Post by Blitzen on Jun 14, 2010 13:53:40 GMT -5
[/font][/right][/size]XX. J-J-JABBERWOCK
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Image credit to Minette Layne on Flickr.
Age:
Two years
My Gender:
Female
Breed:
Silver Fox
I Am A Member Of The:
Kitsune pack?
(If Izzy allows)
I Uphold The Rank Of:
XX. Information
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Appearance:
Jabberwock takes the guise of any old silver fox. A dark blue-black pelt masks her slender form, long and luxurious, and yet unkempt in public. She has long legs, pertaining to her wiry body, ending in small paws as most foxes can claim. A narrow chest, which quickens her legs because of less obstruction. She has a long brush of a tail, a foot or so at the very least, that waves proudly beyond her form. It is tipped in the most pristine of ivory shades, a bright point on her otherwise darkened body. As most silvers, the main part of her fur is a gray-blue shade. But dark points, a shade or two away from perfect black, mask different parts of her body. Her face, ears, underbelly, and the main part of her tail are this deep shade, the rest the ever-changing silver. It is odd fur, but fur she takes care to keep clean, if not in place.
Her eyes, two almond-shaped little beauties, are two points of orange-brown in the sea of monochromatic fur that is her form. They are the only colorful parts she may claim, as the rest of her body is gray scaled, and so one would be led to believe those bright things would be the pride of the Jabberwock- but this is not so. Why take pride in something about you that you can't see for yourself? And so her pride lays in her short-furred black legs, long-furred color-fluxuating coat, and the large ears that overshadow her face and give her the comical appearance of a pup.
Personality:
Jabberwock is mad. Bonkers. Loony. Off her head. A scraggly ball of jumbled words and ridiculous phrases, even the air around her tends to be tinged with.... insanity. It's not the creatures fault the way she is the way she is- but she isn't quite sure whose fault it is, on that note. She is utterly mad, or at least is thought to be, a whirling twirling dark mass of crazy. When she isn't muttering and mumbling at other creatures, she is completely silent, an eerie and intimidating presence despite her petite size. She seems to suffer from split personality, dashing back and forth between a dark, brooding, assassin of the night and a cheerful lunatic. Not many are willing to put up with her hectic changes, earning her a small array of friends, but those who are willing to sit through all the crazy she cares for deeply.
If you are persistent in watching this fox, figuring out her ways, you might just discover the secret of the Jabberwock- she is as sane as any other canine. When alone, away from the things that stress her, or please her, she sheds the crazy guise, chuckles warmly to herself, and goes about the things the average fox does. If you happen to catch her in these moments, it is best not to disturb her- or she'll get angry, and when angry, instead of loony, she seems almost threatening. But she's Jabberwock, she's crazy... not terrifying. .....Right?
History:
"I wasn't always crazy you know. Actually.. I'm not crazy. Perhaps if you have watched me when I'm alone, hiding as a spy does, you'd see the knowing grin I'd put on. You'd see me clean myself up, erase the spark of maddened lunacy in my eyes, see that twitch in my snout vanish.You'd see me smooth my fur, perk my ears, chuckle as if I've duped the world. And I have. I do. Everyday, when someone assumes I'm out of my head, I'm fooling them. I've probably fooled you too... not that you would ever be aware, unless you've figured it out. Unless you've spied. But what idiot would spy on the supposedly crazy? What fun or interest could come out of that? Heh.
Now, I bet you're smart, yes? So you know that foxies have large litters. Up to twelve usually, right? I was born into a group that size. Of course, mums with so many kids.. it isn't easy to supply enough milk. Two of our twelve died within the first month. Vortex and JubJub, leaving ten pups. And five enemies. You see, our little troupe of fox cubs split itself into groups of, previously, six. Now it was down to five on each. I, Jabberwock, led one group, and my brother Necro, short for Necromancer in the way of my family, led the rivaling team. It was all great fun, for with these two groups... we staged a war. Playfully biting, fighting, nipping, yipping.... It was so joyful and filled with ruckus. We upset the entire forest with our noise, not that we ever thought to apologize. And so it went on, for six months.
PUREBLOODS! IF THEY HATE THE WOLVES THEN THEY HATE FERAL!
AND IF THEY HATE FERAL THEY HATE FOXEN!
WE AREN'T SAFE, WICCA!
I KNOW, WOLFSBANE, I KNOW.
We were almost seven months, all of us, and due to leave the den. Then right before everyone left, I had overheard that conversation from my lovely parents. Wolves, I had heard of. Great furry beasts, majestic creatures. I loved to listen to their nightly songs, and yip along with their cheerful chorus. But purebloods? I had never heard of such beasts until they had brought them up in a conversation not for my ears. It wasn't my fault ten adolescents and their pair of parents were all crammed tightly into the same foxhole. I couldn't help it my ears happened to lay in the same direction of their voices. And yet, despite the shame for eavesdropping, I became curious. The next day we were meant to leave. What was a pureblood?
We were, as expected, kicked out the following morning. Knowing everything we needed to know, it should have been easy to leave. But I lingered about, searching for an answer to the question which rang in my head. What is a pureblood? When my father noticed me still about, he chased me off as fox parents are supposed. I caught trail of my older brother, and resigned rival, Necro and followed him as I was unsure where to go myself. But a few days passed n my silent stalking, and he met a doe-eyed vixen and they settled down. I still can't believe my blue-blooded, black-furred brother, who took so much pride in the fur of his own species and looked down on other foxes less intriguing coloration's, married a red fox. But I respect and love him for stepping out of his boundaries, even more do I love him for their children. Seven kits, speckled black and red in the odd mix, who romp and play as we used to. They are very sweet beasts, even if I haven't seen them in years. Now, I seem to be getting off topic. Where was I... oh... yes.
After Necromancer went off to settle down, I was left all to my lonesome. In this solitude I wandered, drifted about the land and away form my little home forest. Most vixens pick a territory and settle into it, awaiting a dog- but I had no interest in a mate at the time. I only had interest in answers to my questions. And so, drifting and wandering became my hobby.
A year saw me in a very different area than the small forest of my youth. Chasing down a squirrel one day, after wedging beneath bushes, skirting trees, and sneaking through grass, I discovered something even newer than the territory. Dogs. I had heard of them, of course, but never had we crossed paths. But we certainly did then- I lost the squirrel but found a trio of large beasts. A Newfoundland, a pitbull, and a basenji... not that I knew any of those species at the time. The Newfoundland, who I nicknamed Choc, as his fur was as dark brown as that, had thought me a wolf pup. Better yet, he proclaimed I was a wolf pup sent to spy on the purebloods. I didn't bother correcting him... in fact, I couldn't. I was frozen in terror of these brutes five times my size. I could barely manage a gulp, until the Newfoundland raised his hackles and took a step toward me, then the oddest thing happened.
I laughed. Giggled, uncontrollably, over... and over... and over... It just never stopped. A chortling, grating, gurgle of a noise, like a drowning animal. AND IT WOULDN'T STOP. I remember tilting my head curiously as the big brown Choc stared at me, remember the giggling still rushing out but changing pitch with the tilt of my head. I remember the Basenji shivering, and turning his back to me. "Come on, guys, she's loony." O some rubbish like that spilled form his mouth and I realized I probably did look a bit mad. Fur clumped up and riddle with burrs and brambles from squeezing beneath branches and dashing through weeds. It stuck up in tufts then lay flat in the next spot, giving me a very strange and wild look. My ears were flat against my skull, yet my tail was bushed out and body puffed as a small animal in a tight spot is known to do... make themselves bigger. And I watched, still laughing, coal eyes questioning, as the pitbull turned to join his friend. "Come on, she's no Wolf, let alone is that crazed animal fit for spying. Look, she's limping." I wasn't limping, merely holding up a hind foot, the paw pad pierced with a thorn... not that he would see that, the direction that foreign brute was turned. "I bet she's diseased! Look at her scrappy fur! And those eyes, dull, slimy. She's even the wrong color for a fox. She'll be dead within nightfall." As you can guess, I didn't bother to correct that either. Just kept giggling as they all turned their backs, giggled as I heard the large forms lumber off. It stopped as soon as they got out of hearing, after which I plopped down onto my haunches, smoothed back my fur, and sauntered out of the area. It became a defense mechanism after that, going off whenever I was mad, scared, or even just a twinge upset. I deal with it, as it seems to have become involuntary, and pass it off to anyone who asks as some kind of split-personality thing. When I'm cheerful, not feeling any twinge of bad, I'll be calm and collected, unlike the 'other self' I convince others of.
Jabberwock takes the guise of any old silver fox. A dark blue-black pelt masks her slender form, long and luxurious, and yet unkempt in public. She has long legs, pertaining to her wiry body, ending in small paws as most foxes can claim. A narrow chest, which quickens her legs because of less obstruction. She has a long brush of a tail, a foot or so at the very least, that waves proudly beyond her form. It is tipped in the most pristine of ivory shades, a bright point on her otherwise darkened body. As most silvers, the main part of her fur is a gray-blue shade. But dark points, a shade or two away from perfect black, mask different parts of her body. Her face, ears, underbelly, and the main part of her tail are this deep shade, the rest the ever-changing silver. It is odd fur, but fur she takes care to keep clean, if not in place.
Her eyes, two almond-shaped little beauties, are two points of orange-brown in the sea of monochromatic fur that is her form. They are the only colorful parts she may claim, as the rest of her body is gray scaled, and so one would be led to believe those bright things would be the pride of the Jabberwock- but this is not so. Why take pride in something about you that you can't see for yourself? And so her pride lays in her short-furred black legs, long-furred color-fluxuating coat, and the large ears that overshadow her face and give her the comical appearance of a pup.
Personality:
Jabberwock is mad. Bonkers. Loony. Off her head. A scraggly ball of jumbled words and ridiculous phrases, even the air around her tends to be tinged with.... insanity. It's not the creatures fault the way she is the way she is- but she isn't quite sure whose fault it is, on that note. She is utterly mad, or at least is thought to be, a whirling twirling dark mass of crazy. When she isn't muttering and mumbling at other creatures, she is completely silent, an eerie and intimidating presence despite her petite size. She seems to suffer from split personality, dashing back and forth between a dark, brooding, assassin of the night and a cheerful lunatic. Not many are willing to put up with her hectic changes, earning her a small array of friends, but those who are willing to sit through all the crazy she cares for deeply.
If you are persistent in watching this fox, figuring out her ways, you might just discover the secret of the Jabberwock- she is as sane as any other canine. When alone, away from the things that stress her, or please her, she sheds the crazy guise, chuckles warmly to herself, and goes about the things the average fox does. If you happen to catch her in these moments, it is best not to disturb her- or she'll get angry, and when angry, instead of loony, she seems almost threatening. But she's Jabberwock, she's crazy... not terrifying. .....Right?
History:
"I wasn't always crazy you know. Actually.. I'm not crazy. Perhaps if you have watched me when I'm alone, hiding as a spy does, you'd see the knowing grin I'd put on. You'd see me clean myself up, erase the spark of maddened lunacy in my eyes, see that twitch in my snout vanish.You'd see me smooth my fur, perk my ears, chuckle as if I've duped the world. And I have. I do. Everyday, when someone assumes I'm out of my head, I'm fooling them. I've probably fooled you too... not that you would ever be aware, unless you've figured it out. Unless you've spied. But what idiot would spy on the supposedly crazy? What fun or interest could come out of that? Heh.
Now, I bet you're smart, yes? So you know that foxies have large litters. Up to twelve usually, right? I was born into a group that size. Of course, mums with so many kids.. it isn't easy to supply enough milk. Two of our twelve died within the first month. Vortex and JubJub, leaving ten pups. And five enemies. You see, our little troupe of fox cubs split itself into groups of, previously, six. Now it was down to five on each. I, Jabberwock, led one group, and my brother Necro, short for Necromancer in the way of my family, led the rivaling team. It was all great fun, for with these two groups... we staged a war. Playfully biting, fighting, nipping, yipping.... It was so joyful and filled with ruckus. We upset the entire forest with our noise, not that we ever thought to apologize. And so it went on, for six months.
PUREBLOODS! IF THEY HATE THE WOLVES THEN THEY HATE FERAL!
AND IF THEY HATE FERAL THEY HATE FOXEN!
WE AREN'T SAFE, WICCA!
I KNOW, WOLFSBANE, I KNOW.
We were almost seven months, all of us, and due to leave the den. Then right before everyone left, I had overheard that conversation from my lovely parents. Wolves, I had heard of. Great furry beasts, majestic creatures. I loved to listen to their nightly songs, and yip along with their cheerful chorus. But purebloods? I had never heard of such beasts until they had brought them up in a conversation not for my ears. It wasn't my fault ten adolescents and their pair of parents were all crammed tightly into the same foxhole. I couldn't help it my ears happened to lay in the same direction of their voices. And yet, despite the shame for eavesdropping, I became curious. The next day we were meant to leave. What was a pureblood?
We were, as expected, kicked out the following morning. Knowing everything we needed to know, it should have been easy to leave. But I lingered about, searching for an answer to the question which rang in my head. What is a pureblood? When my father noticed me still about, he chased me off as fox parents are supposed. I caught trail of my older brother, and resigned rival, Necro and followed him as I was unsure where to go myself. But a few days passed n my silent stalking, and he met a doe-eyed vixen and they settled down. I still can't believe my blue-blooded, black-furred brother, who took so much pride in the fur of his own species and looked down on other foxes less intriguing coloration's, married a red fox. But I respect and love him for stepping out of his boundaries, even more do I love him for their children. Seven kits, speckled black and red in the odd mix, who romp and play as we used to. They are very sweet beasts, even if I haven't seen them in years. Now, I seem to be getting off topic. Where was I... oh... yes.
After Necromancer went off to settle down, I was left all to my lonesome. In this solitude I wandered, drifted about the land and away form my little home forest. Most vixens pick a territory and settle into it, awaiting a dog- but I had no interest in a mate at the time. I only had interest in answers to my questions. And so, drifting and wandering became my hobby.
A year saw me in a very different area than the small forest of my youth. Chasing down a squirrel one day, after wedging beneath bushes, skirting trees, and sneaking through grass, I discovered something even newer than the territory. Dogs. I had heard of them, of course, but never had we crossed paths. But we certainly did then- I lost the squirrel but found a trio of large beasts. A Newfoundland, a pitbull, and a basenji... not that I knew any of those species at the time. The Newfoundland, who I nicknamed Choc, as his fur was as dark brown as that, had thought me a wolf pup. Better yet, he proclaimed I was a wolf pup sent to spy on the purebloods. I didn't bother correcting him... in fact, I couldn't. I was frozen in terror of these brutes five times my size. I could barely manage a gulp, until the Newfoundland raised his hackles and took a step toward me, then the oddest thing happened.
I laughed. Giggled, uncontrollably, over... and over... and over... It just never stopped. A chortling, grating, gurgle of a noise, like a drowning animal. AND IT WOULDN'T STOP. I remember tilting my head curiously as the big brown Choc stared at me, remember the giggling still rushing out but changing pitch with the tilt of my head. I remember the Basenji shivering, and turning his back to me. "Come on, guys, she's loony." O some rubbish like that spilled form his mouth and I realized I probably did look a bit mad. Fur clumped up and riddle with burrs and brambles from squeezing beneath branches and dashing through weeds. It stuck up in tufts then lay flat in the next spot, giving me a very strange and wild look. My ears were flat against my skull, yet my tail was bushed out and body puffed as a small animal in a tight spot is known to do... make themselves bigger. And I watched, still laughing, coal eyes questioning, as the pitbull turned to join his friend. "Come on, she's no Wolf, let alone is that crazed animal fit for spying. Look, she's limping." I wasn't limping, merely holding up a hind foot, the paw pad pierced with a thorn... not that he would see that, the direction that foreign brute was turned. "I bet she's diseased! Look at her scrappy fur! And those eyes, dull, slimy. She's even the wrong color for a fox. She'll be dead within nightfall." As you can guess, I didn't bother to correct that either. Just kept giggling as they all turned their backs, giggled as I heard the large forms lumber off. It stopped as soon as they got out of hearing, after which I plopped down onto my haunches, smoothed back my fur, and sauntered out of the area. It became a defense mechanism after that, going off whenever I was mad, scared, or even just a twinge upset. I deal with it, as it seems to have become involuntary, and pass it off to anyone who asks as some kind of split-personality thing. When I'm cheerful, not feeling any twinge of bad, I'll be calm and collected, unlike the 'other self' I convince others of.
XX. A Little Extra
Likes:
Dislikes:
RP Sample:
only for new members
- Occasional Solitude
- Pups
- Telling stories
Dislikes:
- Looking scruffy, but she must fool everyone, so she remains.
- Being thought of as psychotic
- Being lied to
RP Sample:
only for new members
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