilaration of the hunt danced in its mud-brown eyes.
How Scáth longed to claw them out.
Instead the Dutch Shepherd gave a nod, his burgundy gaze cool, detatched, and left.
He did not look back as he padded down the road; the air resounded with yelps and howls of victory, but he did not add to them.
Just as Scáth had no reason to want the humans to stay alive, he didn't have a reason to want them dead. Before, he'd had friendly faces to welcome him and offer food, whenever he turned up.
Now, Scáth had nothing, just like it had always been.
Just like it always will be.
