Post by Dischord on Jun 30, 2007 15:49:44 GMT -5
DISCHORD
Birthname: Dischord.
Nickname: Chord.
Gender: female.
Herd: n/a
Rank: n/a
Age: six.
Alliance: neutral.
Mother: Antoinette (Thoroughbred x mustang).
Father: Oath (Lipizzaner).
Mate/s/: n/a
Love: n/a
Crush: n/a
Children: n/a
Best Friend: n/a
Other Friends: n/a
Siblings: four brothers; Distortion, Sangrie, Tulse and Filip.
Likes: very little; peace.
Dislikes: herself, her history, her family.
Breed - half Lipizzaner, quarter Thoroughbred, quarter mustang.
Height - 14.3 hh.
Eye color - smokey gray.
Mane Color - pale creme.
Tail Color - see above.
Description - With a very feminine and slight frame, with smooth cures and delicate features, Dischord is a very fair and pretty mare. When she moves, the roundness and flexibility of her joints and muscles gives her strides the fluidity of warm molasses; she moves gracefully, yet tentatively. She thinks about every motion she makes, contemplating every hoof-fall and each tail-swish. Chord's hair grows quite slowly, and very little; her mane will basically remain just hardly below her throat for most of her life, and her tail will not stray past the elbows of her hind legs. Her coat is a misty fleabitten gray, which fades down to small smoke-colored socks at her hooves, and her muzzle is the same. Her mane and tail are both the same creamy color of milk, and are somewhat knotted and dreaded. Her soft and kind, almond-shaped eyes match the rest of her dull and gray color palette; a darker shade of smoke.
Picture -
Personality - By blood, Dischord is a dark, but by spirit, she is a Light. Although her breeding would tell you she's a jump-the-gun type, she's actually quite shy and introverted. Chord somtimes stammers when she talks, stemming from her skittishness; her voice is quiet and calm, and slightly soothing, and those that are given the rare gift of a song should consider themselves lucky; her voice is tranquil and fair. She's really torn between the two alliances, and still has trouble calling herself a Neutral, seeing as she's completely divided between the two sides. As a result of her torn spirit, she has no trust in herself, thus, finds it extremely difficult to trust others. She has no plans for foaling, and isn't totally sure if she'd make an appropriate dam. She isn't the world's biggest fan of herself, and has virtually no self-esteem, even though she's mildy pretty.
History - The youngest of five children, and the only female, Dischord was naturally picked on a lot as a child. To make matters worse, although she was born into a very Dark family, both parents and all four brothers were known and feared murderers, she felt for sure that deep within her soul, she was a Light, peace-loving horse. Feeling torn between the two worlds, she attempted to tell her mother about the contradiction, which was, of course, an awful idea. Her dam ratted her out to her sire, and the two adults beat the filly a hair's breadth from death. Knowing that she could no longer stay with her family, she left at the age of three, living the lonesome life of a wanderer, until now.
Roleplaying Example -
this is an older post for my baby, Norma Jean.
(she uses a tad bit of language :/ )
Fuck. I'm so pissy. It's like permanent PMS around me. At least this week. Last week I was a fucking giddy little whore, hopping around, kicking a few flaunty babes in the shins here and there. Oh, but this week. This week, if anyone so much as steps on one of my personal blades of grass or clods of dirt, they shall soon be dearly departed from their sweetly tender vocal cords. Cue ravenous growling. Practically snarling, essentially fuming, I squander my time away sulking lonely through the Badlands. phshh. As if. Badlands? More like Candy Cove. Nothing about this barren landscape bothers me so much as to frighten my big fat ruddy ass away. It does more to entice me, than anything else. The fog is rolling in with the urgency of a morbidly obese man waddling like a pudgy duck through New York's Central Park, seducing the pores of my body and penetrating them, the humidity rising as the ocean tide. Heavy, muddy-brown skull hanging low, my stance and the antagonistic contempt of my envy-green eyes show nothing but disdain and scorn for any and everything in this world. Snorting with vehemence, a threatening cumulus cloud of mist erupts from my crushed-velvet shadowy nostrils, my visage taking on an appearance much like that of a cutthroat dragon, breathing fire and fully prepared to rip to shreds any thingy-weilding bastard that decided to give me a go. Let's not mock me. I'm not a simple-minded imbecile. I am heavy in season, and fully aware of it. Damn.
My sturdy legs, wrapped up to the knobby knees in dark silk stockings, heaved my body, quite masculine for a lady's, from the sloth amble I had grown so accustomed to, into a lively, quite agitated trot, legs extending and retracting briskly and youthfully, hauling my bulk across the vast openness of demilitarized territory. My neck arched gracefully, a characteristic seen rarely about my usually flexed and angry frame, and as my knotted and gnarled rope and dreads of smokey black mane trailed heavily on the slight wind, I took on the heroic seemliness of an ancient warhorse. With fresh streams of blood racing through my many highways of veins and arteries and my wrinkly moleskin chin bobbing like a bouy on the high seas against my bosom, I held my valiant trotting stance for a handful more instants before once more falling into a lax pretense. Resting for a twinkling within the substantial and restricted embrace of mist and fog, my head sinks once more, as though I were preparing to feast on the insignificant buds of grass popping up from between the cracks in the springtime ground. However, my jowels remain clamped shut. Holding this pose, I snuffle around the dusty earth for what could be years, until finally, with a sigh of relief, I let down my guard and allow my carriage to slump down, laying unhurriedly on my side, cheek relaxed on the soggy loam. But in the time it takes for a bolt of lightning to race across the land, my legs are churning brilliantly in the air, my spine snaking into an arc as I roll, coating my rusty brown skin in a thin, delicate layer of dust. Remaining on the ground for a short time, I regain my composure after my sudden burst of filly-like rolling, my ribcage moving firmly in and out, in and out, in and out. Wasting no time, I am up on my feet again, coughing slightly through my teeth, yellow as wheat as the dust I had stirred up wafts into my nasal passages. Shaking my colossal skull from side to side, I toss away the leisurely amusement, my sour ass temperament returning with haste. So. Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
by the way....My name's Laura.
Last Updated:
june thirtieth, two-thousand-seven.[/size][/center]