i would slit my own throat for you.

[snowy]

P H O B I A.

• age; five years.
• gender; male.
• breed; reyt.
• power; healing.

• appearance;

phobia is, fortunately, gifted with a rather beautiful appearance; something that has also caused him to be the object of many females' attention. he is tall and lean; his legs are corded with sinewy muscle, though he is not exactly the most buff wolf and relies mostly on speed and agility with his nimble paws to take care of himself. phobia is by no means weak physically; supple muscle is tight along his hindquarters and shoulders; his chest is not too broad and of sufficient deepness. he has a plumy, feathery tail that's often shaking happily. phobia's face sports even eyes and strong jaws, with lethal fangs. his ears are comically fluffy; all this fluff causes them to look larger than they really are. his coat is thick and silky; some might describe it as to have the texture of feathers when you run against it the wrong way. it's a powdery white; dappled into a darker ivory along his flanks and shoulders, and almost blinding white along his barrel and back. his front left and his back right legs are striped in burnished gold, a glittery color that sparkles like the rest of his coat doesn't. his front right and his back left legs are striped in a dark burgundy sort of color. these stripes on his legs resemble the body stripes of a zebra, though much thinner. they fade to much lighter colors before disappearing completely where his legs meet his body. he has a faint golden wings on each of his ears; on his right ear is the right wing and on the left is the left wing. phobia has unforgettable eyes; if you do not remember the rest of him, you will always remember those large orbs of bright color. his right eye is a tawny, predatory golden-yellow; deep and glittering. his left eye, however, is the 'unforgettable' part of him. the swirling hue is a rich, burgundy red like the best red wine. his stare is as if he's looking right through you, haunted and with some hidden meaning, as if his mind is wandering elsewhere; however, when he is not in this... uninterested state, phobia's gaze is smiling and bright.

• personality;

phobia is an interesting boy. though he was once an average, normal male, experiences from his past have twisted him into this strange being. he retains his fiercely kindhearted demeanor; he does not like to see others hurt or in need and there's something in him that urges him to go help them. he can easily become an emotional mess; confused with himself and others and not sure how to act because of it. he is opinionated and infamous for his short temper and sharp words when he is angry. though this is part of him, another part is easily manipulated by others, slightly afraid of 'evil' beings, and a male who falls in love too easily.

he is a gentle being, and he is very patient. he tends to jump to conclusions, however, and he holds his opinion above other wolves'. he does not like being chained in, as he is an explorer at heart and exceedingly adventurous, always finding some trouble to stick his nose into. like a pup, he is curious; curiosity killed that cat, right? in this case, it's the wolf. he has a hatred of cruelty, especially to females, and he has something against fighting that he definitely did not learn from his old pack. he is passionate and most probably too driven for his own good; he has his moments, when he gets angry at someone (though this is not all too often, he learned his lesson on outbursts long ago) and he will yell and growl and snap. it's these moments where you want to steer clear of phobia, because this is his most fearsome time when his blood boils in his veins. he enjoys running, he enjoys pushing himself, and most of all, he enjoys knowing that he is loved. not that he's felt that too much.

what phobia wants, most of all, is to be wanted. he wants to be loved and needed.

phobia wants to be strong. strength mentally, not physically, for these scars of the past go against everything that he grew up learning. he is a wolf of the present; not the future, not the past. he is not interested in pining after something that he will never find, a newly acquired side of him that happened because of a certain wolfess in a certain land with some enchanting magic. he is polite and respectful; not a particularly dominant wolf but not an omega either. phobia, with his short fuse, is no coward; sometimes he doesn't know when to stay quiet. strangely enough, he isn't actually very loud, and tends to be rather quiet and observant. not outgoing, but friendly enough to say hello to any wolf near him. he is simply hard to figure out and has a complex, undeveloped mind.

• history;

phobia was born to the alpha male and alpha female of his pack; 'the pack of the wild forests'. their pack was very set on being true wolves, unlike what wolves tend to be today. they were intent on restoring order back to the wolves; they taught the ways of the wild ones to the pups in a peaceful manner. they taught that wolves should be free and never tamed; they taught that wolves should never disrespect the alphas nor should they ever submit to one that is hellbent on power. they taught to the adults that only the alphas should be allowed to breed to keep a pure line; and that any wolf should be allowed to love but should control lust. all of this was what they passed on, and for years it worked, however, one pack, 'the pack of the looming mountains', were against this. long story short, a long battle ensued and phobia's pack died out, either losing their lives to the mountain wolves or splitting off because of the unmerciful attacks. phobia was one of these wolves, and the adventurous explorer that he was, he stumbled upon a land called moladion. the second his paw brushed over the dampness of the earth and felt the first chilly gasp of wind against his face, something sparked within him. it was some kind of restless gleam; a monster clawing at his insides and writhing within him, never to rest until he found her, that one wolf who he was destined to protect and even love. a few days of more exploring and he found a place called astra clearing, lusty whispers from a pack meeting (it was breeding season) rasping in his ear and the male in him nearly losing control. it was sitting on a rock with the moonlight bathing his frame that a rough, yet soft voice cloaked him in a sense of calm.

it was fate, he won't deny it, that he met nightmare that night. she had mistaken him for a female, for his elegant features paired with her hatred of males causing her to believe something that was not true. she was his angel, his everything. it was like seeing the sun after years of basking in the shadows of the darkness; it felt like he needed her like a heart needed a beat. every breath he took was for her and that monster finally clawed its way out of him and into the open where a deep thrumming began, in the crevices of his soul and resting on his heavy heart, making it grow lighter. bursting with emotion they spoke, and that conversation caused a litter of pups; paper, pastel, and paranoia. he remembers clearly, paper, the storm cloud; so serious and wise. he remembers pastel, the little girl who was just as quiet and nice as he, catching the calm, unruffled strands of her mother's personality. paranoia, dark-hearted yet loyal. he remembers all of them as clearly as they came yesterday, and yet, those floods that swept the lands of moladion pulled them all apart. he doesn't mind; his fierce love for nightmare was not returned and he thinks, perhaps, that she has found another mate, one who suits her better. and now, he has stumbled into shatterglass, with a broken soul and a broken heart.

• sample post;

phobia is cold.

the storm rages around him, wind breathing heavily into his face and a cloak of white resting upon his normally white back. The night sky is clouded over, the moon lost behind a sea of dank gray clouds hidden in the shadows of the night. The mountains are black in the distance, crumbling crags reaching up to kiss the stars that twinkle lazily from their dark nest. The snow is his mattress, the ice is his sheets, and the cold is his blanket. phobia’s mismatched gaze is bleary and slightly delirious as he swings his head from side to side, his whole body quivering and his snow pooling thickly beneath his coat. He is running, his lean legs moving with no purpose as he scrambles to find his way in the night. He feels so alone; so lost, and… scared. This fear scares him. He stops for a second, his muscles bunched and his jaws pressed tightly together. He shakes, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth together. This is what he does when he is afraid. He thinks of her. Though he is no longer infatuated with Nightmare (that deep thrumming within him no longer resonates within his soul, as it is long gone) she is still a comfort to him; a last fragment of his past that is as lost to him as the moon is.

she is as clear as day now; her the rough, uneven lines of her dark gray face, dappled with lighter gray around her muzzle. Her lips are stretched in a snarl in his mind’s eye, and those teal eyes, the ones that captured him what seems like so long ago, flash angrily. Though this should make him snarl in turn, a smile simply stretches over his elegant features. She is so imperfect, and it makes him happy. He lost interest in this so-called ‘perfection’ long ago, and though he may seem perfect on the outside, with that coat so often described as ‘whiter than the center of a star’, and his mismatched, predator’s eyes, his imperfections begin with a word or a sentence. They begin when his ears pin against his head, when his tail curls, when he loses track of himself and others. They begin when he begins to spout angry words, both at himself and others; when he is manipulated so easily by a wink or a bat of an eyelash. phobia, the angel, is completely imperfect.

in this apparent stupor, he is no longer cold, and yet, as the images fade away and the rush of more wind clogs his ears along with the ice that is crusted on him, he sighs, the last stores of heat escaping from his body in curling wisps from his lips. His paws are bleeding, his legs are scraped, and bruises blossom upon his flesh, not seen but felt. He runs then, eager to escape the wrath of this nighttime blizzard, eager to leave the cruel grasp, the icy grip of the wind’s fingers. Everything whistles past, and suddenly, he is in a small overhang. He is curled up safely. He is okay.

The snowstorm is gone, and she has saved him again.

• ooc/other; snowy! {name} snowydancerrawr {AIM} [e-mail] {e-mail}

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[Gypsy]

He's lovely. Poor thing, I hope he can find some solace here. Accepted!