Post by Dyzzie-doll on Jan 14, 2012 2:29:23 GMT -5
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WICCAN'S REDE
[/b][/font][/center]WICCAN'S REDE
THE 4-1-1[/size]
Full Name: Wiccan's Rede
Nickname(s): Wicca, Wiccan, Wic, Rede, and a variety of other negatory remarks (Demon, witch, murderer, freak, et cetera)
Age: Five years
Gender: Mare
Species: Equine
Breed(s): Friesian Sport Horse
Other: Once again, umm?
BODY,[/size][/font]
Coat Color: gray on perlino (appears to be pure white)
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 16.2 hhs
Weight: unknown
Markings: None
Scars, birthmarks, etc: scar down neck, scar on hip in an odd shape of rose
MIND,
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ome girls are bitter sweet, others act harsh to hide a softer side in them. Some even use a sort of coldness to make them appear 'hard to get'. Those girls aren't like Wiccan's Rede. Wicca is a unique sort of female, one who was most likely male in another life. She's cold, and a tad harsh, especially to those she doesn't know. She avoids being friendly to anyone unless they're more canine then equine. She's got a sharp tongue, and she knows how to use it. She's cunning, sly, as well as a bit of a bitch. She calls it as she sees it, and she's not afraid to speak her mind. She likes to cause trouble as well, whether it be by playing with another's emotions, or scaring a poor little foal into never feeling comfortable in the dark. She's a bit snarky, and has a slight god complex. In her mind, no one else deserves to decide who dies, and who lives than the greatest predator alive. And, if you as Wic, there's no better predator than she. But Wicca's more than a pretty face and a sharp tongue. This vix has fangs too. Not in the literal since, though, but rather . . . where her bark is, you're likely to discover a series of grisly bites. She was raised in a unique setting, and from this setting, Wic has turned into a rather . . . wonderous killer. She's got a psychopathic mind, although shares some similiarities with the sociopath as well. In a way, she's almost the most dangerous predator, both sociopathic, as well as psychopathic. She's charming yes, can gain your trust, and play any role to make you feel safe, with no regard for your rights or feelings. She's unable to feel remorse or guilt, and tends to act out in violent bursts. Along with that, she is able to feel a sort of empathy, especially around young mares that resemble her little sister, Tempest. She has no understanding, or regard for laws or any other sort of social set of standards. She's a talented manipulator, able to mimic emotion to appear normal to others. What little emotions she doesn't have to mimic, only make her act appear more realistic. She has a lot of her life planned out, and is extremely organized. But despite these moment, she can act out of character, and be rather rash in certain situations. Although most of her characteristics match those of a psychopath, her ability to feel a sort of empathy towards those who resemble her sister, and with her sometimes rash, unthought out reactions, she has a sort of sociopathic side. --
--likes;; -blood
-murder
-massacre
-wolves
-painting designs on her pelt with blood--
--dislikes;; -foals
-mares
-stallions
-being around other horses
-being told she looks like an angel--
SOUL.
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When Wicca was born, no one noticed much that was odd about her, even though from the beginning she seemed a bit peculiar. Her white coat caused a lot of attention, which took away the attention from her more . . . unusual sort of behavior. Like the way her eyes constantly seemed to prey on the other children, or the way she moved, like she stalking rather than walking. But no one noticed much until the day she came back after being lost for a while. It was during a huge snow storm, that she got lost in. She had curled up into a ball to wait until it passed, not sure if she'd survive, and barely caring. It was then that she'd meet her only friend. It was a small, black pup that came to her, a tiny wolf. The pup soon left her, returning with a few other pups, and they all curled up around the lost foal. By the time the storm had passed, Wicca had survived with ease, sharing the body heat of the pups.
Wiccan had returned home, two days later, at the end of the storm. Walking beside her was the wolf who'd gathered her siblings to keep her warm. The reaction of the two new companions were not met well. And from that point on, Wiccan began to feel a sort of isolation from the rest of the herd. Things went well regardless, until she was two months from turning a year old. Her older sister had been whispering to her friends, when she saw Wic approaching with her wolf. Instantly the whispering to turned louder, and Wic could hear every teasing, taunting word. And . . . like a rubber band snapping, Wic was launched at her sister. Screams echoed from the foals as Wic slashed and attacked. Eventually, she accidentally managed to drive her hoof through her sister's chest and watched as the blood pooled out, and her sister's spirit leave her body.
It was only then that she heard the scream. Wiccan had spun around to see her father grasping her beloved wolf, biting through the young pup's throat. It was in that moment, Wiccan watched her only best friend die. Wicca ran after that, taking off and leaving the herd - no longer able to stay. She ran on her own for a while, escaping the normals of society, and being as wild as she wanted to be. She had fun, living up and wild, before she ran into her parents once again, a few years later.
They had the idea of setting her up with a friend's son, thinking it'd help rein her in. All it did was anger her more. After she agrees to get to know the male, she discovered his unfaithful nature, and after seeing him with another mare, she murdered them both before searching out her parents, determined to get them back as well.
It was raining, the night she found them; the storm violent and wicked. She found them hiding beneath a tree to escape the storm, and she'd barely gotten a chance to so much as growl out a greeting before a stray bolt of lightening immediately ignited the tree. Wicca stared in surprise to see the tree fall around her parents, before wickedly grinning, and ignoring their screams for help, before turning away and leaving them to die alone, suffering.
From there on she moved on her own, prepared to move forward, and not let anyone stop her. She's her own individual and she's prepared to do what ever she wants to, so she's moving along smoothly and now ready to cause havoc. That was, until she was caught violently attacking another horse. She was instantly shot with a tranqualizer (enter extreme hatred of humans) and shipped off to this land (enter extreme hatred of other animals) where she was expect to survive in the wild that was not her word. Time to rebuild her name - and show everyone . . . Death has arrived.
(DO THIS PART ONCE)
Your Name: Dyzzie
[taken out as to the fact you can find it in Maylea's profile]
RP Example:
[/i] Silvery blue eyes slit as she observed the glade, seeking out what sort of destruction she may be able to cause. Destruction, and not the pretty kind either. No, Wiccan liked the red destruction, with body parts thrown askew. She liked to see the painted masterpiece that adorned her coat after, creating the tale of the massacre she’d created. A demented smirk slithered across her muzzle. Broken pieces of bodies lay scattered in the surrounding foliage, a gruesome story being told by the chaos manifested with in the area. A limb off of in one direction, mangled, flesh matted with blood, and the bone sticking out. As if ready to be used as a walking stick. Another, a part of a chest cavity, pulled apart, organs scattered around. A scene Jack the Ripper would have been proud of. Broken bodies of mares, stallions, foals. Anything that messed with the chaos- got in it's way... Oh, and what a Chaos too… She trotted along the grove slowly, ivory form glimmering and blending into the mist that shrouded it from view, like a Virgin Mary. Of course, this creature was far from innocent. Oh no, this mare left innocent behind a rather long time ago, and she had no desire to go back. Not now, not ever. Wiccan’s Rede was a creature of darkness, of death, corruption and destruction. Wiccan’s Rede was Death’s Mistress.Darkness. It was creeping over the land, capturing everything in its cruel, cold hands, seeking out more and more items to clamp down on, possess, control. As if what it already had in its demented grasp was not enough. The darkness took over, expanding, and as it expanding, mist seemed to come from the arrival of mist, rising up in the form of apparitions. Some contorted, others manipulated, and as it took over, the dark forced more and more of itself upon the light. The rape of the light was a startling thing, watching the night force the daylight to play its game, as the sun slowly gave up, bowing down at the feet of Night, before disappearing below the horizon, running and hiding – leaving those of its domain on their own to fight against the dark and the dark’s demons. Of course; Wic wasn’t like that. She didn’t fear the dark, she didn’t fight the dark. Why should she when it was Death’s Mistress who helped the Darkness, for the Darkness would never be able to survive with out her. What was the dark - with out the creatures that go bump in the night? And nothing went bump better then Death's Mistress. Wiccan smirked at the thought, her tiara tilting as she observed the said darkness, her eyes hungry for more then just what the darkness could satisfy. The grove ran thick with blood, steam coiled from the hot fresh liquid, tinting the mist red.
The vampiress, in every meaning of the word, moved with startling ease as she moved along the glade, wading her way through the bank of thick, dense fog. Her walk was that of a predator. Steps light and easy, as graceful - and as ready to kill as a wolf's. Her body shimmered under the light of the halfling moon. Colorless tresses fell down in thick masses, shining and swirling in the mess of waves and curls that would never fall into any bounds of confinement, yet, remained sexy in this chaotic form. A form that in every since of the word, was the only sort of ‘normal’ she could be classified in. The death clung to the air in a thick haze, creatures that were to small and pathetic to be classified as prey ran to hide. But one soul remained, surveying the scene she'd manage to have constructed. And what a scene. What a bounty. What a beautiful, beautiful picture....[/i] There wasn’t a normal thing about the finch. Wic was an oddity; an extreme oddity. A Friesian build, strong sculpted Spanish façade, thick, yet arched neck, sloping hindquarters, low set tail. It was all there. Wic could have passed as a purebred Friesian, even with her slightly more ‘delicate’ formation. Except for one thing. Where the raven coloring should have been; there was nothing but an expanse of ivory. Perlino on a black base. Pure white. Wiccan was indeed an oddity. Her form was gorgeous though, gorgeous and deadly, as she walked, the feathering around each hoof tainted with a very slight, very generous pink hue, from years of being manipulated in weapons. She walked with the grace of a feline; a walk of a killer. But what was the oddest, most alarming part of the femora was most likely the way she seemed so ready to kill. So ready to attack. The way she was more lupine then equine. Wiccan might appear to you as a horse, but she was nothing more then a wolf in sheep’s clothing – or rather mare’s clothing. More. More. More. More. More bloodshed. The trees would be coated in it, the air would be thick with the gentle metallic tang of blood. More. More. More. Nothing is never enough! She grinned darkly, silvery blue eyes sparkling with a cruel fire, as she trudged on.
There was a reason Wiccan had been produced to… this chaotic destruction. Things in your past alter you; alter how you act, how you see the world, how you see others. Things in your past make you who you are today; and it was the past that had shaped Wiccan to be the cold blooded, murderous fiend she is now. Wic might have been a proper lady had she been aware as to how to behave, had she been raised well; had her parents paid attention to her. Screams ate up the oxygen, taking from the living: their dying breath. Bodies twitched, crimson regret pooling around them as eyes turned dead and distant, staring but never seeing. Canines tore into the carcesses, adding more body parts to the ones already thrown about in such a magnifiecent manner. Oh, the beauty. Oh the massacre! So many stories told by this scene. But no one around to listen to them. To the silent stories of their murder – never to be told. Of course, Wiccan never had a strong family base. Being an oddity would do that; but Wic’s oddity had come with her natural love for destruction and chaos. A big no-no in her family. A very big one. Her white coat was a praised ‘a gift from god’ but her black soul was shunned ‘touched by the devil.’ Touched? No. She ruled over the devil. With out her, Hell would never survive. The Grim Reaper wasn’t the one who took souls, she did it for him. Because it is what she did best. Murder, maim, it was the only life she found worth while, but then again; with Wiccan, how else would you want to rule life?
She moved with a regal stride, flawless, destructive, yet oozing with power. Power over life and death in a way. Her hooves had met too much blood, her muzzle had been darkened crimson to many times. Wiccan had grown addicted to the hunt till she herself, learned what it is to experience bloodlust. Wolves? Bears? Those predators had nothing on the one before you. Because, Wiccan was on the same footing as her favorite prey. And her favorite prey, her fellow equines, would never even begin to suspect her to be the murdering villainess she was, because let’s face it. We see what we want to see, and eyes seen a shimmering, innocent, angelic form. Laughter torn from the muzzle, drenched red in the liquid of life that had been extracted from each victim. Splatters of red painted the chest, neck, and front legs. Each front leg was now capped with a crimson stocking, heavy dripping, smelling so sweet. The hot, steamy liquid paint stripes down ivory colors. More.[/i] She smirked; for it was true, they never knew what was coming till it was too late to run and hide. The perfect prey – her prey. Her delicious, easy to manipulate toys.
For indeed, how else could she see her prey but as toys? Mindless puppets on a string. There was no other description of these pathetic beings because; well, it was easy to see that they where to daft to consider what lay before their very eyes. So, when given the opportunity, why shouldn’t she play with them? Why shouldn’t she manipulate and tug at their strings? Was it not too much to ask for some understanding at this? To realize that to Wic, there is no point in trying to fix what ever is screwed up in her head. Oh no. It’s five years too late for that. She tossed her head, expression dark as she looked around, silvery blue eyes ghastly, and hue less in the light of the full moon. The endless night, with colors of red and black painting the scene with a gruesome, Picasso style. It was like a scene from a horror movie brought to life. Blood was almost ankle deep in the grove, bodies piling up left and right. More. Need… more.[/i] The night was drawing long, the final hours of night making the world go colder in the silent warning. Soon, Night would be forced to give into day. Wiccan grimaced. A creature of darkness did not survive in daylight. A creature of darkness thrived for the dark. So she continued to walk, taking advantage of the few hours of night left, because – what else could she do? A flick of a red dusted, yet ivory tail was all that was scene as the creature disappeared, heavenly body now coated red from Bloodshed. More. More. Must find more… Who’s next?[/i] Her eyes sparked as the scene in front of her eyes dimmed and fell apart the glade turning to an empty area, nothing of the battlefield remaining, yet there was still enough to begin sparking a desire to suddenly make it real. And what Wiccan wanted, she got.
“Well then? Anyone out there? Come out, lovers. Come play…” She purred to herself as she reared up onto her hind legs, her fores striking out, thick, white feathering tracing the air in a wide echo around each hoof. Then suddenly the finch was in motion, each hoof hitting the ground at a different moment, a four beat echoing behind her, as her ivory tresses danced in the air, created in her wake. An angel on earth, a demon in disguise, Grim Reaper, Death, Death’s Mistress, Demon, Monster, Whore, Slut, Bitch, Freak, Killer… Names followed her from every land she’d come from, stories of an ivory finch who betrayed the colors of her coat to go dark. A dove who was only created for chaos. A bitch who was ready to destroy. Who would always want more. Her eyes locked onto a random lone figure, a twisted smile appearing. She always needed more. Most always have more. And now she'd found more. Come play - pet... It's time for you to experience fear at the hand of a creature more evil then evil itself. More….
Because it will never been enough.[/i]
Words of your demise
The massacre thought out [/size][/font][/color]
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