Post by prospice on Jan 27, 2011 20:13:04 GMT -5
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CRISTOBAL
THE 4-1-1[/size]
Full Name: Cristobal
Nickname(s): Cris
Age: 4 years
Gender: Male
Species: Dog
Breed(s): Presa Canario
Other: The Presa Canario is not a recognized AKC Breed, but they are more common than one might think.
BODY,[/size][/font]
Cristobal is not a particularly large example of his breed, as they go. However, as a Molosser type dog, he is not a small breed, nor a force to be taken lightly. He stands almost exactly two feet at the shoulder, with a weight of over one hundred pounds, muscular, with a bread chest and head. His muzzle and face are boxy, like all Presa Canarios, with long jowls and a stunning proclivity towards facial expression. He has a broad chest and barrel-like stomach, as is common in his type, with short legs spaced at an angle to his chest that belie a great speed. His ears are roughly cropped from a time long ago, as is the wont of the humans who want a particularly tough looking specimen. His tail, however, has been left untouched. All in all, he looks like a well bred dog, with that powerful, graceful type of the Canario running through him.
In coloration, Cristobal is a brown reverse brindle, although some would call it black. His pelt is short and a bit wiry to the touch, not at all smooth like the coat of other breeds, low-maintenance and rarely ever dirty or knotted because it is so short. Like all Canarios, he has distinct "cat feet" and moves with a feline grace, silent and powerful, lacking that heavy clumsiness that comes with some Molosser breeds. He's not the quickest of breeds, nor is he the most powerful or perseverance, but Cristobal has a look like he can take good care of himself. He's the kind of dog that people cringe away from if it comes trotting down the street, even though Cristobal himself would never growl or snarl. In fact, despite his initial tough appearance, his facial expressions tell of an altogether friendlier dog.
MIND,
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Cristobal's personality is not what most would think. Like all dogs, he reacts to the situation at hand, and he's capable of aggression and dominance and all the normal social gestures of the canine, but honestly he's not prone to it at all. He hasn't adopted that strange mentality that domesticated powerful breeds seem to have, that outlook that other canines are enemies... In fact, he harkens back to an older code, an openness to company and a sharing in the balance of pack mentality that fits the canine like a glove. He is happiest in a group of stable dogs, a born pack member and a capable leader if it comes upon him to lead, but far from ambitious and he would happily leave the task to a respected cohort or friend. In fact, Cristobal is something of a barn second in command, powerful and capable, but not forceful and stalwart in all his doings.
He's got a good head on his shoulders, and in general is a level-headed, even-tempered dog with a good deal of emotional balance in most situations. He has taken to wild life pretty well, but he knows that he cannot survive on his own and prefers not to even try. Stalwart in his actions, he has a sort of affecting loyalty that is common in a lot of breeds. Cristobal is not inclined to be suspicious or superstitious, putting his faith in the here-and-now and not really questioning things that are outside of his experience. Pushed beyond his limits or his comfort zone, he tends to flake a little and get nervous, but for the most part he is well-adjusted and not unwontonly afraid of anything. He gets spooky and nervous around loud noises and he doesn't like thunder storms, but he's quite happy on Gershom.
Cristobal is not a fighter, and has a very good sense of what is worth it and what is not. There's a good reason for his lack of aggression - his strongest sense is that of perseverance and hanging onto life - and he considers battle a waste of good strength, especially against other dogs. He doesn't see canines as enemies, merely competitors, and he has little to no sense of mischief or evil in him. He's curious, of course, and still somewhat young and inexperienced, but he's actually something of a pacifist when it comes down to it. In a fight, he would be a good dog to have on your side, but he rarely sees the point of such things and steers clear of them if at all possible.
SOUL.
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Cristobal was born in a dog rescue in the Southern United States, to a mother used as a breeder for dog fighting. He never knew his father, but this didn't particularly matter to him as a young puppy, and he played with his siblings happily enough. The people at the rescue - which specialized in Molosser breeds and rehabilitating fighting dogs - made sure he got a good start in life and was neither aggressive towards people nor other dogs, and when an experienced Canario breeder came and looked at him the rescue agreed to let him go without neuter for the purpose of being used as stock for the Presa Canario breed, because even as a young dog he was exceptionally even-tempered and well proportioned for the breed, despite his dubious heritage.
He went to live at the kennel, where he was walked regularly by an assistant and quickly became a favorite, although because he was unfixed he was generally not allowed to go to dog parks and the like. He was, however, socialized and well trained, and became quite a well behaved two year old indeed. He was on his way to becoming a breeding parent when fire caught in the kennels where he lived, and he only barely escaped with his life among a few other dogs. Singed and terrified, he fled and was picked up by animal control, on a call that a large, scary-looking dog was roaming around the streets of a neighborhood. He was perfectly docile, however, when he was picked up, and at the pound where he was set to be euthanized immediately, the staff took pity on him and decided to send him to Gershom rather than end his life.
He was transported to the island with a few other dogs, and set free far away from the small town where the few people lived. Introduced as much for strong breeding stock as pity, he was expected to adjust to his surroundings quickly and get a pack and sire some children, but it didn't happen quite so smoothly. Somewhat shell-shocked, Cristobal wondered about the island for quite some time and nearly starved to death because he didn't know how to hunt, a common problem for the domestic dogs released cold on the island. Finally, though, he figured it out by watching a group of other dogs - who refused to accept another male but who he tagged around with for some distance - hunt, and he survived in the end. However, in his emaciated state he bore no children and still hasn't.
At the moment, Cristobal is on the hunt for a group of dogs that will accept him, more for survival and community than procreation, although like all dogs he has the natural desire to breed and raise offspring. He's more looking for a pack with which to hunt and survive than anything else, still trying to get on his feet in the strange new world that he's been tossed into as an afterthought.
(DO THIS PART ONCE)
Your Name: Prospice
Joining Password: Nylassi (I see what you did there...)
RP Example: (From another site. There's some site-specific vocabulary, but Casar is an empire.)
At night, the desert grew cold. In the late morning, when the sun was just beginning to heat the skin of the desert's inhabitants, the chill continued down through the white grains of sand - stretched out like miles and miles of salt against a white-blue sky. The winter to come was going to be a bad one, and the creature now stirring in the shelter of a rock hovel sensed this, felt in in the delicate twines of white whisker and in the scent of the coming frost on the prevailing winds. The rat's head poked out into the sunshine, brown nose twitching at an incredible rate, long whiskers arching forward like those of a curious cat. The rocks in which he slept were kept slightly warm by what heat they absorbed during the daytime, but such heat would not last the Winter. Russel had never spent that cold time in the desert. He had not, as yet, had the privilege of the snowdrifts.
Yet he knew that something was coming. Every instinct within him urged him deeper and deeper into the heart of silence and warmth, pushed him to eat all that he could find. Such was the way of the Rat - the consummate survivor, the species that could digest anything and everything and had been known to eat the bodies of dead comrades in some cases. Other creatures, even some rats, seemed repulsed by this - labeled it taboo. But what was the use of dying, if not to serve the needs of the horde? He had been born into a mantra of survive, and so far he had, clinging onto life like a tick on a dog. Now, as he decided that the air was warm enough, he emerged from the rock, stopping for a bit to scratch behind a gnarled ear, with a knotty twist of a blood clot towards the edge. His front paws broke the sand, but made little sound.
The desert was a good place for Russel. Heavier animals had trouble moving across the shifting dunes in places where they waxed thick and full, pulling hooves and paws out of step after step of thick, pulling sand. Though Russel was far from a small rat, big as a badger, he still had an easy time scampering over the top layer of sand quickly, moving in that easy lope of the rat in travel. He blinked in the sunlight, sitting up for a moment and surveying the area. A few patches of sagebrush grew close to his "den," which was an anomaly on the desert edge. The internal rocks had long been ground to salt white sand. A few of the smaller cacti were edible to rats, and provided moisture, and it was one of these he opened first, delicately reaching through the spines to turn it over quickly, pulling back sharply to avoid a prick. The defenseless belly of a whitethorn stared up at him, and with a surge of violence a pair of white teeth pierced it.
Besides the surge of spongy moisture, Russel held a small, worn pebble in his cheek, which after quenching his thirst he began to gnaw and roll across his front teeth. Like all rats, his teeth grew continuously, and if he was not almost constantly gnawing they would grow through his jaw and muzzle, eventually piercing his brain. He had seen it happen - it was a torture tactic in the horde that he came from. Throat moistened, Russel took on a more offensive posture, looking around with a certain wariness. Well, not so much looking as feeling the air currents with his whiskers and sniffing, because his eyesight wasn't the best. Why should it be, when scent and sound told him everything he needed to know about his surroundings?
Anything worth eating was gone from this area, probably retreating to wherever it spent the winter, so Russel was forced to leave his comfy hovel behind and go in search of meat. An active rat cannot survive on plant life alone, particularly in the desert, and Russel was inclined to an almost totally carnivorous diet. The other inhabitants of the desert, who he had no ties to except that they breathed his air, declaimed him as some sort of Avviare spy or helper or assassin or something, because he kept to himself for the most part, and because of his reputation for being bitter and snappish when he was approached to do something or aid the Casar. In truth, he did not mind Casarians as much as he minded some. They were, in general, an accepting bunch and willing to leave him well enough to himself, and they weren't strict or militant like some others.
Honestly, there were some here who truly believed in the influence of gods. That it was gods that had given the species power, that had made them too different even to talk to one another. Russel reflected that if there were, indeed, some mystical all-powerful creatures, they were cruel ones indeed. What great god would give him the ability to fight, but leave him crippled and useless in his fighting state? Such things were the flaw of nature. Nature, and its laws, those two true tenants by which he could abide. Eat, or starve. Live, or die. If there was life beyond death, then why was there life at all? Besides, this one round of pain and providence was enough for him. Too much for him, sometimes.
He paused his distracted reflection as he came over a crest of sand at a lope, the sand scooping away from his back claws. Something wholesome and fragrant slapped at his nose, the scent of growth in this scrub area, where a few lesser creatures sometimes roamed. Rabbits... the like. Thoughtless, brainless creatures all. Really... he could use a nice juicy meal about now... Unless there were other hunters about, though he wasn't averse to eating those, either.[/size][/blockquote]
