Post by summerstars on Dec 22, 2009 15:38:50 GMT -5
Character Name: Astyanax
Pronounced: ass-tee-an-acks
Gender: Male
Age: 3.5
Rank: Warrior
Other Characters: None
Appearance: Approximately 17 hands at the shoulder with an impressive conformation, Astyanax was bred for strength and speed, with emphasis on strength. His breeders have obviously failed in the speed department, as his legs are more inclined toward being sturdy and strong than built to run fast, but in the end this powerful warhorse is just as capable as his peers.
In outward appearance, Astyanax is fairly average, if darkly coloured. His coat is the deep, almost reddish brown that humans call ‘liver’ while his thick mane and tail are a sharp black. His points, like those of all bay horses, are black, and his forelegs are banded with twin white socks. His hooves match his legs in that his white stockings give way into the lighter beige colour of his hooves and his hind hooves are of a darker, grey-ish colour.
It is said that the eyes are the windows to the soul and Astyanax is no exception. His eyes, coloured lightly brown in a hue similar to burned caramel, never hide his emotions and sometimes this can get him into trouble. Astyanax has never been one to beat around the proverbial bush and because of this has never learned to cloak his emotions and expressions. If he is angry, he looks angry. If he is sad, he looks sad. If he is happy, he looks happy. There is never a guessing game in his emotions, as long as one can see his dark caramel eyes.
However, all warhorses pay a price for their duty and Astyanax’s simple charm has suffered for his days in battle. Although he was born to look fairly average, Astyanax doesn’t look so simple now. A dusting of scars litter his forelegs and chest, and his rump has also felt the sting of glancing blades, hooves and teeth. His right foreleg will forever hinder his movement, for an unfortunate injury healed badly and caused a limp. At the crest of his powerful neck is a gap in his mane caused in battle by an opposing warhorse that lunged and caught him by the crest. He wrenched himself away, but lost a chunk of his mane in the process and the wound has remained bare, showing only scar tissue, ever since.
Personality: Astyanax was born to love battle. As such, he is a slave to the mighty rushes of adrenaline that war brings and loves nothing better than charging headlong into the fray. He is hot-blooded and hard-headed and knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that to be successful in life he will have to learn to control his temper better. He doesn’t have any particular urges to lead a herd or conquer the world; simply being a member of a vast legion who will do this as one is enough for him. He desires to see the strong regarded above the weak and has no time for those who cannot stand on their own four hooves. If given the kind of lethal mission he was born for, Astyanax will deal death with a cold smile as if to say “I am strong and you are weak. Welcome to natural selection.”
However, this fiery, rough side is not the only aspect of Astyanax. Although he was born to be a warhorse, to fight and kill, this is also a stallion with a heart. He adores foals and would protect his family until the end, as it is in his natural blood to do. He hides it, with varying levels of success, but Astyanax’s first major weakness is love. He has the potential to love as strongly as any horse whose heart is not tainted by battle and feels passion unreservedly. To be a warrior and therefore denied the pleasure of a family hurts him deeply but his duties come first and so he puts on his only decent emotional mask and pretends that he doesn’t care.
Rp Sample: The thunder of pounding hooves, the shrieks of a thousand of his brothers as they charged into battle and the clash of man’s harsh steel echoed in his pinned ears. The sky was dark and stormy, the plains on which they fought had long since died. No life flourished here, in the rage of a battle such as this. This was war. This was glory!
The enemy approached, his warlord led the charge against them…. the young stallion leapt forward even as his rider spurred him on and then they met. Like a crack of deafening thunder the opposing sides were as one, melding and joining in a chaotic fury of swords and screams. He reached for a tender throat; blood ran down his leg from a wound to his shoulder; a swinging sword barely missed his ear; his enemy fell! A feral scream erupted from his throat in triumph but it wasn’t over. Though this first enemy lay bleeding on the cold earth, still there were others to destroy. Spurred on again, the stallion leapt further into the chaos, snapping at a war-painted flank here, kicking at a reaching jaw there.
Time was liquid… it slipped forward. He was suddenly one of few in a battlefield littered with the dead. The carcasses lay unmoving in the rain that seemed to have appeared from nowhere and his rider now spurred him on toward a new enemy. He picked his way toward a champion with blood-soaked sides and fierce eyes to match his own. The adrenaline was in his veins, the blood pounding from his heart to every straining muscle. He lunged, the enemy screamed a challenge….
Astyanax snorted and stood up abruptly, looking around for the challenger who had invaded his dreams only moments ago. There was no challenger, no battle. He sighed, lowering his head and flicking his ears back in disgust. There was no battle…. of course there was no battle. That had been six months ago, in the last days of the war, when he had carried his human into a skirmish that had earned him several new scars to go along with the bare patch on his neck. He lifted his right foreleg experimentally and set it down again with a frustrated sigh. It had healed well enough, but a passing swipe from a sword had severed part of the muscle and it had yet to regain the strength it once had.
Outside the cave in which he slept, thunder crashed, echoing the sound of his dream-world warfare and rain pounded the earth in a torrent. There was just one time, just one death, that yet haunted his dreams and waking mind. There had once been a colt, barely a stallion, who had carried an enemy into battle. That colt had been so sure of himself, so sure that his gangly body was a match for Astyanax's brute strength. Nevermore would he bugle a challenge and nevermore would he run with the wind. Suitably, it had been the human riding that young stallion whose blade had injured Astyanax's leg. A limb for a life and still....
“You were weak,” the warhorse murmured into the stormy gloom. “And I am strong. Only the strong survive.” He turned back into the shadows of his cavernous shelter and stepped as far away from the door as he could. It was cold here, and lonely, but that would soon be remedied. He had found his way back to the battlefields of his days of glory as if drawn by a magnet and from here, he knew, he could find the warlords who had always ruled him. And amongst their number, surely, was one who could use another warrior. His kind, the mercenaries, the hired muscle, the death-dealing soldiers, were not useless, after all. Astyanax lay down on the moss-covered stone and closed his warm brown eyes. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow I will find my place in this new world.
Other: None.
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