Post by jetty on Jul 25, 2012 15:18:00 GMT -5
Name: Jetstream
Gender: Tom
Age: 28 moons
Clan: Rogue (BloodClan, when it's up)
Rank: None, but I'm hoping for BloodClan leader.
Appearance:
Forged by midnight this creature lurks, it's paws molded by clouds, it's eyes conjured from the torturous flames of hell. What is this creature, that heralds dread as it walks by, prodigious and satanic? It's pronounced, sharp sature seems to give it the appearance of a canine, the beast certainly has the size, but for some reason, the demon was born amongst cats. So could it be that this supposed feline be the son of Satan, sent to Earth to release chaos and destruction upon the minors? If so, he certainly has the means to do that, not that he hasn't already. Jet black, razor sharp claws hammered upon Death's anvil gleam dully as they slip from their protective sheathes, ivory gleaming teeth sharpened upon the moon's grindstone ready to carve through flesh. The creature is by no means pretty, with the ragged, horrific scars that lace around his jet black and murky white pelt. One shredded ear, another torn. And of course, that famous matching black collar that is constantly pampered by the imperious nightmare, decorated with the bones of long dead foes. How could this monster possibly be considered a feline?
Personality:
Why would anyone want to delve into Jetstream's terrifying personality? His mind isn't a good place to be, and only those not wishing to preserve their sanity would dare to explore. This crazed monster is uncapable of most emotions, other than hate and anger. He wouldn't know how to react toward love as he certainly didn't have a friendly nature. In addition to not being capable of feeling monst emotions, Jetstream is also impervious to pain, which could be considered a weakness. How could one know their limits if they can't feel the pain? Poor Jetstream only does what he can. He doesn't do it because he's told too, and he doesn't do it because he wants to. He simply does it because he can. Murder? Jetstream shows no pity, no guilt. To him, it isn't a crime, it's simply a way of life, and his way of life involves bloody claws and torn flesh. He doesn't respect many others, if fact, he never has felt full respect, only mutual respect.
History:
[Not Needed]
Roleplay Sample: This is a post for when my muse is high and I'm on the computer. I'm usually on my Kindle, but I go all out when I get on the computer.
Massive. Looming. Satanic. Grosteque. These were all words to describe the demonic looking feline that sat black and indistinct, wrapped in the cold, malicious embrace of dark shadows, facial features veiled by a stoic expression, hellish golden eyes betraying only a constant, burning hate for the world and most, if not all of it's inhabitants. Including himself. Scars laced his thick, jet black pelt, ragged and terribly distinct, some fresh and pink, others faded and specked with the black of newly growing fur that had finally found it's roots among the torn flesh. One in particular arched across his entire right side, the freshest of all.
The murkiest of ivory paws were what marked the tom as the vicious monster he was, dully gleaming, razor sharp claws unsheathed and trimmed with the fresh residue of a freshly slain intruder, bits of brown fur still clinging stubbornly between the toes of the prodigious tom. The black fur of his forelegs was shiny and slick, a metallic scent dancing around the limbs suggesting that the still warm liquid was blood. You didn't have to be smart to know that the wounds inflicted by the stoic ebony tom had been deep and grusome. Proof of his savagery.
Coal black whiskers twitched, though not for any particular reason. For that slight moment the black, bloody lips that had been peeled back from sharp, deadly incisors revealed blood trimmed gums, a bit of torn flesh still holding strong to the long black fur of Jetstream's chin. A white tipped tail thumped against the ground, but it seemed the devilish black nightmare had no intentions of wiping his bloody jaws clean of the remains of his latest victim. He simply didn't care to. His white specked chest was also stained crimson, but Jetstream himself appeared to have no wounds of his own to display. Just scars. But again, Jetstream could care less. Even if he had a wound, it wouldn't have bothered him.
Jetstream worked like a machine. He didn't do things because he was told to, nor did he do them becuse he wanted to. He simply did them because he could, because that was what he had been programmed to do since the moment he had been created. He had no soul or heart, Jetsream was but an empty shell cast into the oblvion called life and forced to operate on limited motives and twisted thoughts. Nothing would ever change him, not even he could change himself. Perhaps it was because he had never tried, and perhaps it was because all those that had tried were dead. Jetstream honestly didn't know why he was like this. He simply was.
Must one hate what he has become, or should one make the best of it, knowing it would never change? The satanic warrior obviously had chosen the second choice. That was why he was here, vigilant gaze scanning the twoleg park that was his rogue camp for any disturbances. Perhaps even a fight. Yes, Jetstream would like that. A bloody fight. His lust for blood was practically unsatable, but it was hideable. For now, atleast.
Thanks!