Post by Marchën on Nov 1, 2007 22:58:27 GMT -5
Name: Marchën
Age: Five
Gender: Male
Picture:
General Color: Splotchy white
Height: 11.2h
Markings: Nothing bigger than pebbly-gray spots on his flanks.
Personality: Marchën, for all of his inherent optimism, is kind of stupid. Not in a way that suggests he’s literally incapable of forming coherent statements, but he’s slow to realize threats, can’t, for the life of him, discern when to apply the ettiquette of hierarchy because he doesn’t quite know what hierarchy is. Granted, it’s pretty hard to hate him — Marchën is as innocuous as he looks, as beautifully androgynous and sunny and really, only a complete cad could resist his aura of pure happy. He’s sunshine personified, the veritable essence of ignorant bliss, and, for the most part, remains focused on the good of a situation as opposed to the bad. Naturally, he’s a little out-there, and some people find his personality a little tiring after extended periods of time, but it can’t be denied that Marchën is never a Debbie Downer. Ever.
Unfortunately, for all of his innocence, Marchën is possessing of a little bit of an abandonment complex, and is in the habit of tagging onto an older companion in something akin to a symbiotic relationship (without the, er, mutual part) for weeks at a time until he gets the urge to hit the road for himself again, whereupon he’ll leave, avoiding his past beaus like the plague. It isn’t anything harmful, he thinks, but considering that he’s never actually been part of a herd — and is therefore missing out on the social know-how of everything to do with his fellow equines — it’s just his way of coping, of forming the relationships he never had in his childhood, and until someone calls him on it, he’s going to continue.
Appearance: Surprisingly, Marchën doesn’t look like anything of a particular breed, and because he’s not in contact with any relative of his, even guesses are beyond his reach. In any case, he’s rather small, a bit on the twiggy side, with a long, graceful neck and a small, peach-fuzzy-furred head. Of his most outstanding features, his legs are probably the most prominent: they’re excessively long, and almost insanely thin, rivaling deers’ legs, and, considering that his hooves are proportionate to his limbs’ sizes, these just attribute more to his appearance. As a “Fallen Angel,” his wings are cute, cherubic little things — white, and splotched with the same little gray tickmarks as the rest of his coat.
History: Marchën has no idea where he was born, and to whom, and as a result, he’s apathetic about his entire history. He remembers wandering, being picked up by a mare who had just lost her own foals to the winter cold of the off-breeding season, and being fed by her until she could no longer sustain him, only to find himself alone again. It was a life he didn’t expressly choose, but he’s never known anything beyond that, and has, since then, acquired a little bit of a fear of congregations of equines more than three in any given area, and as a result, makes it a point to keep constantly moving. Of his celestial origins he has no knowledge, and probably would rather keep it that way — the alternative is, of course, being “in” on all of these race-wars about the area, and as a non-confrontational kid, that’s something he’d find ideal.
Age: Five
Gender: Male
Picture:
General Color: Splotchy white
Height: 11.2h
Markings: Nothing bigger than pebbly-gray spots on his flanks.
Personality: Marchën, for all of his inherent optimism, is kind of stupid. Not in a way that suggests he’s literally incapable of forming coherent statements, but he’s slow to realize threats, can’t, for the life of him, discern when to apply the ettiquette of hierarchy because he doesn’t quite know what hierarchy is. Granted, it’s pretty hard to hate him — Marchën is as innocuous as he looks, as beautifully androgynous and sunny and really, only a complete cad could resist his aura of pure happy. He’s sunshine personified, the veritable essence of ignorant bliss, and, for the most part, remains focused on the good of a situation as opposed to the bad. Naturally, he’s a little out-there, and some people find his personality a little tiring after extended periods of time, but it can’t be denied that Marchën is never a Debbie Downer. Ever.
Unfortunately, for all of his innocence, Marchën is possessing of a little bit of an abandonment complex, and is in the habit of tagging onto an older companion in something akin to a symbiotic relationship (without the, er, mutual part) for weeks at a time until he gets the urge to hit the road for himself again, whereupon he’ll leave, avoiding his past beaus like the plague. It isn’t anything harmful, he thinks, but considering that he’s never actually been part of a herd — and is therefore missing out on the social know-how of everything to do with his fellow equines — it’s just his way of coping, of forming the relationships he never had in his childhood, and until someone calls him on it, he’s going to continue.
Appearance: Surprisingly, Marchën doesn’t look like anything of a particular breed, and because he’s not in contact with any relative of his, even guesses are beyond his reach. In any case, he’s rather small, a bit on the twiggy side, with a long, graceful neck and a small, peach-fuzzy-furred head. Of his most outstanding features, his legs are probably the most prominent: they’re excessively long, and almost insanely thin, rivaling deers’ legs, and, considering that his hooves are proportionate to his limbs’ sizes, these just attribute more to his appearance. As a “Fallen Angel,” his wings are cute, cherubic little things — white, and splotched with the same little gray tickmarks as the rest of his coat.
History: Marchën has no idea where he was born, and to whom, and as a result, he’s apathetic about his entire history. He remembers wandering, being picked up by a mare who had just lost her own foals to the winter cold of the off-breeding season, and being fed by her until she could no longer sustain him, only to find himself alone again. It was a life he didn’t expressly choose, but he’s never known anything beyond that, and has, since then, acquired a little bit of a fear of congregations of equines more than three in any given area, and as a result, makes it a point to keep constantly moving. Of his celestial origins he has no knowledge, and probably would rather keep it that way — the alternative is, of course, being “in” on all of these race-wars about the area, and as a non-confrontational kid, that’s something he’d find ideal.
