Balls to the Wall

[Azanulbizare]

=Your Character=

--Basics--

Name: He’s been called many names, and as such his true name was lost to myth and legend. Now he is called Greywynd, also known as the Wolf of Badenoch.
Age: 1426 AA (After Ascension)
Gender: MALE
Race: Dire Wolf
Pure Race or Mix: Pure
Allegiance: Neutral
Occupation (if Applicable): N/A
Residence: The Ruins of Knievl, sited on the forest ground of the Cedar Wood. This is just north of the legendary Ambroses’ manor.

--Family--
Parents: Witewyn, Mother – departed. Blacwyn, Father – gone astray.
Siblings: Twelve siblings
Married? Arya, recently ill.
Children: Greywynd is considered father to all second-generation (and following generations) canid.

--Appearance Basics--

Height: 5 feet in height, 7 feet in length, not including the tail.
Weight: 600 lbs.
Hair Colour: Pitch black, with a gentle shade of gray.
Eyes: A midnight blue often confused for black. If you look close enough, you can see the blood red blotches staining his iris ever so softly. These are from centuries of hunting under the veil of darkness; and as such, Greywynd can see perfectly in the dark.
Distinguishing Features: A sketch of scars carved into the left side of his face, the longest and most slender extending through his eye and gripping his ear like a meat hook. A jeweled band hangs from his neck, and a flecked helmet embraces his elongated skull – signs of his stand as War-Chief of Badenoch, the First and most revered of all fourteen Clans of the Dour Age.

--Physical Appearance--:

Greywynd is a majestic beast in his own cruel mode. When confronted by him, one is presented with a sense of respect out of fear – tall and mighty, he stands firmly upon his four grand legs, almighty frame unmoving and unforgiving. His glare is chilled, and his jaw compliments his icy tenor, which is to say colder than a plate of steel lost to the depths of winter. The muscle beneath his fur-covered flesh is fairly toned and well-knitted, as his body is stippled with slender shadows, suggesting where the strength shows through the thick flesh. The impure mixture of black and grey hairs does well to impress the sigil of wickedness upon that which he treads; however, in the moonlight, Greywynd is met with an aura befitting that of a moonlit king, a beastlord of the royal nadir.

His claws are sharp and serrated, and his teeth are massive; though, he rather despises his immense teeth, as they seldom cause him to be a bit clumsy. His fleshy tissue is thick, and his heavy skull fits his body well – his muzzle, harassed by wounds, extends at least a foot beyond his eyes, which are sheltered by bushy eyebrows of dark grey. These dark brows cover much of his receding eyes, as they have been given almost a century to bud – in fact, one could say that they imprint a noticeable sagacity on the old wolf, something he pays no mind to. His murky eyes, blanketed by well-fitting sockets, praise his lofty and defined cheekbones, and do well to create an awareness of rhythm about his face – this black cadence, unwavering and eternal, births a tone of might and insight about the beast, furnishing his stand as War-Chief of Badenoch.

--Personality--

The Wolf of Badenoch is a nasty, cruel beast whose loyalty is but to himself, his tribes, and a lone hermit who resides in the same wood as he. He spits on the weak and cowardly, and devours those who rise against his brutal, but evenhanded and just rule over the last eleven tribes of the Old Wolves, the canid whose bloodline is involved directly with that of the Furic, the actual “Godwolves” from long ago.

--Likes/Dislikes--

~ Likes:
- Meat, the pleasure of the hunt
- Gold, the riches; not materialistic, but enjoys their sense of command over human beings
- Strength, might; respects those who fend for themselves
- His children, all second generation Canids’ that roam Lucidor, Adûn and Bretherald.
- Veil of night, conflict between greater powers
- Exploration of undiscovered areas, though this rarely occurs
- Dependence upon ones’ self
- A little taste of anarchy

~Dislikes:
- Human beings, the world of men
- The weak, those who rely on spiritual strength only
- The worthless, the lazy
- Thirteenth and Fourteenth Clans, those who pose a threat to he and his children
- Vegetables
- Canids’ who take on masters
- The wealthy
- Strict order

--History--

An excerpt from The Count of Ages, Volume 1, by Ambrose Aracely.

"Odin, just what are you going to do about those monster children of Ramón’s’? They are growing more vicious and powerful each day. And what if Ramón decides to bring them back to Asgard? I don't think the Erstwind are going to enjoy those creatures romping around and wreaking havoc up here," asked a light voice, perturbed. Odin sighed, his far-reaching gaze looking down at Nimro, where Ramón and his offspring were currently residing. The three monsters were easily more hideous than their giantess mother. Hal most closely resembled an Erstwind, but her cold, frost-bitten appearance and skull-like face betrayed her parentage. She cackled joyfully as Greywynd, the gigantic wolf, taunted Badenoch.

Odin fixed his one eye on the young woman’s’ face. "I understand your fears, Mel. I just...I wanted to give Ramón, and his children, the benefit of a doubt."

"Benefit of a doubt? Odin, you know the prophecy! How can you, of all people, allow that monstrous wolf to live!? He's going to kill you in the final battle unless we do something!"

"If it is my fate to fall, then anything we do with Ramón’s children will be futile in the end," he replied, smiling sadly at her.

She peered sternly into his face. "We are the Erstwind, and you are our lord. You have to at least try to stop them!"

"Ah, my spirited wife." He put his hand on her shoulder. “Very well, I'll have Ramón and his children brought here tomorrow. We'll deal with them. Somehow…"

Cold and frozen, Greywynd awoke to ruin. His body was wrecked, his mind, frayed. Yet still, as he gazed towards the sky in desperation, he was met with Vigor…

Now, to recount his history in detail would be folly, as not even the ink flats of the Western Reaches could supply enough ink to write down such a thing. However, I feel compelled to tell the story as best I can, for time has seemed to stop for me, in my great and oh-so presumptuous dwelling…

The Dour Age. It was an epoch of chaos much more disturbing than most you’d read about; that is, if you could find text to actually partake in such an extravagantly tart slice of history. It was an era unmarched by the upright being. Only those who dwelled beneath the surface or were scored by the suns’ searing ardor could recount this tale – and yes, I am qualified to count again this legend, for I often traversed the catacombs that coiled through the planets’ crust during this time. It saddens me to say that much of these underground caverns have been lost to the wrath of nature, and others to the greed of man.

Slowly, and with the undying aid of time, I befriended the canid prophets that began it all… They called me Vigor. These prophets, whose names I have all but lost, walked upright – much like your common lycen. But they were intelligent, much more so than even I; they held secret chambers, and indulged in enigmatic affairs concerning higher beings. And it was they who throned Enoch, a mighty and holy beast who served as their legs; for you see, as time wore on, their legs slowly crumbled. “Odin’s Blessing,” or the gift to walk on two legs, was gradually stripped of them. They claim the Wolf Gods did this to them. I say it was old age.

It was during these years that the direwolves of the Southernlands tasted the bittern tang of unbridled anarchy. A kingdom of beasts below ground and, most importantly, without a King. Some savored such sour customs, while others sought to bring about order and rule to the Black Throne. The deceased King Enoch had no heirs, and his bloodline stretched not far.

I remember it as though it were a dream on the wind, the descending of that mighty wolf. High above the city of Enokk, the last canidic metropolis and revered beholder of the bare Black Throne, shines what the wolves call “Tek-nukin”, or “The Enlightenment.” False belief in higher beings allures me… The common beast, who walked on all fours, bowed in obedience to the Hierarchy of Enokk, false “Godwolves” who circulated secrets of holy blessings upon their legs, which allowed them to walk upright. It was said this same blessing went to Enoch. For years, this troubled me; the vast reservoir of party line that boiled in this melting pot of lies haunted my dreams until, when I found the strength to do so, I uncovered their secrets.

Black magyyk. And the blood of a comrade.

Venturing deep into the Gutted Caverns, I found a slumbering wolf; his body was broken, his fur stained by old blood that had long since dried – I remember looking up towards the cave ceiling and finding a small fissure, wet with sunlight that bathed the poor beast as he lay helpless. The edges of the gap were moist with erosion, illustrating that it had slowly closed over time. Now, I’m unaware if it was the sheer lack of consciousness on my part, or if it was the beauty of the beasts’ grand sunlit body that entrapped me. The entire thing seems but a dull haze now. What I can remember, is jerking in alarm at the sound of his bottomless, saturated voice.

“Have you come to drink the blood of a Descended?” asked the old direwolf, his words drowned out by the heavy breaths that shook his hulking frame. He did not face me.

“No,” I replied, laying a hand on his massive shoulder. I can still recall the icy tickle that toured my insides.

“Stay your hand, and remove yourself from my sanctum.” he growled, turning his skull so as to show the grimy white of his daunting fangs. Those lingering black eyes… I could feel my soul being pierced as we exchanged looks.

“Your body is broken.”

“And that is Their wish…” There was a frustration about his voice, I could hear it. It seemed to crumble to pieces. “I am a Descended, human. I serve no purpose in life except to appease the Gods.”

“The Furic, your Gods, hold a special place above. They do not need your obedience.” I said, placing a kind hand on his massive shoulder plate once more. He jerked at the warmth of my palm. Clearly, his body had been plunged into the icy chill that was the Gutted Caverns for too long. Warmth was a novel revelation for the old wolf.

“This is my punishment, so leave me!” he roared, biting at my hand. The tips of my fingers bled as I pulled them back; oh, the speed of that mammoth beast! Truly remarkable! “I rose against Odin, king of your dead, the souls of Heaven! I was so foolish…” His voice cracked, and a sickening cough followed. I can still recall the trickle of blood that crept from within his jaw, how it glimmered in the cascading rays that flooded the chamber.

“A beast from the Heavens?” I asked with a soft, curious voice.

“Yes. My mother and father were Furic. And after their deaths, I faded into the undertow of darker waters…” His voice became a whisper, and seemed to trail off as regret flourished in the air. Flaunting his sadness before my eyes, the old Wolf slowly closed his. “And now, this is my penalty, and I am deserving of it. Retribution lies in suffering, and salvation, death.” He fell to sleep after that. Now, I cannot recall everything that transpired between then and our resurfacing, but I remember vividly the cutting of the frosty steel straps that bound his wrecked body, and how they whipped themselves to pieces after being cut. Oh, the wounds from such tight hard leather were deep; the flesh was red and agitated, and the bone peeked through in many places. Contorted teeth marks were all over his massive body, and a host of fresh scars seared his face.

I carried him. I carried him far, until the sun was in my sight once more. With the lofty beast weighing me down, I exhausted all of my might to cart him to my Manor south of Knievl, the small drow city. When I’d finally made it home, I left the beast asleep under the Great Oak. Protective magyyk’s sheltered him until he awoke, nearly a month later. He was… enraged. Gnashing his teeth against the imperceptible barrier that encompassed him, Greywynd shattered my magyyk’s with sheer force. The blood of the Furic was indeed within him.

The battle we had was terrible. It went on for days, until the mighty wolf had finally fallen to the ground, harassed with fatigue.

“You don’t understand, it was my fate-”

“We are the chooser of our own fates.” I said to him, sternly. “There is no such thing as an omen. Destiny does not send us heralds. She is too wise or too cruel for that.”

Unfinished.

Someone post somethin'.

[Tyler Durden]

somethin '

[Azanulbizare]

I did that on purpose .

[Tyler Durden]

I was just doing what you asked. >:

[Faint_Remnant]

wut .

[Tyler Durden]

What the hell are you doing F_R, don't spam.

[Jack London]

Who spams anymore?

[Azanulbizare]

You ****balls are spamming my thread.

[k.h.master41]

Haha, idk if u said that in reference to the thread title, but i'll laugh anyway. Very nice story btw, but are we supposed to add something?

[Jack London]

Originally Posted by Azanulbizare

Height: 10 feet in height, 9 feet in length, not including the tail.

!

Holy ****.

[Faint_Remnant]

lol wut am i doing here? spamming? kk

[Azanulbizare]

Originally Posted by Jack London

!

Holy ****.

Yeah, that is kinda big .

[Azanulbizare]

Originally Posted by k.h.master41

Haha, idk if u said that in reference to the thread title, but i'll laugh anyway. Very nice story btw, but are we supposed to add something?

This is in the 'Challenges' section.

**** you.

[Chariot of Fire]

I'll accept your challenge. Seriously. No jokes. Let me just get a template up in a bit. Do you want this to be pure melee?

[Azanulbizare]

With a few PC applications.

If that is too vague for you... Think high fantasy, as in, something you may see in LOTR or whatever.

Just don't blow the ****ing planet up.