Post by askr on May 20, 2012 13:55:37 GMT -5
SKӦLL
NAME. Sköll
NICKNAME(S). Arvakr, numerous aliases
AGE. Eight
SPECIES. Canis lupus.
BREED. Eurasian Wolf
SEX. Male
HEIGHT. Thirty-two inches
WEIGHT. Sixty-nine pounds
COAT. White
EYE COLOUR. Red
NOTABLE MARKINGS. n/a
PHYSICAL.
Sköll's pelt is a pale, dirty off-white, tipped with hints of pale, ruddy browns and half-reds, as though he'd been rolling in dirt. The sickly lack of color, paired with his lithe and undebatably frail build, combine to form an appearance he is ashamed to call his own. He forces it to his will, however, not one to wallow in his ungranted wishes for bulk and brute strength -- slender and graceful, he makes use of his agility and stealth.
The runt of his litter, Sköll ever appears malnourished; small; weak. His muscles are wirey and thin; little fat cushions his form, and the slope of his ribs is evident beneath his meager pelt. Harsh conditions hit him harder than most, and he is loathe to stay anywhere that boasts rough winters. His thin, almost feline form is much more suited to temperate climates; his legs long and thin and expert at stalking through leafy underbrush.
His skull is gracile and angular; maw pointed and cruel. Clever eyes, sickly pale pink, gaze out from behind thin, matted fur. His left ear is tattered, torn to pieces in a fight long past. The wounds are healed into ugly, raised scars, and he has difficulty twisting the ear backwards. Other, smaller scars litter his body, but nothing more of importance – such wear is expected of a creature prone to violence. His voice is lower than expected for such a slight beast, gravelly and occasionally grating.
FEARS.
-being ignored/alone
-deep water
-being found by his family, or caught in a lie
VICES.
-he's a lying, cheating, scheming bastard
-obsessive and cruel, he easily becomes attached (in the most sadistic way possible) to others
-addicted to self-destruction
-shallow, petty, over-dramatic
-mistrusting and emotionally stunted
STRENGTHS.
-clever and quick-witted
-a strong memory (for keeping track of his lies, no doubt)
-tolerant of pain; can handle a lot for his weak body
-tempered, difficult to insult or bring to a rage
PET PEEVES.
-mockingbirds (annoying beasts)
-being denied his indulgence to the over-dramatic (he is going to whine, and you are going to listen)
-expressions of affection, between any two creatures (that he does not initiate)
-foals. he does not mind full-grown equines, but something about their young sets his teeth on edge.
-anyone that lords their strength over him
LIKES.
-dusk and the twilight before dawn -- odd enough hours that not many are fully awake, and dark enough for the sky to be painted with stars (he likes stars)
-inflicting pain/having pain inflicted upon him (he's rather obsessed with the idea of suffering)
-hunting
-thunder/rainstorms (though he usually prefers watching them from sheltered safety, he's been known to wander about in them just for "fun")
-mindgames and puzzles
PERSONALITY.
As far as first impressions go, Sköll is as wildly variable as the birdsong of early spring. He is alternately a shameless show-off, flaunting himself and his words with a magician’s flair – or as silent as the grave, secluding himself to the shadows and stalking through his environment with a practiced and feline grace. It is important to note that he does what he wants – unless caught off-guard, every twitch in his body language and every word from his lips is carefully crafted; to what end only he knows.
He sees much of life as a game – and, as he’s very easily bored, he spends the most of his time (of which he has vast quantities) indulging in the sport. How he “plays” can only be described as trollish, and draws great emphasis to his mile-wide sadistic streak. Interfering in the lives of others brings him something akin to joy, and gives him a rush at the hints of power his manipulations employ. Some might call his machinations rapacious and mean, but Sköll is of a much different opinion: The world is cruel and never wanted him – but it never really wanted anyone. He’s simply doing his duty to explain the truths of the universe; to illustrate the inevitable cruelties of life that any wise wolf would be good to harden his heart against.
Reckless, his pursuit of entertainment is endless and occasionally dangerous – Sköll’s seeming lack of self-preservation hint at a taste of masochism, but, in reality, he would rather be hurt or bleeding or dead than trapped in the doldrums of a boring existence. This trait fuels both his brash and show-offy nature, as well as his more careful slyness. Indeed, both flaunting his abilities and stalking others are potential wells of entertainment.
A textbook narcissist, he holds himself on a pedestal -- even in the darkest throes of misery, he can cling to the idea that he is essentially better than almost every wolf he's ever met; will ever meet. Perhaps the only way to break into his twisted, shriveled heart is to prove to him that one is equally deserving of such high praise -- whether through a game of wits or something yet undiscovered.
His inner emotional state is perhaps as interesting as the false personas he puts up. Grief and jealousy with a dash of moral insanity comprise the core of his being. He is alone, very very alone in a world that he cannot help but to see through cynical, calculating eyes. While he strives to separate himself from his disappointments, Sköll has found (much to his disappointment) that it is impossible to entirely remove one's self form one's soul. As much as he'd like to forget his expectations of others; as much as he'd like to forget what it is to be happy and loved -- so that when it is denied him, the sting passes by unfelt -- it is not so. There are rare moments when it hits him, so to speak, like a metaphorical sledgehammer to the chest. He is eternally ashamed of these moments of weakness.
Most relationships he forges are shallow and petty -- whether or not the other knows this. He is adept at faking emotions, but does not like to risk it by allowing others to become close to him. He battles the instincts of his species by preferring to stay on the move, travelling from place to place, taking on new identities as he goes.
MOTHER. Kahiri, living?
FATHER. Tawhaki, living?
SIBLINGS. Itah, M, deceased? - Alsviar, F, living - Mani, F, living
HISTORY.
Eight years ago, a rare flush of warmth brought an early spring to the far northern forests. Only the towering pines and freshly sprung grasses were witness to the birth of the new litter, strong in number and health – four wriggling pups were brought forth, blind and small, into the soft glow of the morning sun. Two females, Alsviar and Mani, and two males, Itah and Arvakr. Arvakr was by far the smallest of the litter, though healthy, and easily pushed around by his still-helpless siblings.
Their mother was a good mother, however, and all were nurtured and well cared for. They grew quickly and with little incidence of trouble – that is, until the pups were able to hear and see and move about on their own. As they emerged from infancy and the mother returned to the small family pack, it became evident that the runt of the litter was to receive little attention from the older wolves. Like any ill-behaved child, he quickly learned that acting out would earn him the ears of his mother and father – even his siblings, who were all too often too happy to leave him out of their games. ’You can’t keep up, Arvakr, you’re too weak, Arvakr.’
So, in a ploy for attention, he did what he found necessary. He would drag away stores of food and rebury them elsewhere when the adults weren’t looking, no matter how physically straining the task was. He would trick his littermates into charging off into the forest with promises of monsters or treasure or a rare field of flowers – only to get them lost or late to supper. The first time he got reprimanded for his behavior was when, irritated that his plots got him nothing but an agitated eye roll, he ‘marked his territory’ all over his father’s hind leg.
This, of course, earned him a swift bite and bodily removal to the den for the night. (And he was happy, for a brief moment, because all eyes had been on him.)
As they aged and the pups began to learn to hunt, Arvakr’s cruel streak only broadened. He derived perhaps too much pleasure from killing – more than is expected of the wolf, who must obviously make his livelihood on bringing down prey. There was something about the squirming and shrill cries of pain that creatures invariably offered – where his belly was full, he was more than pleased to stalk down small prey and deliver a painful bite before releasing them. He hid this, however; instead keeping his interactions with his family to the wildly irritating childish pranks.
They were just past one year of age when Itah followed him through the snowy forest, and found him slowly skinning a trapped squirrel. His brother laughed and took his kill without comment, but later mocked Arvakr for his behavior. As brothers do, he knew precisely the words to stoke Arvakr’s rage – ’Don’t even know how to properly kill a catch? Too weak for that? Huh? Can’t even break its neck, can you?’
Arvakr – often bored and seeking stimulation – decided to channel his irritation for his big brother into his next prank. He knew, though, that he would need to go all-out, otherwise his sibling – wise by now to the most basic of Arvakr’s tricks – would sense mischief. So, one evening, he went out into the forest and found a fallen branch. He rubbed his shoulder against the jagged break until the skin broke and blood welled freely from the self-inflicted wound, then ran as quickly as his spindly legs would carry him back to camp.
”Ahoy, brother,” he shouted, lacing his voice with the tremors of panic and excitement, ”You will never believe what I’ve found! I was crossing the river, over by the waterfall -- I found a dip in the rocks that led to a cave, and there are all sorts of crystals about it -- I slipped on the wet rocks and cut myself, but it was well worth it. Come on, you have to see.”
Itah, for reasons Arvakr would never know, decided to follow him across the forest to the river, where the steep waterfall carved down the rocky face of the hill. The two adolescents stood before the icy, stinging spray, and Arvakr offered his brother a broad smile. "See down there? We'll just climb down the way I did, down this side. Be careful of the water -- and you go first, brother, my leg still hurts from last time."
Indeed, fresh blood roiled up thickly from the gash, and he idly turned to lick at the wound before nudging Itah in the direction of the falls. "I just stood on that root, there, and worked my way down. You'll have no trouble."
’And if I fall, brother?’
Expression carefully schooled into mild surprise, Arvakr made a show of peering down the fall, and into the river beyond. ”We are not that far up. Even if you are carried down by the fall, the water below will soften your landing. Look, the river is calm further downstream; you'll be fine.”
As his brother leaned forward, Arvakr moved swiftly behind him, and shoved him bodily forward and into the surging river. He disappeared beneath the angry, foaming waters, deaf to Arvakr’s barking cachinnation.
When the smaller limped, gloating, down the embankment to meet his brother, however, Itah was not to be found. Arvakr searched for him – be he dead or alive – but found no trace whatsoever.
He was unsure if he should be delighted or horrified.
He settled with a rather unsavory mix of the two, and laughed quietly; nervously as he staggered home. The two had been gone many hours by the time Arvakr found the pack once more; his father and a pair of older wolves lunged forward with bared teeth when he showed himself, demanding to know where he’d been – where Itah was.
’Must be more of your mischief, you were gone so long,’ his father growled, delivering a scolding bite to the nape of his neck – grazing the open wound and drawing a whimper from Arvakr’s lips. The young wolf panicked, knowing full well he could not admit to what he had done – yet he also knew that whatever he said, it was unlikely that his family would believe him. In order to tell a good lie, he had learned, one had to make oneself look bad while telling it.
”I told Itah I had found a rabbit’s den. I hadn’t, really I just wanted to see if I could make him mad- We got in a fight, but- He got ahead of me, he’s so much stronger than me-“
His father snarled in response, but Arvakr’s mother hurried to push past him, eager to clean her son’s wound. ’We will go and find him if he doesn’t return. Move, let me tend to Arvakr.’
Arvakr endured the suspicious glares of his sisters, and sat calmly as his mother licked the wound clean. As soon as night had fallen, he snuck off to cover the tracks that would lead the pack to the waterfall – two sets leading to it, and only one returning.
Memory of Itah eventually eased from their minds, thoughts of his more brutish ways dulled by loss. Arvakr's sisters even included him in more of their games, and though the guilt lingered, he was glad to be rid of Itah. After all, he was always second best, never the apple of his father's eye. Never as strong as Itah would have been, or as clever. That belief stung especially harshly, when the pack would take a bit of time to remember their lost member -- for Arvakr always prided himself in his wit; it was all he had. The lost pup was idolized, almost, his memory glorified by a grieving father, who would never sire a more perfect son. Itah was strong and a promising hunter, bright as the sun. And if Itah was the sun, heralding in the day and shining with the glory of physical prowess, then Arvakr was a black hole; never taught to shine.
It took many months for this to gnaw through Arvakr's iron will - he was three years of age when he'd finally had enough. Despite his growth into a fine young wolf, and the ease with which he mastered the subtleties of stalking and tracking prey, he was never enough. Played up to the extremes in his over-dramatic mind, Arvakr did away with any happiness or compliments as twisted lies; snarled when approached and howled when ignored.
It was a rather nice day when he stood before the pack and barked out that he had killed Itah -- he'd not gotten lost, but instead he'd drowned his brother in the river. He hung around long enough to get a good look at his family's face before turning tail and fleeing.
By some miracle -- or perhaps just the opposite -- he escaped, and spent many days alone, living in the mountains. He passed few loners, and those he did encounter were far from lucky souls. He stalked all that passed him, eager for companionship, and even forged a few passing "friendships". It was then that he abandoned his birthname and adopted a new alias: Sköll.
By the time he was six, the boredom of his solitude had driven him nearly to his death. A master of deceit at this point, he wove himself a false history and many new aliases and forged his way back out into the world. Still mistakenly seeking the love of a new family -- seemingly having forgotten his failure to respond positively to the last one he'd had -- he lied his way into the good graces of pack after pack, lingering just long enough for his paranoia to drive him to fight with his new "friends" and leave.
Failing to find the acceptance he craved, Sköll finally adopted the loner attitude he bears still today. (After all, the hunt for love is a fruitless endeavor -- all relationships die, through quarrel or time.)
NAME. Askr, Ask, Whiskey
AGE. Twenty-one
EXPERIENCE. Iunno. Nineish years. I can't remember.
OTHER CHARACTERS. None
HOW’D YOU FIND US. Advertisement surfing. Found you through Tilt.
PREFERED CONTACT METHOD. PM, MSN (sleipnirry@hotmail). Skype on request. c:
