Post by Deleted on Jun 29, 2012 16:59:20 GMT -5
DELPHEGOR HASTUR GORGANOTH
NAME. Delphegor Hastur Gorganoth
NICKNAME(S). Angel of Death.
AGE. IX.
SPECIES. Equine.
BREED. Andalusian x Arabian.
GENDER. Male.
HEIGHT. In h/h or inches ONLY.
WEIGHT. 1100lbs
COAT. Cremello.
EYE COLOUR. Unknown. The man never opens his eyes.
NOTABLE MARKINGS. None.
PHYSICAL. Melting into continuous darkness, iniquity rising like the tides of oceanic bliss, these severe bones, and broken mind, sink unto him, ceaseless, in harrowing coherence. Breathing deeply through his nose, nostrils flared to inhale the unpalatable air of the sea's turbulent inhibition, he dreams of a moon seething with luster, luminous maternal grace frothing from her lips as her glow falls upon the earth like smooth drifts of placid elegance. A lethargic magic unfolds, dear to his bones, the veins that lace his skin like glacial streams of unrequited love like spidery rivers running dry at the very scorned sound of vows told in cruel irony. An arachnoid musculature graces a stature most foul, crooked and crouched beneath the grasses as he hunts eternally for the rising sun to rival the bitter coldness of the moon always glowing hideously behind a frigid cerulean stare. Cloaked in a deadly calm of implicit uncertainty, he hides beneath the disguise of tranquility, whilst below, lies the monster, quiet and mortal, a venomous rancor growing, growing, like a gorging fetus, forever unborn, and evermore a damaged salutation to the most vernacular conception of the wounded spirit. In bulging contours rippling with sylphlike intensity, potency drips, seethes, like poison, in the indigo pool of his wretched omnipotence.
He doth stir the oil in his lungs, the putrid liquor of imbalanced bile. Everything, belongs to him, though seek he does not, to own anything in his path, for he believes he is undeserving of such magnificence, such splendor amidst the pale distillation of the world's heatless flame. Nerves, sensations, on fire, yet darkness prevails. There exists no garden of paradise for his truthful fragility, the weakness of security defying whatever protection would breed had there been the sliver of love, like glass inserted beneath the skin at birth. A gallant, majestic, proud soul survives beneath the vectors of iniquity, a crown of flowing dread spun tresses rising as medusa's hungry serpents, to the surface, to the light, to the lethal nature that is his divine imperfection. Frozen azure, as is his stare of purity, of indifference, a species of innocence still scintillating within his secret humiliation, he is beauty, he is ugliness, a vile, breath of fresh, chilled pulchritude, e'er writhing, immersed in a merciless coil. A cobra, ready to strike. But a man, prepared to love, and love fully. Almost sultry. Almost seductive. Virtually indestructable by any substance except that of veracious adoration. He is fortified, a sinewy manifestation of ravishing masculinity, nevertheless matronly, instincts streamlined in an aerodynamic flux throughout his gelid mind.
Hushed, bound to the unspoken vows primed by years of betrayal and ethnic mutilation, he is an illustrious design of madness, of virtue, a bizarre lineage of chastity nestled in the back of his providential psyche. Desolation triumphs in frequent intervals of everlasting time. Nevermore, will his body, nor his heart, be rid of the scars inflicted in ferocies viscosity. He is an expanse of vitreous falsities, the truth adorned between the cracks of aeonian scathe.
FEARS. Love, Hate, and loss of Dignity.
VICES. Frigidly cold, iniquitous, manipulative.
STRENGTHS. Wise, philosophical, dogmatic.
PET PEEVES. His flaws, himself, memories, his existence, pondering his experiences.
LIKES. Moonlight, small rivers, dark caves, being isolated, intelligent conversation.
PERSONALITY. Sickening, broken, he was akin to a fish stranded upon land. Without her arms wrapped gracefully around the fluent flesh of his musculature, life, once hell bent on achieving the next feed and oh so pathetically satisfied with such an existence, no more possessed meaning, or purpose. Her fresh threads, doused in the water in which she bathed, smelled of salt, of the ocean. He adored the ocean. He adored the raging seas and the tranquility of the lagoons and shallow waves of brackish aqua. They danced beneath the tides together, dusk falling upon them in clawing talons of watercolor splendor, but under the rolling undulations of turbulence, they held their breath together, frozen hearts bound together by their blood, their minds, their souls, all so hideously deformed and beautifully marred by the countless years they spent soothing each others wounds. There was none other than she. There was, none other, than she. She was his golden apple, his diamond ring, his moon, his sun, her hair fanning out behind her, the only rays of illumination in his life, the rays he had come to love, for her luminescence eclipsed all who attempted to become her rival.
Her seduction was of a strange breed; her kindness, and the breadth of her generosity, was what stunned him. He was not a gentle man. He was not a kind man. And yet, in her sultry presence, he could pretend to be as such, for it was only in bestowment to her that he would ever bequeath the squalid nature of his truths. How her beauty faded only by the sands of time. It came to him swathed in shadow, a wafting scent of intoxicating demise that bombarded his senses and sent a spiraling affliction upon his mind in a mist of inhibitions torn asunder. His brow knitting, handsome visage gritting in contortionist's twisted countenance, he manifested his frustration through hard pressed fangs glistening in the ashen eventide of dusk's longing embrace. The obsession was hard to battle, difficult to control, and impossible to reason with. No abundance of revelations or rational caliber could convince his feral urges otherwise, for the smell of death was breathtaking, the stimulant like a heroine's desperate fix. Breathing labored as he found himself choking on his odious desires, the hard earned zephyrs escaping from his lungs holding the stench of a whiskey despair. The fact remained, love was the biggest truth, and yet the most deadly illusion to whom it enticed, beguiling whispers seeking vengeance upon a crime his sanity never committed. There is nothing more beautiful than a mother's love. It is more powerful than impending doom or the calamity of earth's first shattered layer so that demons from hell may climb out and wreak havoc. A reckoning in the heat of nature's feral throes, she bows in humility, the softened portions of her precious soul muffled to a ginger coo over her newborn children, and yet she challenges raw nature itself. The beauty, the Godhead to whom he owed his very life.
Within the depths of his contemplative bliss, he noted in silence, to himself, how long it had been since he had possessed the heart of another, how long it had been since he had savored the undying growth of love growing like a cyst within his belly. Only from the far reaches of his seemingly ancient past could he remember the sensation of trust, the palpable heaven that came from placing one's panicked soul in the hands of another, and vice versa, leaving the both of them heaving and privately, for only angels should cover their ears in shame from such sounds of lovemaking, begging for more. And yet despite the memories, the recollections pulled so achingly from the recesses of his labyrinth of a mind, he felt his chest not tighten with the pain of emotional baggage, but of hunger, for his powerful sternum agreed with a growling stomach, that love was not far off from the craving of flesh. His wakeless presence lingered amidst the shadows, his grace something remarkable to no one but the profound astuteness of mother nature herself. He feigned a peacemaker, perhaps a wandering religious leader who admired the flowers and counted the particles of dirt found within the webbing between his obsidian talons, and yet to a trained eye, a shrewd musculature blessed his turgid yet sensual form.
The sharp protruding boulders that passed him by were subject to harsh grinds, the sharp edges digging into his threads until the skin was finally breached, letting tiny rivulets of blood seep into his black and russut fur. It was irrational, but he adored the smell of his own blood, whether it coated his own body or that belonging to someone else. It was a sulfurous desire, something incoherent and blind that even he and his tainted wisdom could not explain or even begin to understand much less explain, but he adored it as much as a cold soul as he possibly could, and shed his life liquid often. And so he continued on his fluid way, almost gayly, knowing that the scent of his insides would spread and attract others who found it inside themselves to thirst for a single desperate drop. The sun was descending; day had finally come to a blistering end, and a zephyr from the niche of deepest north tore through his pelt, and made him moan quietly, titillatingly, for a kiss from a cold pair of lips could be just as taunting as one from a salivating mouth hot to the afflicting touch. His wandering would not remain a precious secret for long, he knew this, and voluntarily welcomed anyone with enough prowess to escape his keen sense of smell, and with an incisive gleam in his boundless stare, he tilted his head, curving his skeleton oh so coyly as though beckoning with a long, tempting finger, 'come and see'. For once, he had no qualms about being found. His secrets were slowly driving him to the brink of lunacy, after all, and he knew from experience that all the privacy and seclusion in the world cant save a soul that is drowning in the water of its own castle moat.
MOTHER. Ruslanic, Deceased
FATHER. Lorelai, Living
SIBLINGS. All Stillborns.
HISTORY. He was born amidst a land of blazing guns and falling arrows. A world where archery was breath, where murder was life, where slaughter was divine. A realm where bloodied lips spoke vaguely of the dream of peace, right as the fall of weaponry rained down upon them, and explosions dominated the sunset, red as the blood that had been spilled, a tangerine burst of dust and departed debris descending upon his life in a haze of sanguine brilliance, the ways of his flourishing people dying agonizing death. The breadth of his ferocity knows no bounds, no mercy beneath his girth of emotional sentimentality, for he has been shown none. For life to him, is execution, the mangling of society's inner workings from the inside out, gorging on the decimation of his people as though they cruelly possessed the manna he had so desperately been searching for. He was bred for a single damnable purpose, one that manifested the demons within him in the forms of hellfire and barbarous perdition. The pits of passion grew, developed, matured into great intoxicating emergences of violence and turbulence, each loathsome step he took spat upon by his enemies, and yet highly revered and adored by his fellowship, his family who shared the same savage ruthlessness and feasted upon the same degraded bodies as he.
Emitting a furtive hiss past glistening white fangs and an obsessive lashing tongue, the night called sweet miracles to life as the star around which the lilliputian moon orbited set, letting the dam of luminescent shadows break without hesitation. The wilderness seemed to follow his surreptitious movements, his ferine reflexes with which he used to their full advantage in order to feed himself, a ravenously loving assemblage whose imaginary pining made him move faster, ever faster, his legs carrying him effortlessly through the jungle, long whisks of vegetation smoothly caressing his bared skin, the hot ardent wind of forest air in his face and invigorating him to his very core. His carapace, the very shell that all who see will evaluate harshly, is a tough and scathing thing, pugnacious and unsentimental, vituperative and critical, captious, and yet there is no place for judgment, no room for intense evaluation, for the bombs are flying and there's no other options but fight or flight. In the end there's nothing but a desolate hunk of dirt and a cigarette between his lips, smoking away the pain, smoking away the agony, smoking away the emotionalism with puff after puff of nicotine. And across the desert he goes, a cloaked figure amidst the carmine horizon, searching for his next kill to jade his dwindling sanity.
NAME. T.J
AGE. Twenty Two.
EXPERIENCE. Eight years of roleplaying, seven of graphics creation.
OTHER CHARACTERS. None.
HOW’D YOU FIND US. Through Sordid Secrets.
PREFERED CONTACT METHOD. Private Messaging, please.
