Post by Luthor on Aug 31, 2006 20:23:51 GMT -5
My Lord?
*Standing just outside the tall metal door, a hooded figure raised a paw fastidiously. Who knew what the temperamental, unpredictablel Lord was currently doing? He could be sleeping, and if Ghost woke him up, Luthor would tan his hide. The wildcat could also be have worked himself into a fine temper and who would be the nearest person to take his anger out on? Ghost. Either which way beheld dire consequences. It was like walking through a field of landmines, circumspectly picking his way through it. While he was waiting for his Lord's reply, Ghost's slitted amber eyes scanned the area around him. A wide corridor with tall, arched church ceilings. It was sparsely furnished, and in the least inviting. Amused by the bare simplicity of it all, Ghost crossed two arms across his chest. He thought a Warlord would have his base bristling with plenty of arrant knick knacks. The gaunt figure waited about the time of three human heartbeats longer for a reply from the other side of the door, but none came. What sort of treatment was this, for a respected assasin like him? Ghost snorted and began to walk down the dank hallway. The way he walked was slow and deliberate, his movements careful and precise, his cloak barely rustling as he hugged the wall.
Ghost was not a normal creature. No, not at all. If you ever saw his face, you'd be considered extremely lucky, seeing as nearly no beast has ever glimpsed the slender figure's true face. His past was veiled in darkness, covered by layers and layers of a facade of lies and double-crosses. He hated all and trusted no one except himself. Only Ghost knew his bona fide past, present, and features. It was not a pleasant one. Ghost was born into a small renegade team of vermin, vehement and with little or no inhibitors. They did want they wanted, no questions asked. Ghost was abused and beaten, left out in the dust. The way his family treated him inhumanely maimed Ghost forever; not in the way that a babe might be born with a birthmark, but in the way that his life would never be the same again. He could never trust. He could never truly love. Then, one day, as the band of boorish vermin moved onward from their camping site, they had forgotten Ghost. It was a make-it or break-it situation. He could die out there with no one to care for him, or someone could find him and take Ghost under their wing. A baby Ghost survived on his own for days, sleeping under a makeshift shelter. One day, an old squirrelmaiden found Ghost shivering in the cold. Pity overtook her, shunning the rather palpable difference between goodbeast and vermin. Her name was Califah. Ghost spent the rest of his Dibbunhood/young adult with the loving squirrel. He began to gradually come out of his rather thick shell and began to venerate his guardian. But, of course, did it last?
One day, Califah and Ghost went out to a nearby farming village, where he felt the vituperation of the goodbeasts' words sting him as if he was being flogged by a whip. The young fox's eyes had swelled up with salty tears, which slowly boiled into conniption. He lashed out at the villagers, leaving some of them bitemarks to remember the day. Califah ferociously berated the villagers, attempting to calm Ghost down, but he wouldn't hear of it. He fled the market. Ghost began to travel, a meandering spirit, when he came upon the business of assasination for payment. This struck a fancy to Ghost. He trained to become a sufficient murderer, learned how to kill in cold blood, how to hide his feelings under cynical remarks and overall coldness to everyone he met. And did Ghost ever think about how he could be used for good?
No. He lived life with no regrets.*
((OOC: Yup, Ghosty's a fox. ^^ I'll make a profile later.))
*Standing just outside the tall metal door, a hooded figure raised a paw fastidiously. Who knew what the temperamental, unpredictablel Lord was currently doing? He could be sleeping, and if Ghost woke him up, Luthor would tan his hide. The wildcat could also be have worked himself into a fine temper and who would be the nearest person to take his anger out on? Ghost. Either which way beheld dire consequences. It was like walking through a field of landmines, circumspectly picking his way through it. While he was waiting for his Lord's reply, Ghost's slitted amber eyes scanned the area around him. A wide corridor with tall, arched church ceilings. It was sparsely furnished, and in the least inviting. Amused by the bare simplicity of it all, Ghost crossed two arms across his chest. He thought a Warlord would have his base bristling with plenty of arrant knick knacks. The gaunt figure waited about the time of three human heartbeats longer for a reply from the other side of the door, but none came. What sort of treatment was this, for a respected assasin like him? Ghost snorted and began to walk down the dank hallway. The way he walked was slow and deliberate, his movements careful and precise, his cloak barely rustling as he hugged the wall.
Ghost was not a normal creature. No, not at all. If you ever saw his face, you'd be considered extremely lucky, seeing as nearly no beast has ever glimpsed the slender figure's true face. His past was veiled in darkness, covered by layers and layers of a facade of lies and double-crosses. He hated all and trusted no one except himself. Only Ghost knew his bona fide past, present, and features. It was not a pleasant one. Ghost was born into a small renegade team of vermin, vehement and with little or no inhibitors. They did want they wanted, no questions asked. Ghost was abused and beaten, left out in the dust. The way his family treated him inhumanely maimed Ghost forever; not in the way that a babe might be born with a birthmark, but in the way that his life would never be the same again. He could never trust. He could never truly love. Then, one day, as the band of boorish vermin moved onward from their camping site, they had forgotten Ghost. It was a make-it or break-it situation. He could die out there with no one to care for him, or someone could find him and take Ghost under their wing. A baby Ghost survived on his own for days, sleeping under a makeshift shelter. One day, an old squirrelmaiden found Ghost shivering in the cold. Pity overtook her, shunning the rather palpable difference between goodbeast and vermin. Her name was Califah. Ghost spent the rest of his Dibbunhood/young adult with the loving squirrel. He began to gradually come out of his rather thick shell and began to venerate his guardian. But, of course, did it last?
One day, Califah and Ghost went out to a nearby farming village, where he felt the vituperation of the goodbeasts' words sting him as if he was being flogged by a whip. The young fox's eyes had swelled up with salty tears, which slowly boiled into conniption. He lashed out at the villagers, leaving some of them bitemarks to remember the day. Califah ferociously berated the villagers, attempting to calm Ghost down, but he wouldn't hear of it. He fled the market. Ghost began to travel, a meandering spirit, when he came upon the business of assasination for payment. This struck a fancy to Ghost. He trained to become a sufficient murderer, learned how to kill in cold blood, how to hide his feelings under cynical remarks and overall coldness to everyone he met. And did Ghost ever think about how he could be used for good?
No. He lived life with no regrets.*
((OOC: Yup, Ghosty's a fox. ^^ I'll make a profile later.))
