Post by ~:Isis:~ on May 8, 2007 0:48:36 GMT
Call Me:
Isis
Age Me:
Three Summers
Sex Me:
Female
Frame Me:
6 Hands
Breed Me:
Mongrel
Color Me:
An ashen Arabian bod, a finely crafted head, sharp orbs, and flaxen tassels with mane be my picture. Made as a ranger, white feathers flutter over my ebony daggers. Delicate petals pick up every sound; my sight is unmatched.
Follow Me
Toward the Light
Make Me:
A wench by nature, a mutt by birth, I have no feelings. I am a dark Light, a creature who cares only for herself. What do I need of others? My past is my own, let those who tempt me face the God's wrath. I feel nothing but cold hatred for those that call themselves Lights, though I have been raised as one.
Shade Me:
My past is a memory, a faded, torn picture of what once was. It is no more and you will have to torture me before I tell you.
Sample Post:
The path was a long one, winding just past the gorge. Isis picked her way daintily past it, bringing her daggers up as a show pony does. She refused to use such a beaten path.
One quick sweep of her calm, dark orbs had quickly confirmed her worst fears. For a sure-footed beast, the path was nothing more than that. To a horse like herself though it spelled the end. Cursing under her breath everytime she stepped upon a particularly pointed stone, Isis made her way toward her destination.
That which she came toward was not much, just a small forest that promised to hold few things. Still, to a weary traveler such as Isis, it was an oasis in this cruel land. Her skin shivered slightly, frightening away flies that had settled upon the sensitive dappled coat.
She snorted softly out her nares, wishing to be away from this hateful place. The sun beat down upon her and made her grateful she had not been cursed as the midnight ones were. In the winter, such a coat like hers was a curse. Now, it was a mild blessing. Still, her throat felt dry, to dry for her liking. Shaking her crown sadly, she continued on.
Isis
Age Me:
Three Summers
Sex Me:
Female
Frame Me:
6 Hands
Breed Me:
Mongrel
Color Me:
An ashen Arabian bod, a finely crafted head, sharp orbs, and flaxen tassels with mane be my picture. Made as a ranger, white feathers flutter over my ebony daggers. Delicate petals pick up every sound; my sight is unmatched.
Follow Me
Toward the Light
Make Me:
A wench by nature, a mutt by birth, I have no feelings. I am a dark Light, a creature who cares only for herself. What do I need of others? My past is my own, let those who tempt me face the God's wrath. I feel nothing but cold hatred for those that call themselves Lights, though I have been raised as one.
Shade Me:
My past is a memory, a faded, torn picture of what once was. It is no more and you will have to torture me before I tell you.
Sample Post:
The path was a long one, winding just past the gorge. Isis picked her way daintily past it, bringing her daggers up as a show pony does. She refused to use such a beaten path.
One quick sweep of her calm, dark orbs had quickly confirmed her worst fears. For a sure-footed beast, the path was nothing more than that. To a horse like herself though it spelled the end. Cursing under her breath everytime she stepped upon a particularly pointed stone, Isis made her way toward her destination.
That which she came toward was not much, just a small forest that promised to hold few things. Still, to a weary traveler such as Isis, it was an oasis in this cruel land. Her skin shivered slightly, frightening away flies that had settled upon the sensitive dappled coat.
She snorted softly out her nares, wishing to be away from this hateful place. The sun beat down upon her and made her grateful she had not been cursed as the midnight ones were. In the winter, such a coat like hers was a curse. Now, it was a mild blessing. Still, her throat felt dry, to dry for her liking. Shaking her crown sadly, she continued on.
