valyria - female - wolfdog
Aug 15, 2013 3:42:55 GMT -5
Post by VALYRIA on Aug 15, 2013 3:42:55 GMT -5
valyria;
***
BASICS:***
NAME: Valyria
ALIAS: Lyri
AGE: Four years
GENDER: Female
SPECIES: Wolf-dog hybrid
BREED: Siberian Husky/Alaskan Malamute/German Shepherd/Swiss Shepherd x Gray wolf/Arctic wolf
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Heterosexual
PACK: Packless
***
APPEARANCE:
IMAGE SET: click.
SET PERMISSIONS: Permission granted
COAT: Dense layers of fur. It comes out in clumps and looks very ragged during shedding seasons but otherwise is quite beautiful.
COLOR: White
EYES: Piercing blue
SCARS: Minor ones here and there, none particularly noticeable.
HEIGHT: 32 inches
WEIGHT: 85-95 lbs, depending on food availability.
COMPLETE APPEARANCE:
More often than not Lyri is mistaken for a wolf, but that is only a partial truth; her heritage is a mixture of spitz and shepherd breeds as well. Her mother was a wolf and that is who she resembles most - large frame, sharp face, deep chest. Her coat is even identical, thick and coarse and the same Arctic wolf white. Her half-husky father's genes show up when she's happy or excited - her tail curls up and over her back in a scythe-like fashion. He passed on his striking blue eyes as well, a feature that makes Lyri quite unlike any other wolf.
Lyri is large without sacrificing femininity. She has typically "pretty" features all over, from her pointed foxy face to her long lean legs. That being said, if she were a human, she would have the body of an athlete. Toned muscle hides beneath her coarse fur, leaving no room for even an ounce of idle fat. Her speed, agility, and stamina are that of her wild ancestors, and as a proud creature of beauty and power she makes sure to maintain her abilities.
***
PERSONALITY:
TRAITS: Ambitious, assertive, intuitive, proud, cavalier, intelligent, cunning, shrewd, controlling, intense
COMPLETE PERSONALITY:
Valyria is the type that always gets what she wants - not because it is given to her, but because she goes out and gets it herself. She is incredibly driven and focused; goals are her number one priority. She can be distracted, but that is dangerous ground for both parties. Valyria needs to be the dominant one in a relationship or she is not satisfied; she will either fight for control or rally against her assailant. Neither is a desirable option: not only is she a powerful adversary physically, but she is also capable of great things influentially. People listen to Valyria, as she can be quite convincing.
Despite this brutish description thus far, Valyria is surprisingly sensitive. She has a knack for reading people and their emotions. One of her deepest, darkest secrets is her overwhelming insecurity - it is something she never lets on to because she wants to change it, but it is an ever-present shadow that threatens to consume her. Because of her past Valyria is slow to trust others, as she believes that everyone will leave her in the end. That is the one aspect that she would like to proved wrong in, because she's right about everything else. She likes when others listen to her but she hates listening to others. She likes to be the one calling the shots. If someone has a good suggestion and she knows them she'll take it, but other than that she likes to think she knows what's best.
When Valyria does get to the next level with someone - whether that be friendship or love or even some other intimate relationship - she is passionate and intense about it, almost to the point of stifling. She needs these figures in her life but she isn't very good at keeping them, and that infuriates her. Valyria will always choose confrontation over flight, and it pushes a lot of people away. She can be difficult to get along with but when she finds someone who matches her (which she hopes to do) they will be unstoppable.
***
HISTORY:
MOTHER: Nuala, living
FATHER: Haldir, deceased
SIBLINGS: Meraxes, living
Azura, living
Numerous half-siblings, living
OFFSPRING: n/a
COMPLETE HISTORY:
To know Valyria's past one must know that of her mother.
Nuala was raised in a very typical wolf pack, one with strong family ties and morals. She was a gifted hunter even at a young age, highly capable and beautiful to boot. Her father, the alpha, was a loving soul, concerned first and foremost for the wellbeing of his beloved children. He was never the type to anger quickly or lash out, so when he murdered someone close to Nuala it shattered her.
When she was around three, Nuala encountered a lone dog on the outskirts of the forest. He was friendly but very sick, so she spent her nights sneaking away to help him. She brought him food and showed him where to find water, and over the months their friendship blossomed into a dangerous romance. Nuala's father was kind and just among his peers, but he was a traditional sort. Wolves were superior and dogs were the scum of the earth to him. It wasn't long before his own daughter became pregnant with the dog's children.
It was not something she could hide from him, not the father who'd loved and cared for her all those years. When she started to show she had to face him, and the consequences were horrifying. He sought out this vagabond and tore him to shreds. Haldir never stood a chance, not against a full-grown alpha wolf. Nuala watched her lover die at the hands of her own father, and it drove her mad.
She fled the packlands, heavy with child. She didn't stop until she was forced to - the pups were on their way. Valyria and her siblings were born in a damp cave reeking of mildew, spilling onto the earth in a puddle of blood and dirty water. This sort of existence became typical for the three halfblood pups as they grew, always running from place to place away from something they couldn't even begin to comprehend. From the very beginning their mother burdened her children with her own problems, and they suffered for it.
Along the way Nuala had several suitors, and those were the times the young pups cherished. They had a father to play with and look up to, even if he changed every few months. The young ones didn't know any better.
But there did come a time when things began to change. By the time the pups were about six months old they finally had a semi-permanent area to live in, and that was due to Nuala settling down with a burly wolf named Sorren. Valyria and her brother and sister learned much of their hunting and fighting from him and for that they were grateful, but he brought out something in their mother that they'd never seen before. Normal wolf packs are tight-knit and cooperative, but their little pack seemed to growing more and more segregated the older the children got. Soon enough Nuala was pregnant again, and when this litter arrived the conflict reached its peak. Nuala completely ignored her year-old pups, even snapping at them if they just tried to talk to her. Valyria, being the boldest of the three, confronted her about it at one point and Nuala cursed her out, calling her "worthless," "filthy," and "scum of the earth." To this day they don't totally understand it, but they comprehended enough: they were dog-blood, and Nuala and her new family were true wolves. Valyria and her siblings left the next day.
The three lived together for some time, nearly two years. They had their own little pack of misfits, and they got on quite well. But eventually they had to grow up; Meraxes found a beautiful wolf to call his mate, and Azura joined a handsome bachelor not long after. Valyria was left alone, undeniably bitter and frustrated. Everywhere for miles and miles was some memory of her old life, so she struck out for new territory. One of the few places she hadn't been was the city, so that was where she went. Islara has been her home for many months now, and she plans to thrive here.
***
PLAYER:
OOC NAME: Scarlet
OTHER CHARACTERS: n/a
EXPERIENCE: 8 years
HOW'D YOU FIND US?: I'm an old-timer round these parts
PASSWORD: accepted
RP SAMPLE:
It was early morning on the isle - perhaps darker than even pure night. Those fledgling hours, those were always the darkest (the quietest). You know the sun will be rising soon, so soon, and yet you are overcome with the feeling that you have to make the most of it before that happens.
It's as if you're being timed.
It's as if you're being tested.
That feeling was a familiar one for Tarantula Ten. The mere thought set fire to his legs and the stallion ramped in the silence, in the dark. (But he'd set the hills ablaze, he had - whispers of flame as the morning was born).
If he didn't know any better (and perhaps he did not, though being the young wild thing that he was he liked to think he knew better) he would have claimed his entire existence to be little more than a game. He was his sire's pawn, his most valuable player.
He was also his pride and joy, to some extent.
What that may have been, T-Ten would probably never know. He would never ask.
Not because he was afraid.
No, never did he show fear.
He felt it, sometimes, nagging like a fly upon his hide. But it was always brushed away like one.
A warrior to the quick, he was - daddy's perfect prince of violence.
To be so required more than brute force. At first that had been allowed as the only factor, but soon - so soon - the bloodstained general had thrown strategy into the mix. T-Ten caught on to that quickly (less noise, less terrible terrible noise - just the sound of his own thoughts).
The striped stallion upon the hillock was not a particularly large one - certainly his build was that of a fighter's, but his advantages clearly laid in areas other than height. Average, one would say - simply average.
But the blissful normalcy ended there: for within his head (his beloved battle helmet) a cunning mind churned; and within his chest (his precious precious armor) a reckless heart beat. With direction of the most precise variety, the beast's potential would flow in the form of his foes' blood.
Violence and victory.
Gore and glory.
Those were his motives.
And they were far from cruel, despite the mask they donned. Truly there was no use fighting if the bastard had no scars to remember you by, now was there?
"No, no, no use at all..." he whispered into the corpse-still shadows. Such thoughts had a tendency to consume him during this time of day. Silence did strange things to him, but it was not silence that he despised. Its opposite was his true adversary. The sounds of war drove him on, pushing and pushing until he felt his skull might burst, its contents becoming just another decoration on the battlefield (and a tragic waste of brains, no doubt).
He'd hated that: opponents' shrill screams of fury and blood lust; the rhythmic pounding of heels on earth, closer and closer; heavy breathing as the other approached and fell upon him... but that was as far as T-Ten knew. After that he was deaf, dumb, blind to it all.
He became a warrior.
Such sounds were no longer dreaded - they were invited. The pain they caused was empowering. It lent strength to his limbs, stamina to his soul.
And yet...
(he shifted on the rise, lifting a lightly troubled gaze to watch the first spikes of sunlight pierce the horizon).
...he was not happy. Content enough, yes, and infinitely proud, but neither eased his heart.
For just a moment he pictured the hill upon which he stood as a precipice.
He could turn around and run; turn around and fight.
Or he could jump.
The image flickered (red) and faded as quickly as it had come. Nothing remained but the flesh behind his eyelids.
He opened them.
Daylight was coming.
It's as if you're being timed.
It's as if you're being tested.
That feeling was a familiar one for Tarantula Ten. The mere thought set fire to his legs and the stallion ramped in the silence, in the dark. (But he'd set the hills ablaze, he had - whispers of flame as the morning was born).
If he didn't know any better (and perhaps he did not, though being the young wild thing that he was he liked to think he knew better) he would have claimed his entire existence to be little more than a game. He was his sire's pawn, his most valuable player.
He was also his pride and joy, to some extent.
What that may have been, T-Ten would probably never know. He would never ask.
Not because he was afraid.
No, never did he show fear.
He felt it, sometimes, nagging like a fly upon his hide. But it was always brushed away like one.
A warrior to the quick, he was - daddy's perfect prince of violence.
To be so required more than brute force. At first that had been allowed as the only factor, but soon - so soon - the bloodstained general had thrown strategy into the mix. T-Ten caught on to that quickly (less noise, less terrible terrible noise - just the sound of his own thoughts).
The striped stallion upon the hillock was not a particularly large one - certainly his build was that of a fighter's, but his advantages clearly laid in areas other than height. Average, one would say - simply average.
But the blissful normalcy ended there: for within his head (his beloved battle helmet) a cunning mind churned; and within his chest (his precious precious armor) a reckless heart beat. With direction of the most precise variety, the beast's potential would flow in the form of his foes' blood.
Violence and victory.
Gore and glory.
Those were his motives.
And they were far from cruel, despite the mask they donned. Truly there was no use fighting if the bastard had no scars to remember you by, now was there?
"No, no, no use at all..." he whispered into the corpse-still shadows. Such thoughts had a tendency to consume him during this time of day. Silence did strange things to him, but it was not silence that he despised. Its opposite was his true adversary. The sounds of war drove him on, pushing and pushing until he felt his skull might burst, its contents becoming just another decoration on the battlefield (and a tragic waste of brains, no doubt).
He'd hated that: opponents' shrill screams of fury and blood lust; the rhythmic pounding of heels on earth, closer and closer; heavy breathing as the other approached and fell upon him... but that was as far as T-Ten knew. After that he was deaf, dumb, blind to it all.
He became a warrior.
Such sounds were no longer dreaded - they were invited. The pain they caused was empowering. It lent strength to his limbs, stamina to his soul.
And yet...
(he shifted on the rise, lifting a lightly troubled gaze to watch the first spikes of sunlight pierce the horizon).
...he was not happy. Content enough, yes, and infinitely proud, but neither eased his heart.
For just a moment he pictured the hill upon which he stood as a precipice.
He could turn around and run; turn around and fight.
Or he could jump.
The image flickered (red) and faded as quickly as it had come. Nothing remained but the flesh behind his eyelids.
He opened them.
Daylight was coming.
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