Posted by Fantome on July 4, 2008, 12:09 pm
142.59.159.251
Excuse the lack of HTML, I am at work. Heh heh
Name: Fantome
Age: 9
Breed: big ol’ gangly mutt thing
Gender: stallion
Strength: Cunning, intelligent, strong-willed
Weakness: Possessive/Obsessive, controlling
Minor Objective: complete a steal
Super Objective: win the love of both a scholar and a warrior
Harem Preference: ANDARIN!!!!!!!!
Intended Class: Espionage!!!!
ABOUT YOU:
Name (or Alias): Dyllan
Contact Info: you know it :P
He moved with rapid, abrupt motion, like a watchful criminal skulking from deep shadow to shadow. There was something fluid in this movement, something pointed and practiced. The lurching travel of the lanky nomad had little to do with the construction of FANTOME. At a glance he was well-built, a muscled body set upon endless, slender limbs. The length of his legs gave the illusion of a massive creature, but he was built far from the physique of a warrior. Surely, if grated his temper would brim over, not a temper to be easily quelled. FANTOME would harbor ill-intentions, murderous intentions. Engaging in a fist fight would not be his choice for the undoing of wrong-doers. More of a break into your house and rummage through personal items, take your t.v., steal your girlfriend and poison your gin, and he would do this all before you even knew he was irked. Revenge could all too easily possess him once a state of anger was reached. He knew no difference between the two.
The ghost wondered if any could be bothered to be leeched from their cracks in the rocks. Were they not instructed to do so?
Within his eyes lay a seductive mania as he swept them across Andarin. His agile, lurching gait brought him well within the bounds of the wolf-folk. But what song would be sung of the canines when tomorrow is yesterday? What verse would be hushed and given to the ghost? Glories would belong to him, wretched fame that everyone would wish to forget. Foreign men would curse him. Future kin would embrace him. They would hold dear his wicked and deceiving tongue.
Though it was hard to make one seem worthwhile as they were caught up in solitude, waiting for someone to show up and show them what the hell to do and what loyalties to be made. It was not as though he was poorly lit in crepuscular dusk. In the garish light of day he stood naked. Stood as stone, hateful sun inhaling his tolerance, loathing to appear to the keepers of Andarin in day. With a shiver, dark filaments obscured his sight, perhaps convincing him that night was not far off.
Come, come, little Delilah’s, his patience wears thin, and the thought of leaving to seek a rank in the desert repulses him.
Message Thread:
« Back to thread