Post by Forte on Sept 8, 2009 19:07:50 GMT -5
Name:
Temujin
Band:
Tomahawks
Gender:
Stallion
Age:
Six Years
Position:
Member
Physical Description:
Personality:
He is introverted, as they come, especially for one who lives in company and raids and fights shoulder-to-shoulder with others. Hardy and strong, although not impressive in size, he knows that strength comes in numbers and that he can take care of himself. He is typical of his age, perhaps a bit short, but with such an impassive and absolutely stoic face that he commands some amount of mutual respect. He isn't insubordinate, but he's not exactly the sort to lay down at the feet of a ruler. He does not bow or prostate himself in any way to any one, as a rule. He knows himself to be important in his own ways, and although he is respectful and cool he thinks perhaps too highly of himself. Praise nor wheedling can get their way with him, but flattery just might, and he has a weakness for a pretty turn of the hoof.
He feels emotion strongly, and it does take an effort for him to supress it as it does. But years with his head down have given him a cold face and speech that betrays but in subtleties his own reflections, thoughts, and feelings. He is keenly intelligent in some ways, but clueless in others. He is a tactician, a planner, one whose eyes see and analyze quickly. But he does not have the tact or guile of others, and is hopeless as a spy, or anything else of the sort. He is surprisingly honest among his own, and lies only for his own advancement and safety.
For what it's worth, he hates the Cimarron and dislikes the Darksun. Other bands mean little to him, and he is a Tomahawk well and true, by nature and by upbringing. He has been with them a while now, and has found there a constancy and driving force, increasingly becoming more brutal, more dark. His ways of thinking are in many ways like those of the predator, and in many ways like those of the Tomahawk band itself. But it is tinged with the hard knowledge of herd life and of life in a small wandering band or in simple wandering, with something a little less than hatred and which is akin to a feeling of being and a need to, above all, survive, at a cost, perhaps, to other beings. He is not herd or group-oriented at all, though he knows that true strength and power lies in numbers.
His intelligence and something of the cold and calculating predator leads him to hate weakness and seek to drive it out at all times. The ignorant, the ignoble, and the deformed are all on his hit list. He lusts after a perfect strength and unity, and weeds out all those who marr or disrupt said unity. Such is his main goal in life and the object of his great ambition. He would be on the side of anyone with strength looking to overthrow corruption and rifts in society, looking to unify the horse into one great, moving, destroying engine, greater even than the humans who hold fire and can harness the power of objects that the equine has no need for.
History:
It was the last of many foals for the old mare of the Cimarron, already rheumy-eyed with age and with a once arched neck all fallen in and thin wisps of damaged hair falling sadly across the crest. What had once been a strong body and a coat as gray as iron had faded to patchwork and white, all stitched and re-stitched and bound by the thinnest of strings. She was old to be foaling, much older than most, and her once-noble frame was all sagging and bulged with the burden. But her eye was proud and quick, and her stallion, though not so young as he once had been, still had a bite to his teeth and a kick to his heels. He was a warrior if ever there was a non-predatory sort, and as gray as the mare. Their sons and daughters, a handful all told, still carried his status and name, and this would be the last of them, and, the elders had said, another warrior. The colt was small, but plenty strong and with a gleam in his eyes. He was born a rosy brown with the faintest rims of gray about his eyes and muzzle, the precursor to the wholly gray coat he would bear in later life.
His first year was not easy, but in all not fraught with peril. His mother's milk was thin, but he waxed strong nonetheless, and grew fat and happy on the grasslands, with his head high and a spark of ambition in his eye. It was a half-formed ambition, then, and could have been directed and molded had it been given the chance. It was in this year, toward the end of his time as a youngster, that the mare died, followed shortly by his father, out of old age and health that was none-too-great. Perhaps in a violent way, Temujin was thrown from his birth unit and into the world. His coat had lightened now, and the neck and shoulder as red and dark as blood stood out against the flecked backdrop. The elders looked upon him warily, and stood together and whispered about this colt with the cat's eyes - for his eyes were as light a brown as amber - and the bloody shoulder. None of his brothers or sisters, with whom he now sought position until he was old enough to gain his own repute, carried so ominous a mark, nor one bearing such a curse. He would walk with death all his life.
Disease struck the Cimarron soon afterwards, a ruthless and highly communicable form of it, as well. Unfortunately, it struck soon in Temujin's siblings, with one of the mares growing ill. The herd had hardly any choice, lest it foster an outbreak, but Temujin was too young to understand this, not out of colt hood and in a delicate state at his bachelor age of two. His family, along with some others showing signs of the illness, were driven out of the herd and banished. The sickly filly soon died, as did some of the others, but Temujin and five others survived. They were driven deep into harsh land, fleeing wolves and humans, long into the bitter winter. Temujin's elder brother Kaiser was among the survivors, and he soon grabbed control of the small band. But his leadership was perilous, and after another one of the mares died under his leadership, Temujin himself attempted to usurp his brother. Kaiser would not step down, and it was Temujin who eventually killed him, fueled by starvation and fear.
It was not a ruthless act, for Kaiser had been driving the small band to starvation in the high peaks, and they surely would have died had Temujin not stepped up. Only two besides himself were left, and these he led back out of the mountains and to the outskirts of the Cimarron, hoping to regain entrance into the herd. But upon hearing the story, and the truth of the matter they did know, they would not allow Temujin, dubbed a murderer, to return. The others in the band they accepted, but him they drove out with a fury despite his explanations and the futility of any other action he could have taken. It kindled a dormant rage deep within him, and, pursued by warriors, he left the lands indignantly and filled with anger for his birth herd, who would not accept him. They spoke of it as the inevitable, the fulfillment of an unwanted prophecy that had existed since his birth. By seeing the bloody shoulder they created the bloody shoulder, and Temujin was hardened into the life of a wanderer, rejecting company and taking care of no one but himself.
It was in his fourth year that he rejoined his brethren, this time as a member of the Tomahawks. His mold was made - hating the herds for what they had done to him, hardened and bitter by betrayal and self-sufficient, rejecting trust and company as they came his way. As for loyalty? Two years with the band, which has given him an outlet for his harsh ways and has taught him to be more bitter, evil, and resentful than he would have been as just a loner, has made him that. But such things are never constant with a creature who knows no constancy, and there is still that dark spark of greater ambition, and of the cold and calculating intelligence of the rational creature, dancing just behind his eyes... And he is the wolf, ready to pounce upon any weakness that he sees.
Other:
Temujin
Band:
Tomahawks
Gender:
Stallion
Age:
Six Years
Position:
Member
Physical Description:
Personality:
He is introverted, as they come, especially for one who lives in company and raids and fights shoulder-to-shoulder with others. Hardy and strong, although not impressive in size, he knows that strength comes in numbers and that he can take care of himself. He is typical of his age, perhaps a bit short, but with such an impassive and absolutely stoic face that he commands some amount of mutual respect. He isn't insubordinate, but he's not exactly the sort to lay down at the feet of a ruler. He does not bow or prostate himself in any way to any one, as a rule. He knows himself to be important in his own ways, and although he is respectful and cool he thinks perhaps too highly of himself. Praise nor wheedling can get their way with him, but flattery just might, and he has a weakness for a pretty turn of the hoof.
He feels emotion strongly, and it does take an effort for him to supress it as it does. But years with his head down have given him a cold face and speech that betrays but in subtleties his own reflections, thoughts, and feelings. He is keenly intelligent in some ways, but clueless in others. He is a tactician, a planner, one whose eyes see and analyze quickly. But he does not have the tact or guile of others, and is hopeless as a spy, or anything else of the sort. He is surprisingly honest among his own, and lies only for his own advancement and safety.
For what it's worth, he hates the Cimarron and dislikes the Darksun. Other bands mean little to him, and he is a Tomahawk well and true, by nature and by upbringing. He has been with them a while now, and has found there a constancy and driving force, increasingly becoming more brutal, more dark. His ways of thinking are in many ways like those of the predator, and in many ways like those of the Tomahawk band itself. But it is tinged with the hard knowledge of herd life and of life in a small wandering band or in simple wandering, with something a little less than hatred and which is akin to a feeling of being and a need to, above all, survive, at a cost, perhaps, to other beings. He is not herd or group-oriented at all, though he knows that true strength and power lies in numbers.
His intelligence and something of the cold and calculating predator leads him to hate weakness and seek to drive it out at all times. The ignorant, the ignoble, and the deformed are all on his hit list. He lusts after a perfect strength and unity, and weeds out all those who marr or disrupt said unity. Such is his main goal in life and the object of his great ambition. He would be on the side of anyone with strength looking to overthrow corruption and rifts in society, looking to unify the horse into one great, moving, destroying engine, greater even than the humans who hold fire and can harness the power of objects that the equine has no need for.
History:
It was the last of many foals for the old mare of the Cimarron, already rheumy-eyed with age and with a once arched neck all fallen in and thin wisps of damaged hair falling sadly across the crest. What had once been a strong body and a coat as gray as iron had faded to patchwork and white, all stitched and re-stitched and bound by the thinnest of strings. She was old to be foaling, much older than most, and her once-noble frame was all sagging and bulged with the burden. But her eye was proud and quick, and her stallion, though not so young as he once had been, still had a bite to his teeth and a kick to his heels. He was a warrior if ever there was a non-predatory sort, and as gray as the mare. Their sons and daughters, a handful all told, still carried his status and name, and this would be the last of them, and, the elders had said, another warrior. The colt was small, but plenty strong and with a gleam in his eyes. He was born a rosy brown with the faintest rims of gray about his eyes and muzzle, the precursor to the wholly gray coat he would bear in later life.
His first year was not easy, but in all not fraught with peril. His mother's milk was thin, but he waxed strong nonetheless, and grew fat and happy on the grasslands, with his head high and a spark of ambition in his eye. It was a half-formed ambition, then, and could have been directed and molded had it been given the chance. It was in this year, toward the end of his time as a youngster, that the mare died, followed shortly by his father, out of old age and health that was none-too-great. Perhaps in a violent way, Temujin was thrown from his birth unit and into the world. His coat had lightened now, and the neck and shoulder as red and dark as blood stood out against the flecked backdrop. The elders looked upon him warily, and stood together and whispered about this colt with the cat's eyes - for his eyes were as light a brown as amber - and the bloody shoulder. None of his brothers or sisters, with whom he now sought position until he was old enough to gain his own repute, carried so ominous a mark, nor one bearing such a curse. He would walk with death all his life.
Disease struck the Cimarron soon afterwards, a ruthless and highly communicable form of it, as well. Unfortunately, it struck soon in Temujin's siblings, with one of the mares growing ill. The herd had hardly any choice, lest it foster an outbreak, but Temujin was too young to understand this, not out of colt hood and in a delicate state at his bachelor age of two. His family, along with some others showing signs of the illness, were driven out of the herd and banished. The sickly filly soon died, as did some of the others, but Temujin and five others survived. They were driven deep into harsh land, fleeing wolves and humans, long into the bitter winter. Temujin's elder brother Kaiser was among the survivors, and he soon grabbed control of the small band. But his leadership was perilous, and after another one of the mares died under his leadership, Temujin himself attempted to usurp his brother. Kaiser would not step down, and it was Temujin who eventually killed him, fueled by starvation and fear.
It was not a ruthless act, for Kaiser had been driving the small band to starvation in the high peaks, and they surely would have died had Temujin not stepped up. Only two besides himself were left, and these he led back out of the mountains and to the outskirts of the Cimarron, hoping to regain entrance into the herd. But upon hearing the story, and the truth of the matter they did know, they would not allow Temujin, dubbed a murderer, to return. The others in the band they accepted, but him they drove out with a fury despite his explanations and the futility of any other action he could have taken. It kindled a dormant rage deep within him, and, pursued by warriors, he left the lands indignantly and filled with anger for his birth herd, who would not accept him. They spoke of it as the inevitable, the fulfillment of an unwanted prophecy that had existed since his birth. By seeing the bloody shoulder they created the bloody shoulder, and Temujin was hardened into the life of a wanderer, rejecting company and taking care of no one but himself.
It was in his fourth year that he rejoined his brethren, this time as a member of the Tomahawks. His mold was made - hating the herds for what they had done to him, hardened and bitter by betrayal and self-sufficient, rejecting trust and company as they came his way. As for loyalty? Two years with the band, which has given him an outlet for his harsh ways and has taught him to be more bitter, evil, and resentful than he would have been as just a loner, has made him that. But such things are never constant with a creature who knows no constancy, and there is still that dark spark of greater ambition, and of the cold and calculating intelligence of the rational creature, dancing just behind his eyes... And he is the wolf, ready to pounce upon any weakness that he sees.
Other:
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