Post by ammon on Sept 6, 2011 10:33:57 GMT -5
Name: Ammon Vladimir Alexei
Age: 5
Gender: Male
Breed: Andalusian
Height: 16hh
Coat Color: Gray
Mane/tail Color: Gray and black
Eye Color: Cerulean
Markings: None
Alignment: Light
Personality: A hunter, a bringer of rationality and truth, he rises from the shoreline like a mammal sent from the Divine himself. His presence sends an eerie thrill down your back. He's so strange, so queer, he invades my thoughts and my deepest fantasies; why then, does he seem so familiar? It cannot be possible that this creature of beauty yet misplaced harmony was conceived by the neurons in my own brain. A shadow perceived as the azure cherub to eyes so far and unfocused, the diatonic beast of stone, wood, and shallow pools, he walks with pledge, a commitment understood by him and only him. The creature seems crafted by Zeus, the very finger connecting the great beyond to this meager world of physical attractions. But despite his coat, woven from the strands of nature, his unaggressive stature so poised and failing to betray the thoughts that lie behind the veil, this is no seraph, no angel, not even dangling in the lowly insane mortality of a saint.
Oh arrogance. The one thing he is sure he can positively no longer stand. He despises arrogance. Not when it is earned of course; anyone who actually gains such a wonderful and putrid personality flaw through labor of the agonizing sort also gains some strange form of respect from him. He loathes it when others put themselves on top of the world, through no tears, sweat or blood, who think themselves so tall when in truth they are the size of a measly parasitic worm. He was born in his own filth, scrounging for food all the while stealing pages from books and scriptures by the secular single numbers until he was smart enough to probably dismantle the entire planet with his mind; he thinks he heartily deserves his own arrogance. In fact, he believes that any great title should be earned, not born into or simply given away as a gift. He climbed his way to the top when he was alive, with his own teeth and tattered well-being nipping sharply at his heels and sneering at him to go back to the poorhouse where he belonged. This is the prime reason why Ammon abhors most forms of aristocracy, monarchy, and authority, for he secretly and nastily chortles at the illogical and unfair thought of such craven weaklings having power over him. Their snide fists at their side, rarely equipped to take on a road of challenges before them, lips of painted cherry red protruded forward in a pout if they don’t achieve what they want. They don’t understand failure, they don’t understand suffering. They don’t fathom that their faces are only canvases waiting to be hacked up by something greater than them. They know nothing. In this sense, Ammon is a voice of tactless reason, shredding disgraceful unawareness and stupidity.
History: The only witness of their coupling was the rolling tides sucking in sand and saline debris back into its depths, so blue and turquoise when the sun was high in the sky, now murky and an abysmal midnight blue. The moonlight bathed her onyx back exquisitely; two pale green eyes ran their course from the two’s damp fusion at her tight youthful posterior tapering when it came to her slender neck just begging to have his creamy molars sink themselves into such delicate and striking flesh. And so he fulfilled this urge, leaning over and biting her just below her jaw, gently at first and then imbedding his teeth into the supple tissue, blinking contently as he felt her shiver below him. Entrenched in her depths, his movements were agonizingly slow, unhurried, sensual and corporeal. They had the entire night to themselves; time would be kind to them this hour, and the hour after that. Her breathy almost inaudible sighs eventually escalated to soft cries just barely masked by the powerful tide, softly writhing below him as the onslaught of her nerves became harder and more difficult to ignore, all the while him not making a sound beyond quiet groans muffled by his mouth clinging to her delectable neck. The darkness is always seen as something foreboding and unwelcome, but they were grateful for the blessed shroud, shielding their activities from curious nosy eyes hell bent on destroying and covering up a coupling that could be the undoing of the Oceanside kingdom’s regal sway. Both were excellent lovers, drawn to each other out of lust and common attraction, esteem and veneration of each other’s book smarts and well-read tongues that could drip lashing acrimony or sweet caressing honey. Whether to openly call it love even amongst themselves perhaps was a step too far, but regardless, they joined every other night, rarely frenzied thanks to the young woman’s evasive disappearing acts, and relished their desires like the sophisticated animals they were. Releasing her neck and leaving a trail of saliva in its wake, Ammon allowed himself to glance upwards at the void above littered with white sparkling cigarette burns that seemed to flicker more and more as he came closer to his end. Suddenly, a contraction, a feminine shriek, a hundredth release of his tincture within her, and never emanating a sound, he found himself spent. He disentangled himself from the royal beauty, still panting scarcely, still wearing a light perspiration that made her coat of darkest obsidian glisten in the moon glow. As she caught her breath, he stared at her with the tiniest of smirks, reminded of how alluring she was before, during, and after relations; how she bit her lip to futilely lessen her pleased noises as he patiently plowed into her from the moment the sun set beyond the watery horizon to when it rose in the contrary direction. Finally, she was collected, and she tossed her raven hair out of her face so she could look at him more clearly; it always amused him how much longer it took for her to recover. Never did she show an ounce of shame or remorse for the desecration of her title and the imperial line she carried on. Both of them composed, they yearned to stay until the sun came up, but her mind was elsewhere, and she implied that she had to leave. He understood completely, but he still nuzzled her pointedly before she retreated away from the beach, leaving him behind to watch the ginger sky by himself.
She was a princess, cloaked in the finest of black silks with compliments to her parents’ marvelous genes, and adorned in superb gemstones to emphasize her well kept tresses the color of dusk. In opposition, Ammon was born into peasantry, going from scrounging the forested paths of the kingdom to scrupulously learning everything he could about the state affairs and the ridiculously methodical approaches that could lead him into the palace and beside the royals, whispering deviously into the shells of their ears while attaching puppet strings by hooks into their skin. His mind became quite revered; word traveled into the palace about the peasant whose brilliance was very abnormal for someone of his social stature. He was called before the court, tested for hours; all of their questions answered with bored, downward turquoise eyes and a patronizing tone, and piqued the interest of the nobles. But while they were concerned with each of their statuses, Ammon shot their ideas down with a calm but incisive precision, doing his subtle best to make them realize just how idiotic they really were. He fell out of favor with many lower parts of the court for constantly being frank and speaking his mind, often trashing their ways of ignorance that remained unhindered until he arrived. But as a result, he gained the attention of the female heir to the throne, whom he found to unwaveringly stare at him every chance she got. At first he thought the stares’ intensity was disapproval, but those burning retinas screamed something impious. And although he was good at hiding it, he began to harbor a need for her flesh against his as well.
Although the desires were mutual, Ammon knew his politics, and he knew them well. He was of impure blood, an outsider who had squeezed his way in with the upper class due to his powerful mind and tongue dripping with rigid intellect, certainly not fit for having any sort of affair with a royal heir. This was the beginning of his growing hatred for the aristocratic system. So many unnecessary laws, so many unneeded customs, so many words and ceremonies and greetings and…garbage. He played by their rules like a master, but deep down he simmered with a dull loathing towards them and their air headed fanciness. Within the darkened hallways where the veil of shadow was their friend, his exchanges with the princess grew more numerous, and more shrewd by each passing day. She was no innocent, he learned, simply a forced bystander, and had a tongue that she bit constantly to keep herself from barking an exile at all of these moronic simpletons who had long splintered objects nestled up their asses. It only made it harder that they were so compatible and that she was so willing to let him take her. Their desires became reality one night as he found her away from the palace, watching the night gleam over the tremulous sea. They attached themselves to each other, tied a forbidden knot, and released their captive yearnings in a beat as unsteady as the ocean tide itself.
He was under a spell. By his own wishes, but a spell nonetheless. His mind, usually so penetrating and steadfastly acute, was drunk with the sweet plum wine of his lover; shamefully blind to the peeping eyes that seemed to follow him around every corner, and deaf to the whispers and rumors that spread like wildfire through the court. Soon he found himself back where he was when his gifted mind first brought him to this patrician whorehouse. He was read his rights (he inwardly snorted at the absurdity that they would actually do that; in truth, he had no rights; their minds were already made up), and then his charges. He lied to each question, keeping a steady tenor, knowing that the discreetness would not save him from their swift judgment. When asked if he knew the punishment for having relations with royalty when he himself was of tainted descent, he replied calmly, that he was to be drowned in the sea, with boulders tied to all of his legs to pull him to the bottom. Ammon was found guilty, and sentenced to death. They attached large rocks to all of his legs, and took him to the middle of the sea. There was no plank, just an edge, and he was pushed into the water. He struggled, he fought, and oh how he burned with a fire that could have evaporated the entire sea had it possessed physical form, but in the end, his lungs that once breathed air only sucked in more and more water. Death was not black like he partially expected; just a very cold, very heavy, painful mantle of midnight blue vaguely the shape of the love that sent him to his watery grave.
