Post by entia on Jan 31, 2010 16:37:58 GMT -5
Nicknames: Entia
Age: 4 yrs.
Gender: Female
Desired Pack: Misuteriasu Mountains
Rank: Beta/Betess
Looks:
Pups: n/a
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio
Age: 4 yrs.
Gender: Female
Desired Pack: Misuteriasu Mountains
Rank: Beta/Betess
Looks:
Have you ever met a person with a million sides and faces, but with one thing that everyone agreed upon? Have you ever met a person that’s told so many lies and has so many masks there is only one truth you can count on? One such person, or to be technical, wolf, was Entia. Often disliked, occasionally hated, but usually respected Entia. Entia the troublemaker, the rebel, the sleeper. Entia, the one you blame for every little thing that ever goes wrong in your life, because she’s usually at the root of the problem. But also, Entia: so utterly, inescapably, impossibly, perfectly beautiful.Power:
Upon first glance, the first thing you notice is her pelt. The base coat is like that of a porcelain doll, pale white even in long summers of harsh sunlight, and always soft and velvety; the complexion is utterly smooth and flawless, that of ivory and stone, a natural tint of gray set in her very downy fur to assure that yes, she really is real and not some fantastical painting. The top coat is a marked contrast to the base, ebony to its ivory, as black as midnight on a starless night. Thick, silky smooth, and shiny enough to be shampoo-ad worthy.
On second glance, you’ll see the feature that you’ll remember most clearly later, and those are her eyes. Huge and lined with dark fur, they seem to take up her whole face. Those eyes are such a pale, yet startlingly solid lilac color, it’s hard to pull your gaze away. They might have been less remarkable if not for the expression that she wore; those pupil-less eyes were so knowing, so subtly taunting it was as eerie and ethereal as if she was whispering the words to a spell and slowly but surely wrapping you in her web of stories and mysteries, of secrets and shattered hopes and dreams and promises that could never mean a thing.
The third time you look her as for makings: it’s almost always black, silvery gray or white or over, you’ll notice much of the rest too, the intricate details of bone structure and movement. Overall, she is quite small and lithe: probably about fifty pounds. Her frame is extraordinarily fine boned: high, beautifully defined cheekbones; a strong, precise jaw line; long, slender bones. She might’ve looked frail but she has the physique of a dancer, or a runner, or a huntress. Long, shapely leg muscles and a stomach as curving as a river. She walks with the silent steps of someone trained to roam in darkness, crossing the murky line of the law with ease. She runs like a racer, high on speed and stamina, which compensate the fact that though she is stronger than she looks, someone barely fifty pounds can only lift so much weight. She moves like a dancer, graceful and elegant and poetry in motion.
But whatever people thought about Entia Firetongue, they all agreed there was no one who looked quite like her: completely, immortally, forever beautiful.
"Alternate Sight"Eyes:
This power allows Entia to simply get a scent of someone, or to focus on their energy if they've met before and see everything through their eyes, but this cannot work if they are close to her. This is only possible if the subject of her power use is at least out of her site and forty feet away from her. Sometimes, very very rarely, she can control the thoughts and extremely rarely, actions of the subject of use. This action takes extreme amounts of energy from her, and is never usually worth it. This is because if she even can control the thoughts of actions, they are very minor such as "don't do that" or "that's not right", and as for actions, perhaps make them stop in their tracks or make them howl.
Entia doesn't usually like to perform this or use her power simply because she feels uncomfortable, feeling as if she's trapped in someone else's mind. Sometimes, if she isn't careful, she can get sucked right into their thought process and begin to think like them.
Entia Firetongue's eyes. They are surely something else.Wings:
With no black pupils, it can be extremely difficult to look at this femme with much defiance. The only indicator that there is any dilation and such is that there is a slight darker coloration in the center of her completely lavender eyes.
n/aPersonality:
A personality is like a cut and polished diamond, with too many facets to count and remember. Some personalities sparkle, like that afore-mentioned brilliant diamond that’s on sale at Tiffany & Co. but still costs more than you could ever afford. Other personalities are like gems in the ground, unfound and unrefined, but beautiful beneath the dirt and grime and low class accents. And then, there are still more personalities that have the same numerous facets as a gem, but beyond that, have absolutely no relation to jewels or precious stones or the like. And it’s the third category – labeled ‘other’ in an officious and irritating way – that is often the most intriguing. After all, who can resist a good mystery or gossip or the unveiling of truths and lies?History:
Dramatic. It’s one of the first facets you see when you look at the beauty, with her long, long, locks and and lavender, lavender eyes. And then she opens her mouth and she has one of those voices that sounds different to everyone, that might sound like the whisper of the wind or the rustle of reeds or the tinkle of gently rushing water. And you can see how strikingly theatrical she often looks and smiles and you can hear it in her lilting voice that could alternately sooth or incite and you know that when something terrible happens, her eerie eyes light with intrigue at the excitement, not with pained sorrow at the loss.
Sarcastic. Sassy. No matter the authority, or the length of the name of a threatening sounding punishment or person, you can no more force respect into her than you can stop the world from turning or the sun from shining. Perhaps it is because, after growing up without rules or laws governing her every move, she can’t see the point, she can’t understand why. But then again, perhaps she does understand and she just doesn’t care all that much what other people think or say. She never has. Let them look at her with all the contempt and loathing they can possibly muster; let them sniff and huff and turn away in indignation. Whatever. She’s always spoken her mind, usually speaks with that derisive, mocking tone of voice, and rolls her eyes so much it’s a wonder they don’t stick like that.
Charismatic. No matter how nasty or fickle or acerbic she is, there is something that invariable draws people to her like flies to honey. They might hate her, might be disgusted by her, but they come every time when she calls and even sometimes when she doesn’t. What do they see in her? It is in that faint, mysterious smile, the kind that models spend years perfecting? Perhaps in the confident sashay of her legs and the big, haunting eyes that whisper and taunt with promises and secrets and little nothings. Perhaps the naively optimistic do-gooders of the world saw someone who could be saved beneath the cynicism and regret. But whatever it was, they came, even though she’d said she didn’t want to be saved from herself, didn’t need someone to catch her at the end of her long fall.
Mysterious. There are a thousand things she could say, a million things she does say, things that are meaningless and cold and unkind and last only an instant. When it comes to real talking though, she’s pathetic. When it comes to the words that might actually signify or imply something, she finds she is speechless, without a biting comeback or snide, insinuating comment. No one knows who she really is. For the most part, they don’t ask, and she never tells. And even if she did try to, she doesn’t think she’d know what to say. Some days, she isn’t even sure she knows who she is herself anymore. Which faces are the masks, and which are real? It gets so hard to tell sometimes…
She’s isn’t the innocent little pup anymore, guileless and wide-eyed and still asking why do birds fly and fish swim? She hasn’t been that pup for a long time, the little pup that lived with the pack, the little pup that disappeared as surely as dust on the wind. She isn’t the curious pre-teen either, a smart-alec who just wanted to know where she’d come from, why she was here, and how things are came to be this way. She’s found the answers to her questions, her endless fountain of questions, and she finds that she doesn’t much like the answers. And she is most certainly not the sweet, shy teenager who flirted and teased a bit but was mostly a good girl, gentle and kind. Where had those days gone? When had her outlook on life, her very essence become so completely skewed? Oh, she knew she was a screw-up. People said it enough. And she knew too, when things had gone wrong, but she doesn’t like thinking about it, even now.
She won’t open herself to hurt, not again. It was easier to scorn and mock and disparage because then no one got close, and then they couldn’t hurt, not in the ways that mattered, because they could say whatever they wanted and that was fine if you didn’t care about them. It was easier to sneer and wonder just how pathetic someone could get then to empathize or put herself in someone else’s paws. Hers were bad enough as it was. So she keeps the door to her heart locked and bolted, because the person standing on the other side can’t possibly be true and pure of intention, because everyone has an agenda and why should they be good to her? To her, the guileless puppy turned sassy preteen turned naïve teenager turned something else altogether, with bloody hands and stained soul.
There’s no looking back now.
It all began with a puppy. Creamy white and not much bigger than a fist. There had been others in the litter, but perhaps they had been picked off by a thieving coyote. But for whatever reason, there was only one pup, and only one mind to corupt. And when that mind finally broke the hard casing of its temporary prison, there were no parents around to speak of, let alone imprint upon. But, as in the old Danish fairy tale, there was a loner to feed and care for the pup, at least in the beginning. The very old female, though as intelligent as any such creature, had lost its own litter to a greedy mountain lion and had left only this young puppy, and did not seem to notice anything amiss. Not with the pup it was raising, nor with the day that came when a predator stole up on the unsuspecting animal and pilfered its life.Other:
The young wolf, by then three months old and no longer a pup, but rather a fledgling, had felt the utter wrongness of the day just as it felt the water upon its feet and the sun on her pelt. Luck, chance, sixth sense, or something else? It became apparent later that day, that day the water by the den was tinted a sickly pink. The fledgling had watched with unreadable ink-stained eyes as the snapping croc snuck closer, rippling through the water, and then there was a flash of movement and the extinguishing of a life. And the creature had drifted closer, heavy jaws uplifted, and the fledgling had felt the rush of adrenaline that all animals feel when danger is imminent, and with that adrenaline came something else. Something… unprecedented. It was as if the shadows themselves lifted to smother the wolf. Darkness writhed and entwined through her mind, a black mist hanging in the air surrounding her. The shadows intensified until they were all she could see, and they rolled like thunder. When the air cleared, the croc was gone, replaced by a juvenile wolf, like the ones that roamed on the edges of the lake. Not grown yet, but far too large for an ordinary snapper. She watched with something that might’ve surprise before turning with the duck clamped in its thick jaws. Retreating.
The adrenaline was fading now, and the littlun was once again engulfed in elegantly writhing shadows. They melted away to reveal that she had in fact invaded the mind of the crocodile. From the start, there was something off about the wolf pup. She did not yip. She did not whimper. She did not utter a sound of grievance, or any sound at all. The wolf-cub simply sat there, gaze flickering curiously over her surroundings, already assessing and calculating and matching the landscape seen to that of her memories. Her striking pale lavender eyes were almost frightening in their utter intensity and icy coolness and complete silence.
One year old and the pup had left the lonely wilderness that had been home for so long. She was running, searching for something she didn’t know to want. Civilization. Her legs flew beneath her, paws clumsy with youth and tongue lolling out with exertion. Silky black and white pelt and bushy ears and the same lavender eyes. A wolf, like those of the cold tundra and snow and ice. A fish where there was water, a bird where there was sky, a horse where there was distance. One year old and her first word was fly. Her first name was Entia and she didn’t wonder where this knowledge came from. Didn’t question, didn’t ask. It was there, and that was all. One year old and her eyes were still too big and too eerie. One year old and it was obvious she’d be a beauty already. One year old and she had now asked the questions that had never entered her mind to ask before. The answers didn’t matter so much. One and a half years old and the female, now a juvenile, was sassy and sharp and witty and she spoke her mind, even when she shouldn’t. At one and half, she should’ve been awkward and gangly but she was not. Two and the males spent all their time staring, catching flies with their open moths.
Two and a half was when it all changed; breeding maturity. The usual story, with edited in parts. It started with a male; didn’t it always? And he smiled and she’d fallen, fallen headlong in love and he’d caught her and that was that. Only it wasn’t; just her luck that it couldn’t be that simple. It was with clarity she remembered the last scene in their real life drama, the last scene that shouldn’t have been, should never have happened. It had been night and she recalled the scent of summer rain, cleansing and warm and fresh. She’d woken suddenly; she wasn’t sure even now what had roused her from sleep: was it perhaps a rustle of the leaves she could no longer remember, or some sixth sense? But it doesn’t matter now why she woke, only that she did, and then she saw the silhouette framed by the open den– she’d kept it open to let in some air at night when otherwise it would’ve been hot and stuffy and uncomfortable. It was a silhouette she’d seen a million times, a familiar one, a loved one, but how could it possibly be when she could see the shadow the bared fangs cast on the wall? It wasn’t possible.
Denial, denial, denial; but she’s moving even though her brain is still locked in place, disbelieving. Her reflexes are sharp and the adrenaline’s kicking in now and she’s rolled off the nest and is bounding toward the shadowy figure in seconds and it’s good she’s so damn fast and now she pushes the intruder into a beam of moonlight that shines through the curtains of reeds and into the open and… oh god. She knows that face, knows it like the back of her hand. She’s touched that chin with her nose, held the – later, she would realize, the too-still, not struggling, not protesting – body with her own arms. And then he moves – she wonders later if it was planned, if he knew this was what she would do, if he knew he wouldn’t kill her – and the fangs are arcing towards her, but her own jaws catch his throat, and then it’s a blur and all she knows is that she didn’t mean it, god, she didn’t mean it and this can’t be happening, and oh god, there’s blood on her paws and mouth, so much blood, and how can one body bleed so much? And now she’s looking at him, but it’s already too late and his eyes are dull and lifeless; their spark, the spark she had loved so much, extinguished. Distantly, she wonders if this is what it feels like to have your heart broken, your soul torn to pieces and discarded. No. This hurts so much more.
A week passes, a week full of tears and recriminations and trying to numb her pain with violence; go out and find the nearest buck and beat him half to death, or more to death. It still hurts. The second week is starting, and she’s stopped crying every time she thinks of him; there are no more tears. She won’t let herself grieve anymore, not when it hurts so much. Better to be hard and clinical and barely humane. She looks back at the Scene – scene with a capital s – as if she were an outsider, someone watching but not related, not emotionally or physically. And now it’s time to let herself think about it. Think about why he come… why he’d come to kill her when she had seen the way he looked at her sometimes. So in love. But… the answer was obvious wasn’t it? He’d come because of she was, who she might’ve been, who she should’ve been. Her parents… the questions she’d asked at age one and the answers she hadn’t really cared about… she’d never told him. Which meant someone else had, which meant that he’d probably been hired to do just this, to get rid of the daughter of the wrong wolves, wolves she’d never known, wolves who had never bothered to raise her though they had ensured she would survive at least to infanthood.
There are questions, questions she’d like answered, but mostly she just doesn’t ask because it’s done; there’s no use speculating why they’d come after her now, after all these years, why they had waited, why he had waited, had pretended to love her. Mostly she just doesn’t care; not about that, not about anything. She feels dead inside sometimes, like she died right alongside him. She still can’t believe she had killed him, but then this new version of her, this jaded, cold version, thinks that you might as well be hanged as for a wolf than a sheep. It’s not hard to hunt them down, the people who had ruined her life, even from before she had hacked herself out of that mind-block. It’s even easier to get rid of them. Politicians. They are soft, getting old and tired and slow, and she cuts them down quickly, easily. A twinge of remorse that is gone as soon as it came, and then she is on her way and they never catch her. Another set of homicides unsolved.
Lavender eyes that had once been eerie and knowing and beautiful… well they’re still like that, but now they’re shadowed with the burden of secrets and spilled blood and stained souls. She doesn’t smile anymore, not sincerely. Now she smirks, sneers, twists her pretty mouth to the side and laughs with regret in her voice that she covers with mocking and scorn and a sardonic grin. It’s always better to hurt others before they can hurt you. The innocence and naivety were gone, swept away by the wind like crumpled pieces of paper and bits of trash. Jaded and cold and there are shuttered windows in her too big, too pale eyes. Calculating and scheming and manipulating and she didn’t care anymore. The feathers should be black but they aren’t. They lie too.
Four years old now in the mountainous pack and she hasn’t even begun.
n/aParent Description:
Mother -- She was a very light silver with very many white dapples spotting her beautiful pelt. She was slender and small and very lithe with stunning, lavender eyes. She was fast, but otherwise completely weak and unfit for fighting. Hunting was her trade, and this was easily achieved with her long legs and unnaturally long teeth and claws.Mate: n/a
Father-- Starkly black and white. Even coloration of the two, all with very defined, exactly designs. Nothing blending. Black and white, that was all. With stone cold gray, pupil-less eyes, he appeared cruel. Especially with his massive, muscular, and threatening body, and the scars of battle that covered his body.
Pups: n/a
Zodiac Sign: Scorpio