{Figures} in the ;Mist;

[misty]

Legend

^{Dead Meat - Plain and simple, I want you dead.
Hated - Does this really need to be explained?
Jerk - You've angered my one too many times.
Just leave me alone! - I find you pretty darn annoying.
Tolerated - I don't really like you, but I'll put up with your nonsense.
Hello - I've just met you, and you haven't gone to my good or bad side . . . yet.
Hey there! - I've met you before! You're Ok.
Respected - I might like you, or I might not, either way, you have my respect.
What's up? - We may not be good friends, but I'll swap chit-chat every now and then.
Buds - Your my friend and I can count on you.
Crush - You're amazing and I think I might love you.
Almost Siblings - Best friends forever, we trust, count on, stand up for, and support each other.
Flesh and Blood - My family, be it parent, sibling, or offspring. I'd do anything for you.
Lovestruck - I'm head over heels in love and I'll do what it takes to prove it.
Soul Mates - Together forever, my heart is yours. I'd give my life to protect you and I know you'd do the same.}

[misty]

Phantom's Shadow

Friesian | Mare | Six Years | Free-Roaming

<sup>Height:
15.1 hh
Appearance:
A prefect charcoal black covers every part of her body, while strong limbs carry her frame. Her legs have a bit of feathering on them, while her head is angular and her ears are small but well-placed. Mane and tail are extremely thick and also carry a jet black coloring. Her eyes are a black/dark brown with a very dark green ring around the pupil.
Personality:
Phantom sees herself not as above other horses, just smarter and with more sense. She models this in the way she carries herself and in her speech, both are elegant and lofty. She will never admit she's wrong, if she happens to make a mistake, and is easily annoyed. Praise or compliments almost never leave Phantom's mouth, but she can spot faults quickly. Stallions are crude, filthy creatures in her opinion, and she trys not to associate with them, much less be around when they feel like breeding. Taking orders isn't her strongest point, but even she knows when it's better to just do what you're told.
History:
Phantom comes from a line of horses that considered themselves superior to other breeds, as theirs was more rare and elegant. All of them were masters, owning their own land and many slaves. It was no different for her parents, who had one of the larger herds. Originally, Phantom was the heir, then her brother was born. This was both a relief and on outrage for young Phantom, who had no interest in commanding slaves. But the fact that her parents would kick her aside once a male entered the picture angered her more than anything else ever would.

Now wanting no part of her family or herd, she declared herself a free-roamer and left, much to the dismay of her parents, for this was a scandal among masters. Not caring to have anything to do with stallions, or any other horse, Phantom began to wander the free lands. Ashamed deep down that she was not good enough to inherit her family's land, she began to comfort herself by looking for worse faults in others, also by telling herself that idiotic stallions were wrongly place above mares. She still has a longing for herd life and intends to join the first one that will accept her, and, of course, she likes.</sup>

[misty]

Miro's Promise

Northern Rocky Mountain Wolf | Male | Four 1/2 years | Slave

<sup>Height:
32 inches
Appearance:
Miro is a buff wolf, but his weight is not too much more than most females. This does not at all make him a weakling; he really knows how to throw his weight around. Shaggy gray-blue fur hangs from his frame, making him larger than life. His fur thins in the summer but remains the same length all year long. Cream streaks run down from his chin to his belly and light chestnut orbs are set in his head. Miro's auds are short and rounded at the tips, while a small ruff hangs around his neck.
Personality:
Miro is a cocky brute, putting too much faith in himself and his reasoning, which has gotten him into trouble more than once. Slavery has never daunted him, for he finds that if his work is done swiftly, he has more time for 'other things'. 'Other things' involves him chasing after the unlucky femme that has caught his eye. Masters favor him for his good work until they get complaints from the fae he's been flirting with. In every pack he has found one girl that he finds irresistible, whether she is slave, free-roamer, or heir. Because he thinks too highly of himself, he will hang around her until he gets what he wants. Being one persistent brujo, he usually either finds a way to get her, with or without the femmora's permission, or is kicked back to Auction Rock.
History:
Once upon a time, a lovely female named Lira fell in love with a handsome brujo and they lived happily in the mountains. The brute, named Miro, promised the femme that he would always take care of her and never leave her side. For a while they lived blissfully and Lira soon became heavy with puppies. Miro had never liked pups and it would require hard work to keep them alive in the cold mountains. He ordered his mate to get rid of the pups when they were born, but Lira pleaded for their lives. Miro said he would think about it, then disappeared into the night. Weeks later, Lira heard that he was now living in the forest with his own pack - and that another vixen ruled by his side.

The fairy-tale was now over and there would be no happily ever after.

In Lira swelled up a rage which no words could describe and she spent her nights outside in the cold air, howling her anger into the air for all, especially Miro, to hear. She hunted rarely, then stopped all together. That week the pups were born and all but one died. Lira blamed Miro for this, so she named her only son Miro's Promise to remind the world forever of the bond that her former mate had broken. She raised the young pup with a burning ferocity, desperate to turn him from the path his father had taken.

When Lira grew old and died, Miro was still young and he wanted more than a lonely life on the mountains. He traveled down into the forests and staked out a home. Unfortunately, he had settled down on another territory. The owner was none too happy and sent out wolves to drag him away. Knocking Miro out, they left him at Auction Rock, where his fate was sealed. His first master was kind, a female that had seen cruelty and vowed to end it. She built Miro up, letting him believe whatever he wanted about himself, and soon grew attached to him. She ordered everyone in her pack to treat him as the next heir.

As the heir, Miro was able to do almost anything he wanted. When a pretty fem arrived, he decided that she should be future Alphaess. The femmora was grateful to be lifted form slavery and into royalty and waited on Miro hand-and-foot. His self-esteem higher than ever before, he soon become too confident for his own good. The female that adopted him had been old when he was named heir and she was now limited to her den. Good as Alpha, Miro began expanding to territory, believing himself to be invincible. The other packs, angered and vengeful, proved him to be very wrong. Miro was sent back to Auction Rock and never saw his mate again, but his head was too big to be deflated much now.

Now every pack that takes him finds one of the females being constantly followed. Miro couldn't take no for an answer and continued till he had to be thrown out. Only once has he been successful, but even that ended in tragedy. He had been chasing after another slave, and the master knew it. He ordered them to mate, much to Miro's delight, and she gave birth soon after. She had never loved Miro the way he did her, so the pups became the center of her life, pushing Miro out to the edge. He wasn't about to be replaced, so he stole to pups and killed them in the forest, some of his father's dislike still in his genes. Needless to say, he was punished cruelly and sent back to Auction Rock. Miro still remains confident that he will find true love one day</sup>

[misty]

Moloch

American Timber Wolf | Male | Six Years | Master

<sup>Height:
35 inches
Appearance:
Coat bears a rusty-red hue, with streaks of mixed black and red hairs through it. Around the muzzle, white hairs are sprinkled among the red, giving Moloch an older appearance. His paws are large and menacing claws protrude from them. Orbs are a gleaming yellow-red to coordinate with his pelt. A broad chest and strong hindquarters make up the body, and a large head sits squarely on top of bulky shoulders.
Personality:
As his namesake, the Phoenician god Moloch, demanded human sacrifice, this beast demands wolven offerings. Crafty and sinister, Moloch is often seized by a terrible blood-lust. It can only be quenched by the bitter-sweet blood of a fellow wolf; no other animal can hold it off for long. No wolf has ever been able to penetrate his cold heart, so femmes are of no interest to him, except as food. Moloch can sense what a wolf is afraid of if the fear is strong enough, so he likes to torture his victims before they are eaten.
History:
His parents were free-roamers living with the mother's sister, who had been raised by the mother and never became independent enough to strike off on her own. Moloch was born an only child, but a few months later, the sister gave birth to two healthy pups, one male and one female. She refused to say who the father was, so it was assumed that she had fallen in love with some passer-by.

Both Moloch and his cousin idolized Moloch's father; he was a god in their eyes. As they grew older a rivalry grew between them, each fighting to be the dominant and impress the male. Naturally, Moloch was enraged when his cousin was taken out to be taught by the father before him. The other came back bragging that the father had told him a secret: he and Moloch were not cousins, but half-brothers. He also claimed that his mother had been loved more; therefore he was the dominant son. At that moment, Moloch's perfect image of his father shattered and, fury rising beyond control, he attacked his half-brother. Helpless against such a viscous attack, the other male died quickly. It was then when Moloch took a liking to wolf blood, and it has only ever intensified.

Not sorry at all, but well aware of what would happen when the others found him standing over his “cousin’s” dead body, Moloch left. There was nothing left for him there.

With no other there, Moloch taught himself how to survive. He never thought of his family again after that day, but forgot them completely. The brute soon discovered that his blood-lust must be fed, or he may turn upon himself to satisfy it. Ah, but where could he find a place with many wolves for the taking, wolves no one would come searching for? Auction Rock was the answer, and Moloch became a regular there after claiming his own piece of land. Though he does not like leaving his home, he must travel there every so often to claim his next meal. Sometimes they live for a while, sometimes they are barely given a chance to see what would have been their new home. One thing is for sure: no wolf lives to tell of Moloch the monster.</sup>

[misty]

First, a tale:
A small free-roaming pack, struggling to survive a terrible famine. A pregnant she-wolf, preparing to give birth to her first litter. Lack of food had made her thin and even her bulging stomach did nothing to hide the bones that showed plainly through her ragged pelt. Her howls of agony could be heard all over the camp; everyone waited anxiously to hear the soft whimpers of pups. The flicker of hope in their hearts ebbed every time a pup, stillborn and lifeless, was carried out into the woods to be buried. It had been al but extinguished when the weak cry of a hungry pup came form the birthing den. One pup of out the seven that had grown in their mother’s stomach lived. His name was Rorka.

Because of the famine, Rorka had not one playmate to spend his puppyhood with. He never learned how to play, but quickly jumped the gap from infant to adult. Instead of play-wars, he had battle training. Instead of chasing leaves, he stalked prey under the watchful eye of his father. As he grew older and stronger, Rorka spent almost every moment of his life training or working for the pack.

While hunting alone at the edge of the pack’s territory, he chased a rabbit off the edge of a ravine. Rorka, intent on his prey, didn’t see the steep drop until it was too late. Plummeting over the side, his head landed on a rock, knocking him unconscious. A wolf from his pack found him hours later, blood pooling around his head, but alive. It would make sense to say that the wolf took Rorka back to the camp and his parents, but sense has no place in this world.

This particular wolf, a female a bit more than a year older than Rorka, had lusting after him ever since his puppy form had given way to the body of an adult. She knew that they would never be together as long as they were living in the pack, as her current mate would be less than pleased with that arrangement, to say the least. Sensing that it would be now or never, she dragged his limp body over the far side of the ravine, out of the pack’s territory. The she-wolf hoped that he would agree to be her secret lover out of gratitude, but fate dealt her one better than that. When Rorka finally came to, he remembered nothing from his past. At first the fae had no idea what to do, but inspiration struck when the male asked who she was. ” I’m your mate,” she answered, ”Don’t you remember me?” So Rorka became the vixen’s secret mate, living in the cave, completely clueless to why she disappeared for days at a time. He was used to give her the pleasure that her real mate would not, and would still be used so today if life had not again thrown him a curveball.

A rouge wolf wandered onto Rorka’s small territory one evening, thinking that the place was unoccupied. Rorka’s “mate” was also paying him a visit that evening, and when the rouge bumped into her out in woods, he decided that she should become his. Rorka, enraged at the rouge’s behavior and wanting to protect what he thought was his, was not content to merely run the intruder off. He wanted to rip the other male to shreds first. While the two were fighting, the fae made a quick exit, but the male were already too deep in to notice. The rouge, flailing desperately under Rorka’s strong hold, got a lucky kick at Rorka’s old scar. Rorka released him, howling in pain and already beginning to black out. The rouge, stumbling to his feet, bowled him over and slammed him to the ground. The impact was hard enough to knock Rorka unconscious again, but this time he seemed to be dead. The victor dragged what he thought was his dead opponent to the edge of his newly-won territory and dumped him in the river that ran there. The shock of cold water revived Rorka, but his body was still paralyzed. He was washed downriver in the raging current, where he regained use of his body. But again, his memory had been wiped out.

This time he found himself surrounded by a pack of bloodthirsty, warlike wolves. Rorka was allowed into their pack when they found him nonthreatening, but as an inferior omega. As the omega, he was automatically assigned the job of punching bag, used for practice fights and battle training. Luckily, he fought only young wolves preparing for their first battles and was spared severe harm. When the Alpha noticed how well he fought, always figuring out new ways to knock his opponent off his feet, he promoted Rorka to a full member. At this time he was bestowed with a new name, Kichrynan. With that name he was officially welcomed to the pack, for he was called merely “Wolf” before, having forgotten his real name. With every battle he fought, Kichrynan was exalted by his pack-mates for his brilliant tactics. At this time, another strong warrior was also making a name for himself in another pack, and it was only a matter of time before the two would meet.

The other wolf had a dark, scheming nature, however, and chose a midnight raid over meeting on the battlefield. Kich, unprepared, was captured along with most of his pack. Many were made into slaves and some were executed, but Kichrynan was sold to the slave traders of Sobibor. There he was taken to the slave trials, where he was again sold to become a competitor in the games. The master in charge of the trials knew he was capable of better things, though, and made him his right-hand wolf. With his serious attitude and strong muscles, he quickly gained the respect of everyone at the trials. When the old master died, Kichrynan took his place as master of the slave trials.

---

Title:
Kichrynan
If Pressed for Time:
Kich, but only few call him that.
The Blood in My Veins:
Great Plains Wolf
A Towering Figure:
42 inches
You Must Know By Now:
Brute
See and Remember:
Dark brown fur covers his buff body, becoming thicker on his chest and neck. Black highlights streak across his fur like claw marks, tapering to a point as they end. His white chin fur trickles down to cover his chest and belly, also decorating the insides of his legs. Haunting yellow eyes, almost reminiscent of those of snake, stare down everyone around him. His large muzzle is pointed in more ways than one as the tips of sharp teeth slip out of the lips. His ears sit small on his large head, cupped to catch each and every sound around him. Short claws add extra power to his giant paws. His head carries a long scar, running from the base of his left ear down to his cheek; the mark of the incident that changed his life. His fur almost hides it, but it becomes apparent when he turns his head to the right.
I Have Walked the Earth:
6 years
The Man Behind the Mask:
Kichrynan has power and he is well aware of it. All but masters are under him, and even they are considered as his equals. Kich’s serious attitude and haunting looks leave a dark aura around him, making most wolves think twice about crossing him. Though aggressive and often the one to make the first move in a fight, he does not look for trouble and tries to control himself. Unfortunately, he cannot always tolerate blatant disrespect. He is not opposed to friendships with the masters who bring their slaves to his arena, though his appearance might suggest an anti-social wolf. Those few who have become his friends, or at least have been frequent visitors, know that he is not above taking bribes. He drives a hard bargain, but if you can please him, you can be certain that your slave’s opponents will not perform at their best in the next competition.
Kichrynan prefers not to mistreat his slaves or the competitors that masters entrust to him, but he does not tolerate attitude or rebellion. Usually a few clouts to the head will set them straight, but Kich will not hesitate to take the punishment father if needed. Female or male, he treats each slave the same and will deal out the same repute. However, it is not unheard of for beautiful new vixens to visit his den before being sent to the slave pens. Equines do not faze him in the least, as he has had plenty of experience with them and knows their weak points just as well as a wolf’s. He can be a deadly opponent during battle, striking quickly and without warning.
See for Yourself:
Click
My Rank:
Free-Roaming/Master (Head of Slave Trials)