Post by Scáth on Jan 18, 2011 16:00:47 GMT -5
º ßasics º
OOC Name/Nickname: BiteMe
Calling: Scáth
Age:Seven years
Gender:Male
Species/Breed:Dutch Shepherd Dog
º I §ee you £ooking at me º
Pelt/Hair color and length:His black-brindle coat is short and hard with a distinct ruff at his neck. A thick, woolly undercoat that keeps him warm and dry whilst his outer coat acts as the ideal water-resistant barrier.
Eye color:His eyes are a dark burgundy.
Build (height, weight, overall structure):Standing at 61cm and weighing about 70lb, Scáth is a tall, dark, handsome canine; if one ignores the scars littered across his frame. A good representitive of his breed, he portrays the long, prominant jawline and a pointed muzzle - giving him the sharp, alert look that is associated with Shepherd Dogs.
Scáth's legs are long, slender yet tough. These powerful limbs are able to propel him forwards at quite a distance with ease, even from a standstill.
These, along with his lean, streamlined frame, enable him to perform manouvers that require extreme agility and speed without a problem, as well as aiding his capability in long-distance chases. Scáth's pricked ears are high-set and wide at the base, which gives him better hearing. Along with these are large paws with tough, streetwise pads.
Detailed Description (or picture):
i905.photobucket.com/albums/ac251/Evil-little-leprechaun/fhollschaeferhund47.jpg
º The þast Molds Who We BecØme º
History: Scáth was bred to be a shepherding dog. He was born on a farm to fulfill that purpose, but never got the chance. The owners of the farm were feuding with another family; at only a few weeks old he and his littermates were stolen when the quarreling got out of hand. Anarchy ensued, and the people holding the pups spitefully tried to drown them. The bag and its squeaking prisoners were discovered by a feral dog out hunting, who leapt into the river and dragged the slowly sinking bundle ashore; she had a litter of her own, and her maternal instincts demanded that she care for these unlucky scraps. Unfortunately two of Scáth's littermates did not survive. It was only himself and his sister who were licked and carried and fed in the dark warmth of the mongrel's den.
Scáth thrived despite the unusually harsh Winter, whereas the other pups did not. As a yearling running rampant in the sheep fields, his anxious surrogant mother tried to bring him back; it was her skinny frame that the bullets hit. Scáth fled in one piece, and roamed the island alone.
Everywhere he went the young shepherd seemed to bring misfortune on those around him..
Other canines began to avoid him.
At two years old he was hit by a horse-drawn carriage - he survived, for it wasn't going very fast and only just bumped him, but it left a pschological mark as well as phsyical damage. Scáth learned that his pathetic, crippled appearance drew the sympathy of humans, especially the young females and their pups; long after his wounds were healed the shepherd continued to limp when he walked, and still does, for hope of a few savoury snacks being tossed his way.
When he was three, drunkard with a knife cornered him and tried to cut off his tail.
Scáth attacked. The man lay, undiscovered all night, and ended up dying of blood loss.
Someone saw the limping black sog with a muzzle smeared red leaving the area; immediately it was open season on Scáth. Many strays and feral dogs who even vaguely resembled him were caught and destroyed.
His bad reputation grew, until one day he abruptly disappeared off the radar... Only to reappear on the night of the Extermination of the humans. Allegedly, Scáth aided the rebel dogs in the killings; the extent of his involvement was never confirmed, though witnesses reported him leaving a house with a bloodied muzzle ( the occupants, a single mother and her child, were both found and confirmed to be deceased inside by other canines ). Any speculation of the Dutch Shepherd's innocence died down quickly enough, as he joined the Metnal Pack - a pack made up of Extermination participants, human-haters and other aggressive canines, led by the instigator of the massacre herself; Erida - and rapidly climbed the ranks to become Metnal Beta.
Since then, Scáth has lived up to his grizly reputation; as Erida's right-hand dog he has been responsible - directly and indirectly - for multiple canine deaths over the years, carrying out a significant amount of Metnal's dirty work single-pawedly. Though the Dutch Shepherd has had his compassionate moments ( that only serve to make him even more difficult to understand ), he is still one of the most feared and unwelcomed dogs on the island.
Personality:Scáth is mysterious, unpredictable canine. Though he is both feared and disliked by many, very little is actually known about the black-brindle Shepherd Dog. He is a natural deceiver, and very secretive in his daily movements. He usually glides through life, sticking to the shadows like a wraith, passing others by without them even noticing his fleeting presence. Thus, Scáth has little trouble collecting desired information ( both for his pack and himself! ).
However, up front its an entirely different story.
One's first impression of Scáth is... Mixed.
Who on earth is this dark, battle-scarred individual with the ominous crooked grin and the limp?
Unsurprisingly, even if you don't know who he is, there's more than enough evidence to indicate that this dog is far from harmless.
Scáth is.. Intimidatingly cheerful. He is also shamelessly casual, unfazed by threats, and has the unnerving ability to drop the whole personna for favour of becoming a ruthless, aggressive, potential killing machine.
Despite being perfectly friendly towards whoever he meets, Scáth evidently has no problems with violence. He's a fairly independent dog who likes to do his own thing, going with the flow only if there's something in it for him.
Scath is utterly amoral, and even the ancient taboo of killing his own kind does not appear to be much of a limitation.
It's all a tad bit psychopathic.
After the accident when he was two, Scáth always walks with a limp. However he seems to be perfectly sound in all other gaits, proving that the limp is more a pschologically-induced habit than out of actual pain.
Still, it's enough for others to underestimate him, and forget one very important thing...
Scáth is not a dog to be messed with.
º †here's No Place £ike Home º
Parents:unknown, deceased
Siblings:unknown, deceased
Other Family:unknown
Friends:unknown
Half of the Island Character Resides:West
Group:Metnal
Rank:Beta
º Prove ¥ourself º
Where did you find us?The Plague Dogs
If found in an ad please state who sent you:Pidaux ^^
RPG Sample:
What an... interesting place. That was the first thought that crossed the apathetic ex-loner's sociopathic mind as he was roughly dragged from the back of the van and towards the building complex. The Dutch Shepherd was deceptively passive, allowing himself to be pushed and shoved and manhandled from the travelling cage so that a noose could be slipped around his neck. Once it tautened, the ' sedated ' four year old took a lurching, limping step. A few yanks were given a few more steps, before the Dutch Shepherd wheezed, coughed, and sank awkwardly to the ground, burgundy eyes oddly unfocused. An annoyed kick to the ribs was administered, but the brindle dog never flinched; arms reached down, pulling him up by the scruff, and he was dumped in another's not-so-gentle hold to be carried the rest of the way. The ever-present crooked grin was as limp as the rest of the dog's body, but through half-lidded eyes the Dutch Shepherd watched, waited. Doors opened, each one bringing an intensified combination of the filth, human chemicals, and canine fear that the White Coats carrying him wore like a perfume.
There was a pause in movement, a murmur of interaction. Two hands, one with a flashlight, the other with outstretched fingers, approached his face.
The Dutch Shepherd lunged, grabbed, and bit down. Hard. He endured the violent oaths of the hand's owner, the kicks and blows to his head and back; finally a pair of hands started prising at his jaws and the brindle canine abruptly let go. He twisted, writhed, and suddenly he hit the ground on all fours. Hands lunged for him, and he dodged out of reach, knocking against a wheeled table. Metal instruments clattered down around him like unholy rain; fear briefly blossomed, and the dog skittered, skidded from left to right to avoid them. His panicked claws could not get a grip on the smooth floor, and he was unable to escape the heavy weight of the White Coats' net. Nor could his instinctual thrashings provide sanctuary from the sharp syringe that was plunged into the nape of his neck.
The world began to dull again. He was barely aware of the next door, the transition from light into vile, tangible darkness. His absent burgundy gaze did not take notice of the various mutilated canines that were passed. His lean, numbing frame did not acknowledge the cold, filthy concrete he was dropped on. He did not see the White Coats leave; after what felt like hours ( and could have been hours, only he had no way of knowing ) his senses began to return. The darkness stayed, though he could see the silhouetted frames of pacing canines. The stench he'd picked up earlier was at an overwhelming concentration here. The sounds - agitated clicks of claws on concrete, panting, whines, the clang of paws and tails striking against metal wire - spoke of fear, impatience and blooming madness. His tongue, when aching jaws were awkwardly parted, detected the dry acridness of the air and informed him of his growing dehydration.
Slowly, the Dutch Shepherd staggered to his feet, habitually favouring his left foreleg. His right side was cold and stiff from contact with the hard, uncomfortable kennel floor; the nape of his neck was still sore from being stabbed with the White Coats' syringe. Everything was clinically, detatchedly noted and assessed, before being dismissed. He limped around the perimeter of his confined space, calmly checking for weaknesses in the mesh. Finding none, he returned to the front where he intuitively knew the way out was.
Scáth had gotten himself into quite a few rough spots over the years. This, however, was a ' rough spot ' on an entirely different level.[/b][/color]
"Well... "
His voice was deep, gravelly and eerily cheerful, as his now-sharp burgundy eyes swept over his surroundings with more appraisal than before.
"This is quite the turn up, isn't it?"
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EDITED TO REMOVE IMAGE AND REPLACE WITH LINK. IMAGE STRETCHED BOARDS.
