Post by Akiela on Feb 3, 2014 21:48:42 GMT
Character’s Name: - Akiela
OOC Alias: - Michele
Other Characters: - none
Past Role-play Experience: - Fifteen years, on and off, on boards and MU*s.
Role-play Sample: - The massive monolith that, with its speckles of black and grey to interrupt the smooth creaminess of the snow that drapes down its peak like a wedding gown soiled, rises high into the piercing blue sky, so far above the clouds, is what begins to intrigue Shadrach. Animus is a paradise of multiple flavors, ripe for his taking, but even he knows that he alone cannot take the sweet dripping fruit of another without a legion at his back. So he removes himself from the immense, timeless valley and travels to the Adamantine Ridge. It's a quest that takes him down to the cusp of the shore and through the emerald hills that could incite envy in the Scottish Highlands, the latter of which he skirts the very edge as to not disrupt the pack of wolves he can sense inhabiting them, and finally ascends onto the humped ridge that hurries him inward with the sharp tang of pine and the promise of a future beginning to unfurl at an excruciating but seductive pace.
The budding deciduous trees that line the area at the base are few in number. They quickly give way to low-lying hawthone bearing their new white dish-shaped flowers proudly and mountainash with its notable tightly oval profile. Eventually semi-deciduous trees and packed conifers become dominant. Here the air is cooler than within the basin and thinner, too, although not enough that he cannot become acclimated. There are elk here, too, among the smaller wildlife like hares, grouse, and rodents. There are enough fresh droppings and other, indistinct remnants of their passage through the area for him to easily tell.
With the cool and indifferent mountain overwhelming the backdrop in a startling and magnificent way, he trudges to the highest point of the lonely chine, skilled enough with his movements that he is naught but a whisper even as he tramples the brown, crisp needles blanketing the earth. Here, even where the firs are sloppy and asocial, he is still but a bulky shadow in the morning, his fur a rich dark chocolate bitter and unsavory. Straightening himself, pulling both neck and head higher and back to lift his chest, he flags his tail and howls.
It's the type of howl that bears the dawning of an epoch. The first page of what will be the most revered dynasty that ever ruled these lands. It is proud, it is thick and deep and rough in a purely masculine way. It is not sweet, soft, or kindly. It is the howl that men once feared when they smothered these lands with their taint, the cry of a hungry predator that waits in the dark and in the cold, with the hint of excitement that would turn a man's veins into ice. The song of the night, of fallen angels, of glory and of sacrifice. So much is being imparted to the listener in this harrowing, nightmarish wail, but the most telling note says one very important thing: you're either on his side, by his side, or in his way.
The scent of other wolves is faint and faded, but it does not concern him: his call will carry far from this height and, if the wind favors him just enough --there is no doubt that he most certainly vies for that untouchably exquisite goddess's favor--, it will spread far and wide. If they do not answer in kind or approach him, they will at least know.
OOC Alias: - Michele
Other Characters: - none
Past Role-play Experience: - Fifteen years, on and off, on boards and MU*s.
Role-play Sample: - The massive monolith that, with its speckles of black and grey to interrupt the smooth creaminess of the snow that drapes down its peak like a wedding gown soiled, rises high into the piercing blue sky, so far above the clouds, is what begins to intrigue Shadrach. Animus is a paradise of multiple flavors, ripe for his taking, but even he knows that he alone cannot take the sweet dripping fruit of another without a legion at his back. So he removes himself from the immense, timeless valley and travels to the Adamantine Ridge. It's a quest that takes him down to the cusp of the shore and through the emerald hills that could incite envy in the Scottish Highlands, the latter of which he skirts the very edge as to not disrupt the pack of wolves he can sense inhabiting them, and finally ascends onto the humped ridge that hurries him inward with the sharp tang of pine and the promise of a future beginning to unfurl at an excruciating but seductive pace.
The budding deciduous trees that line the area at the base are few in number. They quickly give way to low-lying hawthone bearing their new white dish-shaped flowers proudly and mountainash with its notable tightly oval profile. Eventually semi-deciduous trees and packed conifers become dominant. Here the air is cooler than within the basin and thinner, too, although not enough that he cannot become acclimated. There are elk here, too, among the smaller wildlife like hares, grouse, and rodents. There are enough fresh droppings and other, indistinct remnants of their passage through the area for him to easily tell.
With the cool and indifferent mountain overwhelming the backdrop in a startling and magnificent way, he trudges to the highest point of the lonely chine, skilled enough with his movements that he is naught but a whisper even as he tramples the brown, crisp needles blanketing the earth. Here, even where the firs are sloppy and asocial, he is still but a bulky shadow in the morning, his fur a rich dark chocolate bitter and unsavory. Straightening himself, pulling both neck and head higher and back to lift his chest, he flags his tail and howls.
It's the type of howl that bears the dawning of an epoch. The first page of what will be the most revered dynasty that ever ruled these lands. It is proud, it is thick and deep and rough in a purely masculine way. It is not sweet, soft, or kindly. It is the howl that men once feared when they smothered these lands with their taint, the cry of a hungry predator that waits in the dark and in the cold, with the hint of excitement that would turn a man's veins into ice. The song of the night, of fallen angels, of glory and of sacrifice. So much is being imparted to the listener in this harrowing, nightmarish wail, but the most telling note says one very important thing: you're either on his side, by his side, or in his way.
The scent of other wolves is faint and faded, but it does not concern him: his call will carry far from this height and, if the wind favors him just enough --there is no doubt that he most certainly vies for that untouchably exquisite goddess's favor--, it will spread far and wide. If they do not answer in kind or approach him, they will at least know.
