Post by Skye-Blue. on Oct 9, 2012 18:24:52 GMT -5
I be called Brutus,
I im 11yrs old,
My breed is Clydesdale,
I am a manly man,
I am 17.2hh,
Me color be bay,
My eyes are black as my soul,
I have a blaze and four socks,
Birthed in a herd that judged him for his fathers actions, and born from a mare that did not want him, Brutus' first few years were miserable. He spent long hours trailing after his mother, feeding from her in brief periods whenever she was in a sedate enough mood for him to get close, not that it was often. He endured the jeers and taunts from the other foals, and the glares upon him everywhere he turned. Finally, when he reached the age of three he was chased from the herd by the lead stallion, banished from the land and never to return. Eventually, after gaining enough fighting experience and scars, he returned to the land he had been born into. He turned on the colts that had bullied him, ripping them apart like ragdolls. He turned on the mares that had sneered and glared at him as he trailed behind his mother, stripping their flesh from bones and relishing in the blood that splashed upon his pelt. Then he turned upon the foals, striking them down mercilessly. He then scoured the lands, searching for others, striking down the survivors of his bloodthirsty attack. Then he stopped, pausing, relishing in the sudden silence. Brutus turned, walking away from the mass of blood and corpses that resembled a former life. He was Brutus, the Feared One. The Scourge of Efre. Fear him or face his wrath!
I im 11yrs old,
My breed is Clydesdale,
I am a manly man,
I am 17.2hh,
Me color be bay,
My eyes are black as my soul,
I have a blaze and four socks,
Birthed in a herd that judged him for his fathers actions, and born from a mare that did not want him, Brutus' first few years were miserable. He spent long hours trailing after his mother, feeding from her in brief periods whenever she was in a sedate enough mood for him to get close, not that it was often. He endured the jeers and taunts from the other foals, and the glares upon him everywhere he turned. Finally, when he reached the age of three he was chased from the herd by the lead stallion, banished from the land and never to return. Eventually, after gaining enough fighting experience and scars, he returned to the land he had been born into. He turned on the colts that had bullied him, ripping them apart like ragdolls. He turned on the mares that had sneered and glared at him as he trailed behind his mother, stripping their flesh from bones and relishing in the blood that splashed upon his pelt. Then he turned upon the foals, striking them down mercilessly. He then scoured the lands, searching for others, striking down the survivors of his bloodthirsty attack. Then he stopped, pausing, relishing in the sudden silence. Brutus turned, walking away from the mass of blood and corpses that resembled a former life. He was Brutus, the Feared One. The Scourge of Efre. Fear him or face his wrath!