Post by Lotus on Jun 29, 2012 14:36:39 GMT -5
Name: Delphegor Hastur Gorganoth
Age: IX
Gender: Male
Breed: Andalusian x Arabian
Height: 16hh
Coat Color: Cremello
Mane/tail Color: Luscious, nectar filled cream.
Eye Color: Unknown. The man never opens his eyes.
Markings: None.
Alignment: Neutral
Personality: Melting into continuous darkness, iniquity rising like the tides of oceanic bliss, these severe bones, and broken mind, sink unto him, ceaseless, in harrowing coherence. Breathing deeply through his nose, nostrils flared to inhale the unpalatable air of the sea's turbulent inhibition, he dreams of a moon seething with luster, luminous maternal grace frothing from her lips as her glow falls upon the earth like smooth drifts of placid elegance. A lethargic magic unfolds, dear to his bones, the veins that lace his skin like glacial streams of unrequited love like spidery rivers running dry at the very scorned sound of vows told in cruel irony. An arachnoid musculature graces a stature most foul, crooked and crouched beneath the grasses as he hunts eternally for the rising sun to rival the bitter coldness of the moon always glowing hideously behind a frigid cerulean stare. Cloaked in a deadly calm of implicit uncertainty, he hides beneath the disguise of tranquility, whilst below, lies the monster, quiet and mortal, a venomous rancor growing, growing, like a gorging fetus, forever unborn, and evermore a damaged salutation to the most vernacular conception of the wounded spirit. In bulging contours rippling with sylphlike intensity, potency drips, seethes, like poison, in the indigo pool of his wretched omnipotence.
He doth stir the oil in his lungs, the putrid liquor of imbalanced bile. Everything, belongs to him, though seek he does not, to own anything in his path, for he believes he is undeserving of such magnificence, such splendor amidst the pale distillation of the world's heatless flame. Nerves, sensations, on fire, yet darkness prevails. There exists no garden of paradise for his truthful fragility, the weakness of security defying whatever protection would breed had there been the sliver of love, like glass inserted beneath the skin at birth. A gallant, majestic, proud soul survives beneath the vectors of iniquity, a crown of flowing dread spun tresses rising as medusa's hungry serpents, to the surface, to the light, to the lethal nature that is his divine imperfection. Frozen azure, as is his stare of purity, of indifference, a species of innocence still scintillating within his secret humiliation, he is beauty, he is ugliness, a vile, breath of fresh, chilled pulchritude, e'er writhing, immersed in a merciless coil. A cobra, ready to strike. But a man, prepared to love, and love fully. Almost sultry. Almost seductive. Virtually indestructable by any substance except that of veracious adoration. He is fortified, a sinewy manifestation of ravishing masculinity, nevertheless matronly, instincts streamlined in an aerodynamic flux throughout his gelid mind.
Hushed, bound to the unspoken vows primed by years of betrayal and ethnic mutilation, he is an illustrious design of madness, of virtue, a bizarre lineage of chastity nestled in the back of his providential psyche. Desolation triumphs in frequent intervals of everlasting time. Nevermore, will his body, nor his heart, be rid of the scars inflicted in ferocies viscosity. He is an expanse of vitreous falsities, the truth adorned between the cracks of aeonian scathe. Look closer, into the snake's eyes, and at constant vigil, view yourself, clearer than ever before. Look closer. Look closer. Into the snake's eyes, the serpent's enticing come hither regard. I am the mirror. Know me, and you will surely know yourself.
History: He was born amidst a land of blazing guns and falling arrows. A world where archery was breath, where murder was life, where slaughter was divine. A realm where bloodied lips spoke vaguely of the dream of peace, right as the fall of weaponry rained down upon them, and explosions dominated the sunset, red as the blood that had been spilled, a tangerine burst of dust and departed debris descending upon his life in a haze of sanguine brilliance, the ways of his flourishing people dying agonizing death. The breadth of his ferocity knows no bounds, no mercy beneath his girth of emotional sentimentality, for he has been shown none. For life to him, is execution, the mangling of society's inner workings from the inside out, gorging on the decimation of his people as though they cruelly possessed the manna he had so desperately been searching for. He was bred for a single damnable purpose, one that manifested the demons within him in the forms of hellfire and barbarous perdition. The pits of passion grew, developed, matured into great intoxicating emergences of violence and turbulence, each loathsome step he took spat upon by his enemies, and yet highly revered and adored by his fellowship, his family who shared the same savage ruthlessness and feasted upon the same degraded bodies as he.
Emitting a furtive hiss past glistening white fangs and an obsessive lashing tongue, the night called sweet miracles to life as the star around which the lilliputian moon orbited set, letting the dam of luminescent shadows break without hesitation. The wilderness seemed to follow his surreptitious movements, his ferine reflexes with which he used to their full advantage in order to feed himself, a ravenously loving assemblage whose imaginary pining made him move faster, ever faster, his legs carrying him effortlessly through the jungle, long whisks of vegetation smoothly caressing his bared skin, the hot ardent wind of forest air in his face and invigorating him to his very core. His carapace, the very shell that all who see will evaluate harshly, is a tough and scathing thing, pugnacious and unsentimental, vituperative and critical, captious, and yet there is no place for judgment, no room for intense evaluation, for the bombs are flying and there's no other options but fight or flight. In the end there's nothing but a desolate hunk of dirt and a cigarette between his lips, smoking away the pain, smoking away the agony, smoking away the emotionalism with puff after puff of nicotine. And across the desert he goes, a cloaked figure amidst the carmine horizon, searching for his next kill to jade his dwindling sanity.
Age: IX
Gender: Male
Breed: Andalusian x Arabian
Height: 16hh
Coat Color: Cremello
Mane/tail Color: Luscious, nectar filled cream.
Eye Color: Unknown. The man never opens his eyes.
Markings: None.
Alignment: Neutral
Personality: Melting into continuous darkness, iniquity rising like the tides of oceanic bliss, these severe bones, and broken mind, sink unto him, ceaseless, in harrowing coherence. Breathing deeply through his nose, nostrils flared to inhale the unpalatable air of the sea's turbulent inhibition, he dreams of a moon seething with luster, luminous maternal grace frothing from her lips as her glow falls upon the earth like smooth drifts of placid elegance. A lethargic magic unfolds, dear to his bones, the veins that lace his skin like glacial streams of unrequited love like spidery rivers running dry at the very scorned sound of vows told in cruel irony. An arachnoid musculature graces a stature most foul, crooked and crouched beneath the grasses as he hunts eternally for the rising sun to rival the bitter coldness of the moon always glowing hideously behind a frigid cerulean stare. Cloaked in a deadly calm of implicit uncertainty, he hides beneath the disguise of tranquility, whilst below, lies the monster, quiet and mortal, a venomous rancor growing, growing, like a gorging fetus, forever unborn, and evermore a damaged salutation to the most vernacular conception of the wounded spirit. In bulging contours rippling with sylphlike intensity, potency drips, seethes, like poison, in the indigo pool of his wretched omnipotence.
He doth stir the oil in his lungs, the putrid liquor of imbalanced bile. Everything, belongs to him, though seek he does not, to own anything in his path, for he believes he is undeserving of such magnificence, such splendor amidst the pale distillation of the world's heatless flame. Nerves, sensations, on fire, yet darkness prevails. There exists no garden of paradise for his truthful fragility, the weakness of security defying whatever protection would breed had there been the sliver of love, like glass inserted beneath the skin at birth. A gallant, majestic, proud soul survives beneath the vectors of iniquity, a crown of flowing dread spun tresses rising as medusa's hungry serpents, to the surface, to the light, to the lethal nature that is his divine imperfection. Frozen azure, as is his stare of purity, of indifference, a species of innocence still scintillating within his secret humiliation, he is beauty, he is ugliness, a vile, breath of fresh, chilled pulchritude, e'er writhing, immersed in a merciless coil. A cobra, ready to strike. But a man, prepared to love, and love fully. Almost sultry. Almost seductive. Virtually indestructable by any substance except that of veracious adoration. He is fortified, a sinewy manifestation of ravishing masculinity, nevertheless matronly, instincts streamlined in an aerodynamic flux throughout his gelid mind.
Hushed, bound to the unspoken vows primed by years of betrayal and ethnic mutilation, he is an illustrious design of madness, of virtue, a bizarre lineage of chastity nestled in the back of his providential psyche. Desolation triumphs in frequent intervals of everlasting time. Nevermore, will his body, nor his heart, be rid of the scars inflicted in ferocies viscosity. He is an expanse of vitreous falsities, the truth adorned between the cracks of aeonian scathe. Look closer, into the snake's eyes, and at constant vigil, view yourself, clearer than ever before. Look closer. Look closer. Into the snake's eyes, the serpent's enticing come hither regard. I am the mirror. Know me, and you will surely know yourself.
History: He was born amidst a land of blazing guns and falling arrows. A world where archery was breath, where murder was life, where slaughter was divine. A realm where bloodied lips spoke vaguely of the dream of peace, right as the fall of weaponry rained down upon them, and explosions dominated the sunset, red as the blood that had been spilled, a tangerine burst of dust and departed debris descending upon his life in a haze of sanguine brilliance, the ways of his flourishing people dying agonizing death. The breadth of his ferocity knows no bounds, no mercy beneath his girth of emotional sentimentality, for he has been shown none. For life to him, is execution, the mangling of society's inner workings from the inside out, gorging on the decimation of his people as though they cruelly possessed the manna he had so desperately been searching for. He was bred for a single damnable purpose, one that manifested the demons within him in the forms of hellfire and barbarous perdition. The pits of passion grew, developed, matured into great intoxicating emergences of violence and turbulence, each loathsome step he took spat upon by his enemies, and yet highly revered and adored by his fellowship, his family who shared the same savage ruthlessness and feasted upon the same degraded bodies as he.
Emitting a furtive hiss past glistening white fangs and an obsessive lashing tongue, the night called sweet miracles to life as the star around which the lilliputian moon orbited set, letting the dam of luminescent shadows break without hesitation. The wilderness seemed to follow his surreptitious movements, his ferine reflexes with which he used to their full advantage in order to feed himself, a ravenously loving assemblage whose imaginary pining made him move faster, ever faster, his legs carrying him effortlessly through the jungle, long whisks of vegetation smoothly caressing his bared skin, the hot ardent wind of forest air in his face and invigorating him to his very core. His carapace, the very shell that all who see will evaluate harshly, is a tough and scathing thing, pugnacious and unsentimental, vituperative and critical, captious, and yet there is no place for judgment, no room for intense evaluation, for the bombs are flying and there's no other options but fight or flight. In the end there's nothing but a desolate hunk of dirt and a cigarette between his lips, smoking away the pain, smoking away the agony, smoking away the emotionalism with puff after puff of nicotine. And across the desert he goes, a cloaked figure amidst the carmine horizon, searching for his next kill to jade his dwindling sanity.
