sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Dec 24, 2017 10:55:33 GMT -5
the solipsist male - 3 years - summer - bisexual 35" - 72lbs grotesque.
insectlike, he clambers, jaws slavering, forth from whichever foul pit he first crawled, from whichever writhing spawn clump in which he was formed.
the lines of his body are weird and uncanny, all angular slopes and peculiar bends which should not appear as they do, which could make a greater wolf quiver with pure unsettled bewilderment. his neck is seldom stiff, oft swerving and coiling strangely before him, from any position upright and peering to any stooping and hyena-like, chin close to the ground and stance lopsided, perhaps expectant. his breast is sallow, rising quickly with mouth-breath, and yet appears as if carven by some scavenger angel, angel of pestilence.
swivelling and cupping each ominous sound upon the air, the ears are large and sharp at the tips. the slopes of flesh which make up his canine brows curve up and arc, giving him an almost comical resting expression of alarm, those pale eyes darting 'neath them adding to the demeanour - and it does not betray his soul, skittering and roach-like in the heat.
the eyes, then, if to dwell on them you wish: relatively large and round as pennies, and shining too with the same dull glaze, uneven. butter and old blood, muted yellow, nothing special. if one watches his face for a little while, even from a distance one shall notice that when blinking, each eye winks notably out of sync.
calamitous.
messy is his gait, large feet stumping like the feet of some tripod alien, stabbing upon the ground firm with each new step, despite how the body sways so with the rushing. it is as if the legs, separate entities, move individually, the pathetic mumbling mind and body atop their stalks merely blinking away the wind in its eyes. scars: whittled at the underside of his ribcage, along the deep slope, an unsteady scar crawls vertically along the line; along the sides of this scar, small leg-like lines scrape horizontally outwards, three of them on each side, a symmetrical pattern. a brand of an older time. personality: wip |
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Jan 30, 2018 16:29:58 GMT -5
pallas alhazred dune ghost
a. stockdesc here p. h. |
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Feb 1, 2018 19:49:51 GMT -5
LAVINIA FURNIVAL MOONCALFa. frail waif that she is, lavinia is slight and slim, a shivery form on slender legs. the fur on her body is straight and downward pointing, though where it is shorter, it is wispy, and individual hairs tend to stick up in an unkempt way all along her neck, back, and sides. an ectomorph's frame is hers. spindly limbs tremble beneath the matted white heap of her torso, at the front of which is a long neck, off which hangs the same sort of limp, dry white fur; a tint the colour of straw is the most predominant colour which may be suggested of her coat, along with, sometimes, a strange pinkish shade, fleshy, most visible where her fur parts. certainly her pallor is not pure. often dirt can be found scraped through it, or a dark red birthmark can be detected. she is scruffy and knows it, thinking of herself as so wretchedly ugly that to take care of her appearance would be pointless.
eyes, large, watery and sorrowful. they are of a pale brown, and they glisten in a manner most saddening.
lavinia suffers from the hideous malformation of polycephaly; from the left side of her face, just behind the cheekbone, the diagonally-pointing muzzle, forehead, and single closed eye of her twin whilst in womb, peers outward blindly. this grotesque second head is shrunken and not fully formed, and the fur covering it is poorly and rather feathery, like the down on an undeveloped bird. p.  image by the lovely crow |
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Feb 21, 2018 7:40:37 GMT -5
♞♚♛♜♝♟♞♚♛♜♝♟
the leper
tis me you dare not bite!
♞♚♛♜♝♟♞♚♛♜♝♟
ay, let the dogs come! let them bay by my heels, let them snap at the hocks and the haunches of my brothers and my sisters. forsooth, they think themselves a peril unmet - and ah, how their hubris amuses me. me! bellowing, the swine come. rolling horizons, white and red with their bloated bodies. some men run. others feast and wallow. clutching, the beacon is thine eye, whose light holds me true. from betwixt the fallen i rise, climb, and my jaws are a chasm, sucking, consuming. 'neath mine hand they crumble.
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Feb 25, 2018 6:33:00 GMT -5
the five striders
the eye - mute, watchful, unsmiling, stoic; may sometimes suffer from fits of trembling and twitching; detests fly
the fly - stammering, erratic, quiet, clingy, cowardly, selfish - afraid of eye
the priest - calm, patronising, pious, narrow-minded; cares for god more than for his fellows
the gate -
the sign -
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Feb 25, 2018 6:36:25 GMT -5
dodie proshka почему я родился?m . 1 . ecto 32 . 75  все это так сложно.a. small and rugged, not as should be a warrior of ice. it is no wonder that his kin scorned him. the skin beneath his fur is a pale grey, the pelt atop it being of snow vaguely greyed, scraped through with straggly graphite lines. the white is not even pure. can he do nothing correctly? жалкий. and then the eyes, wide and watery, they are of frost upon a deep black lake's surface, something once blue and since darkened, dulled, desaturated. those are the irises. amidst those lakes are dilated pupils, black, and around the irises the scleras are a fiercer white than his pelt. the fur is wind-tossed and flyaway all over his little body, the latter appearing as does a thin cylinder balanced horizontally upon four cotton bud sticks, a fox-like head stuck on one end and a fox-like tail on the other. his facial features are finely carved and delicate, the soft lines of his face wonderfully expressive when manipulated from their usual grimace and resting look of pain and acceptance of it. by tongue he is fluent in russian and english, the latter spoken with a heavy accent. p. принц без камешка к его имени. sometimes he thinks it's funny how things turned out for him, but when he does he still doesn't smile about it. smiling hurts his face in the cold. with icy humour and heart wrapped tight in rags, invite him into your home for a hot brew and some silence and dodie shall begin to warm to you. no beast is he. he knows the struggle of life and livelihood, knows your woes from a moment's eye contact. brush his pale cheek with a finger, and he will turn his head away. he sits with his back against the wall, chin in the fluff of his throat. put him up before a misted pane, his breath white on it, and he will lift a fingertip and begin to trace out words he remembers fondly. he wishes that he could have learnt more, in earlier youth, of remedies and of healing. knowledge from the wizened old warlocks of his home he had bundled up and carried to his room with him, lying awake by night and studying when he should have been gathering his strength for some hunt or another. now, if given the chance, he would adore to learn more and to refine his skill in being delicate. ever so gentle and seldom one for blood, though to underestimate the young prince is a mistake. cutting can be the turn of his cheek, scathing the cynical words from his cold lips. and yet too, in his numb and awkward sort of manner, he can be sweet and endearing, and certainly he is capable of love, his heart far more inclined towards good than it is evil. he tends to take life as it comes, and thus does not tend to grow anxious or panicked, though where trouble strikes up with the potential to become rooted and to grow, he shan't oft hesitate to take his leave. between altruism and individualism as primary states of mind, the latter better suits the proshka boy. this he had always been taught, with only the tsarist autocracy of his homeland standing as more important than his own life. this he never much cared for, seeing no reason to die for something which would not notice his absence, and thus naturally the second in line fell into first place. h. the pampered proshka line was one whose daughters dwelled on palace windowpanes watching the soldiers pacing outside, and whose sons were the soldiers, and were knights fighting in faraway places where the snow might even stop falling. dodie, youngest son of tsar ilya proshka, was considered weak for his build and for his sickliness compared with his four brothers, being matched more to his two sisters than to what he should have been. generally mocked and ignored, it seemed that nobody noticed his departure into the snowfields. |
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Feb 25, 2018 6:40:46 GMT -5
cord kanem . 3 . het 30 . 97  every dog who's lived his life on a chain,
knows what it's like waiting for nothing a. achromia. stiff bones . scars . red marks from chains . burnt by suna life in chains has made the man a wolf.
bloody-mouthed creature, white and rigid, a thing of bones and meat. you can see his ribs, taste flesh on his breath. hungry dogs are never loyal.
eyes livid red, gums and tongue alike even in cleanliness. sharp nose, faded crimson and dulled, speckled with dark as it nears the bridge of the muzzle. his face is all of hard lines, whittled like whalebone, sunken, sallow cheeks. the image of a white dog shoving his nose into his metal bowl to get at the torn sustenance inside, crushing the cartilage in his nostrils, blood flowing right into the stuff, and he doesn't even give a shit because blood has always just been his water.
so pallid is he in achromia that from sunlight he shies, oft sleeping in the day and arising by dark. the rays burn him, he feels them creeping into his pores and hisses from them, his skin wan as his pelt.
vertical, a scar like a closed third eye has been ripped up his forehead, its bottom at the top of the bridge, it curving up the dome of his skull and ending almost between the torn ears. his body too is riddled with old wounds, and yet none give the impression of a soldier, of battle. rather, all of them are single swiped lines, pink and shiny in age, some redder than others, like he has simply been batted at repeatedly and then leaped from. the fur around his neck has been worn away, skin visible in a band on his throat, pink and raw and paining him often. too are there signs of restraint on his jaw having been applied, the thin fur on his muzzle dented horizontally along the bridge and continuing all the way around his jaw from there. primitive, he lumbers in motion like he's quite forgotten how to move. a bomb on legs, he is unpredictable.
a white dragon, a creature meant to guard and scare, leashed up and growling, rocks thrown and thorns poking. dare you to hit him.
p. inept . tense . patient . impulsive . filterless . feral . vampirica life in chains has made the wolf a dog.
burst from his shackles, he strikes through the night like pale lightening, led by scent and by hunger. a lifetime of waiting has made him patient when needs be, a crouching thing in the undergrowth. in the art of hunting he has never been taught, and so in chasing prey he merely shoves his body at breakneck speed at the quarry's heels, needle-sharp teeth gnashing and snapping in untethered ferocity. bloody angel with amputated wings, who believes he must be a demon to have been treated in such a manner.
his general demeanor is frightening. lacking in any social filter, whilst he shan't outright attack any stranger he may come across, his way of staring, sniffing, uttering strange phrases, it is enough to judder a person, perhaps to repulse them. yet his freedom has given him legs to move with, and thus it is likely that he may follow any soul attracting his interest, despite not trusting that soul whatsoever, at least not for some while.
he is the sort to seize his prey and shake it violently in his jaws, crushing down until his teeth meet each other through the flesh, feeling the blood running down his neck. a baying hound of aggression, fuzzy-headed and glass-eyed without a command.
[ unfinished ]h. wip |
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Feb 25, 2018 6:45:30 GMT -5
♛ drink, dear, and forget. ♛
♛ yes, that tends to be the gist of it. ♛ calvert kolt m . 3 . bi 28" . 82lbs a. tad on the skinny side. a droopy mop, damp liver-coloured fur spilling out from him in clumps, other parts of him almost bare. mange once hit him like a truck, and since he's been a zombie; rather like a less-elegant poodle, he appears shaven, if only by past disease, around his abdomen, neck, and all the way down his legs until the ankles, from which unkempt, dust-paled fur curls downwards. the shaven sections are of sootier tone than the rest of him.
yeah, you can laugh if you want. the way his eyes turn ever so sadly, dark skin creasing beneath them, languid and ashen, it is of a nature unplaceable. their liquid surfaces are of an icy tint. well, grey, really. i'm just trying to make him out to look more impressive than he does.
a small creature, smaller by his stance, an inward slouch. dog dragging his chain. narrow ribcage, petite bone structure, his legs bend often when he is stationary, neck hanging low, except when you kick him in the arse, then he'll zip forward a few steps. a limp tail, hacked off a little way down, or perhaps he was born with it like that? it's like a bobcat's, thin at the base and growing fluffier in its brief descent, rounded off with flyaway tufts only a little way down, perhaps halfway to his hocks.
from his homeland, there is a tight band of animal hide fastened about his throat, the soft pelt at the base of his slim, short-furred neck splaying up around its bottom. dyed a deep black, it is pierced through with various notches and holes, and a small, needle-traced symbol is etched on the general left of the thing, square-ish runes of a land unheard of. he seems unbothered by the collar, and yet will not speak of the text.
p. a sigh personified. carried by a dry sense of humour, the young man is a miserable thing who scarcely acknowledges himself. he knows the world is shit, knows he's an ant in the dustbowl of life, a nothing, a nobody - just a number, a commodity available with the tug of a leash - and yet he's not so pretentious as to state it. if they don't already know it, they're probably blind to the worst of things, and those folks make him smile, if sadly.
unfinished.
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Feb 25, 2018 6:47:29 GMT -5
DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!
hail, pink thing of night! doth thou lurk in search, or in secrecy? fear not, i shall tell none of thy presence. thou mayest sup of my goblet, and yet too thou shalt speak of thy woes, for thine eyes glisten so heartfully.
AY, 'TIS BLOOD, THOU STINKARD!
she speaks in rhyme, and bites off tongues in red rooms, and she kills with knives made for her - and alas, speaketh she doth of my wickedness, ay, wickedness forsooth! i shall have of her flesh, and by her hair i shall have her head, in mine white hand.
O, AND THINE AXE MAY ONLY DREAM OF MY SKIN!
thou shalt not have me, nor my bones.
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Mar 2, 2018 9:39:11 GMT -5
peleg yemishire
m . 0.50 . bi
30 . 80
a. pale thing, slim, one to be tucked away when the sun glares down. in the soft lines of his downy body there is a purity o so heavenly, a sweetness o so juvenile, and perhaps, as once did the ones who held him first, you shall find yourself loving him. in his achromia, his skin is fair, hair white, large eyes watery and pink. not a single blade of colour tarnishes the dull snow of his form.
my little angel, somebody once called him. my dear rabbit, did another.
his limbs are thin, bones weak, and he will never grow to be as tall as a creature of his breed should. a face carved by celestial blade. each feature is so wonderfully breakable, the image of a fist to a temple, the denting of a fine cheekbone, the mutilation of those pretty thin lips. a slender neck, perfect for strangling, to be held in two hands and crushed. he is easily battered. bruises where given will blossom purple and visible on his body, like kisses from a witch.
p.
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Post by sphinx on Mar 2, 2018 9:42:24 GMT -5
march of cheops
saints devour'd and left as but bones;
knights swallowed, swords for toothpicks;
the queen is poisoned, the queen is dead;
and clatter clatter go cheops' boots
as he goes a-marching in the courtyard.
the horses each wear pots upon their heads,
vases of finest porcelain to smash with bricks;
he enjoys doing that, does it to hear them cry,
and his mother hated it too once, and told him so
when still she had a tongue;
and with each new sun since his reign sat fat
atop crocodile chair,
the people wept once more each day,
and insects seemed to crawl more freely;
and hearty he laughs, the yellow king,
from atop crocodile chair,
laughs though he feels the blood
in his throat with each new
sun.
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Mar 2, 2018 10:35:27 GMT -5
you die each night. i know, for i am the one to catch you each time at the threshold, when you fall asleep. your bones, they are so heavy, and i am so frail, and yet still i catch you, and i take you back while still you sleep. i have not heard your voice, but i know your face. you tire me, but for as long as you keep falling, i will wait there, looking up into the black. you needn't thank me, and i know i needn't remind you. but, there.
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Mar 2, 2018 10:36:07 GMT -5
pearly, her skin mottles pink, moisture trembling on her cheekbone. he wipes it away. with a gentle noise, a sinking, crunching, succulent noise, like gristle being chewed, her head snaps forward and her teeth close in a mechanical manner over his hand. i have forgotten the rest.
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Mar 2, 2018 10:36:42 GMT -5
but the hands of one of the gentleman were laid on k.'s throat, while the other pushed the knife deep into his heart and twisted it there, twice. as his eyesight failed, k. saw the two gentlemen cheek by cheek, close in front of his face, watching the result. "like a dog!" he said, it was as if the shame of it should outlive him.
- 'the trial', franz kafka |
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sphinx
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Post by sphinx on Mar 2, 2018 12:18:56 GMT -5
rathbone perdekop [hunter] - manipulative. brutal. takes no prisoners. reasonable. sultry. aloof. flirty. ambitious. believes in the vagabond lifestyle. hates packs. childish. aggressive. [by vio]
sobran; thoughtful, lustful, masculine, efficient; effective alpha; crusher and fermenter of grapes, makeshift vintner; wistful farming in his spare time
pan, oedipus, nukpana, olphaunt, nzinga, ixion, japhet
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THE COMPANIONS 
THE DARK BROTHERHOOD 
MAGE'S GUILD 
THE BLADES 00