COMALA ,

[Kezz]

Name: Comala
Gender: Female
Breed: Friesian x Akhal Teke x Ardennais
Genetics: Ee/Aa/nCr
Age: Four
Arrived in Tathra: Spring, Year One
Coat Color: Buckskin (Pale buttermilk)
Height: 16 hands
Eye Color: Very pale grey

Personality: Hot-tempered, ambitious, guarded, cynical, unromantic, brazen, serious, unforgiving, outspoken, greedy, proud, warrioress, independent, impulsive, intolerant, ruthless, sarcastic, hard-working, honest, loyal.

Sample Post:

Iscariot was a man of his word, and to it he kept. The journey had been long, longer than he recalled it taking before, but that had been a lifetime ago and the brawn of youth was not so much on his side anymore; neither did he have a striking, albeit harsh, beauty waiting upon the shores he embarked toward — the memory of laying eyes upon Severina for the first time tattooed mercifully upon the walls of his cavernous mind. He hadn't been alone either, his father and keeper had led the way, the silence between them seemed to stretch further than the distance between the two kingdoms separating Iscariot from his past and future. But last week, as he had stood upon the land bridge that marked the gates of Paradisum's estate, the man could not shake the feeling that this was a different age; change had clasped the lands of MUSTANG with her cool fingers, and she wasn't about to let go.

Suddenly, almost in proof of such a conclusion, a figure had appeared. The air seemed to choke on itself, the birds overhead had adopted stillness in a desperate punt for disguise, and the desert king could feel the hair rising along the length of his spine. Iscariot stared, and corruption stared right back. Into those lupine eyes he had searched for something: answers. What had happened here? There was a veil of something dark, something heinous, hanging over Paradisum's island that set his teeth on edge; and the shark observing him as though he were but an afternoon opportunity for macabre entertainment did not help, not one bit. He had not acquainted himself with this creature before, this animal with storm-blue skin and eyes that mirrored the ruthlessness of the sea behind them both, this man dressed in satire and death, as if they were glittering cufflinks to perfect the suit he'd ordered from a place only devils knew of.

And then the shark had done something Iscariot could not have predicted: he smiled, though it was more a transmitted declaration of total, absolute tyranny, oppression, and success. It was then the king noticed blood upon the creature's body, souvenirs of his most recent kill, surely. And then it dawned on him, realisation of the truth filling his veins with lead. A brazen man would have confronted the jungle's new baron, would have pinned him to the ground, spat in his face, broken his bones till justice was rightfully served. An audacious man would have said something, would have snarled insults and scorn, words of anger. But Fate's heir was none of these things. And he did what he had always done: nothing, at all. He had turned, and disappeared back into the mist, lungs full of... of what? It wasn't sadness, nor was it umbrage. Perhaps it was a sober sense of resignation, the brooding of what ahead would lie.

It had been seven days since the murder, and each of those had been spent sitting upon his throne with his head between his hands and a frown etched permanently across the handsome lines of his skull. When the eighth day came Iscariot could take his inertia not a second longer, and he had set out across the dunes in hope of clearing the political speculation from his concern. So when Ohio entered his peripheral vision, Iscariot almost flinched: how had he not considered her yet? Wrapped entirely in what Paradisum's murder would mean for the desert and his loved ones within it, he had failed to let his tentative fingers of thought reach out to his oldest friend and there was a lick of shame running it's tongue over Isc's heart. In one glance the auburn sultan explored the darkest corners of the desolation running rampant in Ohio's beautiful green eyes, and surely within her soul. He wanted to embrace her — but he didn't know how, he never had known how.

What might have been... that young ginger-haired boy tucked into a shadow of the library, watching with timid fascination as this girl with eyes brimming with forests and philosophy met his gaze. He had never forgotten the stirring of something he'd felt for that sheltered, gorgeous child.

But oh, her pain, her loss, it penetrated his guard like bullets beneath the summer sun.

"I wish I knew how to make your world right again."

[/justify]

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From a rating of one to ten [ten being the best], what would you rate MUSTANG?: 10
What do you suggest we do next/improve?: /
Where did you find us?: Joined v1 in 2012!
What would you like to be called?: Kezz, Kezzy, Kezzles, whatevs.[/font]

[Kezz]

Done! ▼SPACED. WHIPSTER. WICKED

[WHIPSTER.]

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