Croatan

[kaea]

CHARACTER NAME ____________________________________

AGE
EIGHT.

GENDER
STALLION.

PERSONALITY
Cold. He would sooner turn his back on someone, than reach out a helping hand. He believes that those who need help are weak, and would prey on the strength of others.

Calm. He'll think a situation through, not enjoying brass choices that might come back to bite one in the bum. Though he isn't one for coming to agreements, he still sees fit to hash things out and come to some sort of understandingt, which is normally his understanding.

Sarcastic. It flows from his very skin. It is, in fact, almost a second skin. It's one of his protective measure, that one would think is used to prick at others. He uses it as an attack, just as well. It is a tool he sees as very handy and uses quite often.

Morbid. He grew up with an understanding of death. He looks apon it as something that one achieves once they have become worthy of it. It is his idol, so to speak. He doesn't worship death, he simply understands the need for it, more so than life.

Calculating. He plans. It is his thing. He will plan a situation out ten times before putting a plan into action. It is a need. No one can win without a plan unless luck is on their side. And who ever went about courting luck? Certainly not Croatan.

Emotionless. Oh, we all know that he's not emotionless. But that doesn't mean he doesn't think of himself as such. He sees emotions as a glitch in armor, that anyone could use against someone is they had a mind to.

Bold. He was never one to sit back in the shadows or take commands. He's dominating and domineering. These two traits make for a person to be dealt with and never stepped on. He will stand up for something he is fond of, without a thought as to how many stand against him.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
He was known well for his appearance, back in her homeland. Now, though, he is just another dual-toned hide to be dealt with. Blacker than coal, his locks drape him quite well, hanging in a straight line from his neck and in a steady flow from his rump. His face is dominantly white, eye sockets holding wall eyes that reflect a never silver when looked into. His form is tall and muscular, a steady flow of mixed blood giving him the state. Chocolate brown is dominant across his body, though a few brindle batches on each side marr his form. White splotched take to his from limbs, a white gap marring his shoulder. Scars etch his neck from a fight not long ago.

HISTORY
He prefers not to pretend that life is pleasant, when, in reality, every day is a battle, whether big or small. And each battle is either won or lost. So, someone, somewhere is fighting a losing war. So why dance around reality? At least, that is how we surmise that Croatan sees life. No dance. Just a cold passage of time until death claims us for the after-life.

He was known as Lord Death. Feared by those who enjoyed life. They felt that simply because his name was the same as The Angel of Death, that he had some keen sixth sense that could for-tale doom and destruction. It was true that the beast had an understanding of death that far surpassed most beings' understandings of it. He sometimes mused that it was his downfall. But the fact was, Croatan was alone because of his unnatural fears. Fears of emotion. Emotional attachment was something that Croatan had believed himself unworthy of. He had left Bone in the dust, and for what? Because he had gotten too invested emotionally. Because he couldn't go a moment without thinking of her. And now she was gone, and he couldn't seem to remember exactly what she looked like. Almost as if her image faded with time. He utilized the solitude to keep his mind from his past hurts. The slips of thoughts that tempted his mind with hurt and despair when they crossed it.

For a tense moment there is unsureness in this most steady beast that we watch. He gazes longingly upon the lady, and we must wonder what thoughts drive him to this longing look. But the aloofness is brought back as he pulls away, daring himself to say another word when we know that he will not. Can not. But we sense the life-changing event that is about to take place. It almost permeates the air. We smell it almost as well as we smell honey-suckles and rose blossoms in the dawn of Spring. The question is not whether this is happening or not. The question is, how it will happen. But then, that is always the question, is it not? Croatan, as we have seen, is always cast aside by those who fear for their lives. He has a common understanding of death, and thus, the world fears him. But he holds no power, as we know. He simply never adored life enough to understand it, as he did his consistent companion of cruelty and death. Death surrounded his younger days, giving way only to cruelty in his adulthood. We have studied him for so long, yet, somehow, we still do not fully understand all this is, was, and will be Croatan.

But even when he had been a small colt, he had never played games or pranced about in joyous abandon. Darkness shrouded that era of his past, much like it did today. Everything always seemed so complicated to his befuddled mind.

Glancing to the Arab beauty, he took in her words, something in him clawing at the mask he held over his heart. It was almost as if he wanted to rip free and feel something. His eyes narrowed as he peered at her, his heart hammering in his chest. Could she really understand him that easily? Understand that he needed a safe place as much as anyone else did? His past almost seemed little compared to what past he was assuming she had. He almost wept with the joy that she didn't think he was bastardizing himself, when he truly felt he was. How could she look at him, and not loath his image? Was it possible that she actually saw him, when others only heard his name and knew of his morbid personality, and that was simply as close as they got to him?

It is a jumble of memories. A past snatched to quickly from him. Something he cannot hope to grasp again. There is a desire to hold dear those who he lost, yet he knows that though it is said, the past does not repeat it's self. Not for him. Not for Croatan. Croatan who took Stellar Blu's land and left him homeless with his mate. Croatan who dropped Bone because he feared emotions. This was the same stallion who had dubbed Contate his queen and snatched the title ruthlessly from her for the mear fact that he'd lost interest. The father of Io, whom he'd recieved from his last Queen, Hatshepsut. Hatshepsut who had been stolen by Scythe, because the stallion had obsessed over her. And now his family and his land was abandoned. Let them rot in hell, he had muttered, finding it within himself to trek onward. He was empty. A very empty shell. His past was not one that was to be relived. It was shrowded and always would be in mystery, because he never found the need to reveal it to others. Why reveal the abomination that Tartarus had tried to rid the world of? The one Kratos had desired dead? Oh, nameless beings to anyone who had not lived Croatan's past. Nameless beings who could only affect the present.