. Begin Your Journey .: .indestructible.

ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER:
Name: Centurion
Age: Eight
Breed: Shire X Feral Mutt
Sex: Stallion
Strength: High pain tolerance
Weakness: Aitvaras
Minor objective: Gain admittance to the Ni'Srilan militia
Major objective: Protect Aitvaras from harm at all costs
Harem preference: Ni'Srilan
Intended class: Warrior

*from a previous character, not Centurion.*

Rain-slicked hide glistens as he makes his way down the hillside, pale eyes glowing slightly in the patches of moonlight he passes through. He looks to be naught but a sinuous shadow, and there is nothing whispered to disprove that fact. He had grown soft, his instincts sinking, in these past few weeks of once again merging into companionship, but no more. His world has moved on, and he’ll be damned if he, the last of his kind, will move along with it. He has been pushed, grudgingly, toes dug in for every step, along with the tide that time has created, but he has not changed. He is only himself, in the different casings he has worn, but tonight, as he wanders through the lands, he is wearing nothing but the cold truth of his existence. He is getting older now, his joints aching like hell from passing through a slick stream and turning one of them. Arthritis was setting in, and it was now, on this cold night that he truly felt his age.

For a moment, he thinks it is this, his age and pain that cause an enraptured vision of his past to burst forth into his mind to taunt him. A disgusted snort is blown and his eyes snap shut as he shakes himself, trying to throw away the memories he has kept so tightly bound and locked away. But alas, they shall not leave him, as is apparent by her form still moving across the field when cold, denim-hued gaze is cast back open. But it is not she, for he watched her burn and die, tied to a stake like a village witch, a whore to the powers that be. And he was held to the side, chains and ropes holding him captive from saving, or dying with her. Were you to push back those thick ropes of mane you would find the scars of that day rippling down the lean, muscled nape. This mare is darker than his love, a true ebon goddess, and he watches her flash across the opening before him, equally rain drenched and yet beautiful because of it.

He does not call to her, does not hurl himself towards her as most other stallions would, merely lifts his muzzle slightly and picks up a long paced walk, forelock dribbling down his slightly convex profile, eyes glittering in the persistence of the moonlight that now glows upon the land. He does not dare attempt a savage claim of this mare, for sharp gaze catches her alertness, form tight and ready to flee, harks flickering atop her poll, despite her eyes being hidden in the cheek deep tendrils of silk. He knows she is aware of his presence, and so he doesn’t waste time with the formalities and moves to her forehand, facing her, waiting for her chin to lift and her eyes to be exposed to his own. He won’t fill the silence with a rapid stream of flattery, no, that wore off quickly in these past weeks.

The Gunslinger is motionless, emotionless as he stands in the aftermath of the storm, eyes cold and hard, ready to slap leather and blow it all away.

ABOUT YOU:
Charlie
hotcowgrrl88@hotmail.com