Roanne the Sentinel

[Roanne the Sentinel]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,10,true][atrb=style, background-color: #313838;,true][cs=2] Roanne the Sentinel

[atrb=width,480] Appearance: You are a massive creature, seventeen hands in height and pure fresian bred, like your brothers in arms who you refuse to recognize. Your hair, a thick black wave that catches the forest leaves of your adoptive homeland, falls down across your sides and reaches past your withers. You tail, shaggy and all a muss, reaches your knees, and is a knotted mass of the dirt and leaves that cling to it; it may as well be an unloved and forgotten broom. By your hooves, wide black platters that press holes into the ground with your weight alone, feathering trails in the dirt, and ragged as you are, you truly are a majestic beast. For muscles ripple across your form. You are still young, and your body is supple. You are ripe and prepared for whatever comes your way; you have trained for each day since the first day that you have failed, and thus you have become a fighter. Your hide, a luxurious and reflective black dulled only by the dim and residue of the forest, is for the most part miraculously unscarred. In all your life you have broken no bones, and the only flesh split, that never truly healed was upon your left cheek. There rest two open scars- festering testaments to the sorry state of affairs that was your history. There is the first, closest to your eyes and longest, and then directly behind it another, slightly shorter but just as bloody. Two wounds that never truly healed, that never truly will. They look like claw marks, perhaps from a vicious beast- a bear, or a cougar. They're from denizens much worse, and you'll never tell a soul the story. But obscuring those wounds, those deep marks of wine red that mar your young and beautiful face for eternity, is a handsome bridle. Well, it would have been handsome, once. Now it is old and worn. The leather that makes up the english bridle is stretched and so the binding hangs loosely about your jaw, giving you free mobility to speak the same as you always do- almost incoherently. If the bridle ever had a bit it is long gone, and the only metal that remains is a silver hoop by your lips that connects the leather and a small gold buckle near your ears. The two pieces have dulled and dirtied, are somewhat bent, perhaps a bit rusted. Time has not been kind to the bridle, nor has it been kind to you. And as it bind you, with its gentle ease and amicable familiarity that only you recognize the value of, as its soft strap rests across your neck and parts your wild mane, the casual observer can see just how clearly the two of you are one. For across your left side, where your two scars lay open and hideous, the bridle's top cheek strap is cut in half, torn by wicked force, the very same secret killers that left you with your scars. It hangs loosely, looking defeated and tattered, as you once did. But you don't look like that anymore. Now you stand tall. When once you would have dipped your head to take in the scents and navigate, you now know the land well enough to travel proudly and strongly. For your eyes, golden orbs unbroken by pupil, edged only occasionally by the true whites of your eyes, are almost sightless. You see only what contrasts highly, you see blurred images of reality, and even this is not enough. And so you have, by one interpretation, lifted a part of your curse. You shift your form now, and often, despite the pain that it can bring you. On occasion you are an eagle, others a panther, a stag, or an otter. You take these forms when the moment strikes you, and in each of them you can see again. Your scars stay with you, and most importantly you stay with you. In all of this you have chosen to be anything other than your brethren. We shall see how that goes, Johnny boy. Personality: You are a kind soul- we are thankful for this. For if you chose to divert your attentions towards becoming the soulless beast that you were intended to be, you would be unstoppable. We thank those that you condemn that the process was never completed and that when you taste blood you do not murder, that you are a mind, not a bloodhound. And what a bright mind you are. You are sharp and keen, too wise for your years. Perhaps experiences, as terrible as yours have been, have brought you to this point. For there is not a childish bone left in your body, your body built of muscle and steel, built for war. But it is you again, who have chosen to change your and our fates. You have power, but you command it in a certain way. For you protect, and when you could destroy you create. You used the evil for good- you turned the curse and now you are a different being. Yet through it all you are modest. Some could look upon your actions and accuse you of trickery, Johnny boy. It is not often that one as sincere as you walks down the halls of the Tome Guardian and faces such rejection, and so often. Yet it seems your pride can get in the way of things on occasion, as much as you try to deny its existence. And your hate for godly beings, creatures who toy with others and look down on the weak, who prey on insecurities and control more than they should, well... it is a strong one indeed. If anything could make you what you are not, it would be this. Is the irony lost on you? We fear it is. For as often as you go about making friends, being casually affectionate and delicately kind to those you greet, there are several personalities that you simply don't get along with, and there are some things that frankly a stallion of your age and stature should be doing and you aren't doing them. Don't you think that's suspicious? There are strong upstanding boys running about impressing the mares and you show no interest. And the stallions, well- more often than not if they have any sort of confidence or attitude, you simply don't get along. Deny it as much as you would like, but the trend is growing. For you are not as pure as you would like to seem. There are some aspects to your personality that are inborn and you cannot and will not surpress. You are a trickster by nature, and nosy and protective to the point where you can become overbearing. You can't help but making a little trouble here and there, and so you steal. Often. For this has become more than a past time, Johnny boy. It seems that every other week you are stealing someone knew, taking in another captive and calling them your own until you grow tired of them. You treat them perfectly well and you always say there is a good reason for their capture, but... is there? You're a phooka, Johnny Boy, lest we forget; you're the son of mischief. And so you trespass on occasion, for a reason of course, you insist, and you'll save someone or other from your homeland, which, in the absence of anyone else or anything else concrete to love in your sad state, you have completely devoted yourself to. But there's always a thrill in that, and you recognize it each time you cross enemy lines. And you don't always have a reason, and you know that. Sometimes you just fight with complete strangers, and though you have every intention to be polite, to rationalize and find a purpose for the spar, you never can. It is your love of the vexatious, your spurn for the order that you must maintain so often. You are a daredevil, and you will never admit it. A reckless coward, a traitor to your very nature. But just as any traitor does, you reject the fae within you. You do not like to think of yourself as a phooka, despite your abilities, despite your appearance. You tell yourself that your abilities were a reward for becoming you own being and taking control in spite of the curse. You foolishly think that some day you will be able to say your true name again. And who knows, maybe you're right. For with your constant condemnation of the powers that be, who is there to ask? You never know, Johnny boy. Family: They are dead, and whenever you choose to dwell on this it brings you sorrow, rage. You remember that the world is unfair and you lose the wisdom you are so respected for- you become what you are not, and we fear for you. For there is one among them all that you had loved the most, and that they had killed. You once wished to have them pay. Do you still, Johnny boy? Magic: Dark Magic: Roanne has the ability to shapeshift into four animal forms: Panther, River otter, Eagle, and Stag. The animal is black in appearance, despite whether or not this is its natural color, and when in this animal form he has the ability to see clearly, as that animal would, and is no longer blind. The shift is somewhat painful for him, and the longer he stays in a form the more painful it is for him to switch out of it, causing him to almost grow addicted and reliant upon certain forms. In battle, the rules for his magic are as follows: -Painful shift, allowed to attack twice when in the form. -Against user with light magic: extremely painful shift -Against user with earth magic: painless shift -One form per battle. History: -Lots of stuff in the old Country that I'll write up someday -Leader of the Mystic Woodlands in Isilme, Anarore, and more that I'll write up someday And now... -Nothing yet Images: x- By kae x- By Tay x- By Time x- By kae x- By ali

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