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Post by [ISO]lde on Apr 12, 2009 23:09:14 GMT -5
calling - isolde
existance - beyond measure or recollection
persuasion - XX
specimen - thestral
relations - warmblood paint
reflection - beautiful, as the epithet describes. Isolde possesses a delicate frame, a fair complexion and smoldering oculus whose unforgiving stare are known to hinge upon each and every soul in the radius. Obsidian clashes with the opposite force in an epic brawl across the feminine physique of the equine. Flints are of the pedestrian sort and the exquisite locks that drape across her nape are only just so - but unremarkable as it were. The lady is never mistakable - Isolde is undeniably female and desirable. However, the persona is less attractive.
actions - Feminine as well, I'm afraid. Given to swift turns of mood, and bouts of gnashing enamels and flying anvils the she was born a fighter. Hostility flowing in her veins through the constant necessity for defense. Distrust for each and every soul breeds contempt for them all. It only multiplies as she gains age. Once offended the strength of her vocals become known - bursts of wailing screams fill the decibles and it would take perhaps a mile or more to escape the rushing sound. There is no fear to be had in her, no want to ponder death and beyond. A daemon. Through and through to the very blistered core of the she-devil. Menacing and politically incorrect as they come. She defies the roles assigned gender in a fight and proves whatever point she sees fit to back at a given moment.
faded - There truly isn't anything particularly exciting about the she's past save for the occasional splatter of blood across her muzzle. She isn't truly what one would class a cannibal but she has been known to rip the hide of carcasses out of pure spite. Her parents were constantly together, but never affectionate. In fact her sire was abusive...and so her dame turned to Isolde as an outlet for her frustrations and so it continued on. Isolde learned to abuse as she was instructed and abused. A tragic case but a fitting one for her class. One would expect such a twisted beginning to such a twisted life. The vengeful side of the she is a constant. There is rarely seen an honest smile. In fact...I doubt there has been one that displayed only joy and sincerity. Constantly hostility taints whatever expression flits over the feminine pate. The poisonous trend is this - the tempest is only more beautiful as her rage boils over. The pure animosity wreathing her skull radiates feral luxury and upon more than one occasion she has found need to defend her back side. Instances where she has proven more than capable, mind you.
ic -
Expectant gaze of the monochrome tyrant digressed in reticent speculation, a sharp inhale withdrawn as customary when one receives a laceration to heart. Twins rose from their depths, potent semblance dormant save for a tremble of mock bewilderment. Fanned tresses promenaded behind the charcoal warlord, auditting stare upon the youth for most of the journ, perceptive glance had been cast to the mistress, though the irritation stirred was far from a comfort. So, naturally, the male's intrigue had flitted to his spawn. Certainly that couldn't be Estrella. Could it? Had they been apart that long? Surely not...damn. A sharp retort was bitten back in contrast to the barbs spat to the mongrel, utterly ignoring the elder wench with a glance that disclosed the loathing..in short it pretty much said Girly, you'll have to do a shitload better than that and I'm ashamed you hadn't figured it out. Yes, the comment had been pondered but only briefly, and a chuckle was immediately suppressed. Collecting mares indeed. That would have been a vacation considering what the kaiser had actually been up to. But fuck it. The female had already decided what he'd been doing, and at the moment, the will to set her and her ego straight was running just a tad low.
The faintest of husky smiles was produced, muscular twines within the broad arc of the mongrel's nape rippling beneath the mixed hide as the viking eyed the spawn at first in a mute recollection. The epithet was quietly breathed, hispanic accent edging the term. "Estrella." Aware that, in his absence, barriers had formed, though the desire to nibble at the fascio locks was great, the sire abstained. Settling with a murmurred commentary. "Eres bonita...pero alto demasiado. Que triste." Shards of shame for the lack of involvement in the youth's upbringing were brought to light, though, in truth, who could blame him? He'd have been around had he known where exactly they were. Preparation for the reunion had disintegrated with the darkling's appearance, falling away to a smoldering heap of ash, much like the ink spheres that blemished the dame's countenance for several moments in silence. A solitary lobe ascended slowly, a chiselled brow arcing though not another move was made.
The masculine remained dormant, tense with reflection as carbon streams were bestowed their liberty unceremoniously, a growled salutations of sorts spat to the premiere "spouse" in the harsh tongue of nativity. "Pues? Que dices, amor? The endearing term was spat, like venom, bitter upon the mongrel's tongue and bitter upon release. Sarcastic as she had been but perhaps more effective due to the dangerous irritation that mingled within the syllables, escorting the anguish that was concealed. Truthfully? Cortez wanted to know what the fuck she'd done it for.
existance - beyond measure or recollection
persuasion - XX
specimen - thestral
relations - warmblood paint
reflection - beautiful, as the epithet describes. Isolde possesses a delicate frame, a fair complexion and smoldering oculus whose unforgiving stare are known to hinge upon each and every soul in the radius. Obsidian clashes with the opposite force in an epic brawl across the feminine physique of the equine. Flints are of the pedestrian sort and the exquisite locks that drape across her nape are only just so - but unremarkable as it were. The lady is never mistakable - Isolde is undeniably female and desirable. However, the persona is less attractive.
actions - Feminine as well, I'm afraid. Given to swift turns of mood, and bouts of gnashing enamels and flying anvils the she was born a fighter. Hostility flowing in her veins through the constant necessity for defense. Distrust for each and every soul breeds contempt for them all. It only multiplies as she gains age. Once offended the strength of her vocals become known - bursts of wailing screams fill the decibles and it would take perhaps a mile or more to escape the rushing sound. There is no fear to be had in her, no want to ponder death and beyond. A daemon. Through and through to the very blistered core of the she-devil. Menacing and politically incorrect as they come. She defies the roles assigned gender in a fight and proves whatever point she sees fit to back at a given moment.
faded - There truly isn't anything particularly exciting about the she's past save for the occasional splatter of blood across her muzzle. She isn't truly what one would class a cannibal but she has been known to rip the hide of carcasses out of pure spite. Her parents were constantly together, but never affectionate. In fact her sire was abusive...and so her dame turned to Isolde as an outlet for her frustrations and so it continued on. Isolde learned to abuse as she was instructed and abused. A tragic case but a fitting one for her class. One would expect such a twisted beginning to such a twisted life. The vengeful side of the she is a constant. There is rarely seen an honest smile. In fact...I doubt there has been one that displayed only joy and sincerity. Constantly hostility taints whatever expression flits over the feminine pate. The poisonous trend is this - the tempest is only more beautiful as her rage boils over. The pure animosity wreathing her skull radiates feral luxury and upon more than one occasion she has found need to defend her back side. Instances where she has proven more than capable, mind you.
ic -
Expectant gaze of the monochrome tyrant digressed in reticent speculation, a sharp inhale withdrawn as customary when one receives a laceration to heart. Twins rose from their depths, potent semblance dormant save for a tremble of mock bewilderment. Fanned tresses promenaded behind the charcoal warlord, auditting stare upon the youth for most of the journ, perceptive glance had been cast to the mistress, though the irritation stirred was far from a comfort. So, naturally, the male's intrigue had flitted to his spawn. Certainly that couldn't be Estrella. Could it? Had they been apart that long? Surely not...damn. A sharp retort was bitten back in contrast to the barbs spat to the mongrel, utterly ignoring the elder wench with a glance that disclosed the loathing..in short it pretty much said Girly, you'll have to do a shitload better than that and I'm ashamed you hadn't figured it out. Yes, the comment had been pondered but only briefly, and a chuckle was immediately suppressed. Collecting mares indeed. That would have been a vacation considering what the kaiser had actually been up to. But fuck it. The female had already decided what he'd been doing, and at the moment, the will to set her and her ego straight was running just a tad low.
The faintest of husky smiles was produced, muscular twines within the broad arc of the mongrel's nape rippling beneath the mixed hide as the viking eyed the spawn at first in a mute recollection. The epithet was quietly breathed, hispanic accent edging the term. "Estrella." Aware that, in his absence, barriers had formed, though the desire to nibble at the fascio locks was great, the sire abstained. Settling with a murmurred commentary. "Eres bonita...pero alto demasiado. Que triste." Shards of shame for the lack of involvement in the youth's upbringing were brought to light, though, in truth, who could blame him? He'd have been around had he known where exactly they were. Preparation for the reunion had disintegrated with the darkling's appearance, falling away to a smoldering heap of ash, much like the ink spheres that blemished the dame's countenance for several moments in silence. A solitary lobe ascended slowly, a chiselled brow arcing though not another move was made.
The masculine remained dormant, tense with reflection as carbon streams were bestowed their liberty unceremoniously, a growled salutations of sorts spat to the premiere "spouse" in the harsh tongue of nativity. "Pues? Que dices, amor? The endearing term was spat, like venom, bitter upon the mongrel's tongue and bitter upon release. Sarcastic as she had been but perhaps more effective due to the dangerous irritation that mingled within the syllables, escorting the anguish that was concealed. Truthfully? Cortez wanted to know what the fuck she'd done it for.
