"The summer day never knew such shame as to look upon the child of sun and flame."



Framed as a forever trapped lanky youth, this miscreant keeps a trim figure, whether lifestyle or genes no one can quite determine the reason. He’s tall, and though muscled enough to keep up, he will never be mistaken for someone's knight in shining armor. Sharp lined face and jaw give away his ancestry, with just the thinnest muscle mass pulled taunt over the rest him to hint at some mingled heftier blood other than the dominate porcelain. Over his frame poured a burning sun, firey gold, rich and in the tricks of light near burnished and metallic. It is not pure however, as if his soul was peaking through, the gold tarnishes at the ends, stained the lightest brown at his knees and top line. As if he did not stand out enough, a burning white was drawn boldly down his spin, and three bars sweep across his hips, tipped in several fading small dots. A head matches with a narrow strip running down its sharp plane, and feathered at the top like a stalk of wheat into five points, each with their own crown of dots. And as if the painter had one final laugh, a small snip rests at the end of his nose, like a drop of misplaced paint.

He might be able to slip through shadows unseen if that was all, but fate didn’t want it to be that easy. His mane and tail are full, traditional, and brilliantly white, and topped with the cherry of accessories in the form of horns and feathers. Nestled at the crown of his head, nearly unseen, rise and curl twin horns. They rise from his poll and fold back, just barely at the height of his ears (tipped here with a small splinter), then dip down, before curling back up in sharp points. They rest near the crest of his mane, like hidden daggers. Finally to prove he was ever a richly blooded mutt, feathers nestle in at his shoulders and the dock of his tail. Small clusters, no more than a few inches in length and ridged with gold at the center. They are useless for any form of flight, but serve as a touch sensitive nuisance, often giving away his emotions with slightly articulations. There’s only one mar to this otherwise lovely picture, three lighter lines on his chest, a cost of naivety paid long ago.

"Flowers and poetry dropped dead at the sight of a cold mortal body in the winter's morning light."
Build: Akhal-Teke xXx Spanish Light
Height: 17 HH
Age: 3.5 years (Summer)
Coat: Rich palomino, near chestnut, light smudges of brown at knees and back. Richly firey yellow.
Body Markings: White dorsal stripe, hip bars three each, the hips have white dots trailing the end.
Facial Markings: Snip at the end of his nose and a narrow stripe with fans out at the top into 5 spearheads. Ending in two dots each, the center, three.
Eyes: Dark green, like the dark rich northern pine forests
Mane: Short but growing. Cut recently, still stands straight up mostly, though beginning to lie again.
Tail: Full, white. White feathers cover the roots of his tail.
Hooves: Light Gray, normal.
Horn: Twin horns from his poll which roll up but immediately back, then curve back up in a tip. A second, smaller at the height of the first curve. When head it at rest, sits nestled in his mane.
Scars: Three are visible, though his known the taste of his own blood. These are on his chest center, lighter gold, and lacking the shimmer of the rest of his coat.
Additional: A cluster of white feathers around his shoulders, small, no longer than a few inches at most. Gold central ridge.

..Too Clever By Half..

..Deceitful..Vain..Clever..Witty..Playful..Discerning..Independent..Bold..Vengeful..Manipulative..

In a world divided by good and evil Locke would have no place. He would see himself as having a heart of gold...that he proudly stole from someone else. Thus rests the root of the disagreement.

A youth still learning that the world does not spin just because he wills it, Locke is still developing his personality, and sense of self preservation. He sits at the cusp of majority and decision, possessing the potential for skills capable of being twisted into the clever mischief maker of fables, or the dread no one dares mention. Not that he'll ever admit such malleability. While life continues to eat at his invincibility Locke happily devotes his efforts to other areas such as his wit, sarcasm, and affinity for lying. Put the kid on a high cliff and he’ll still wonder what it would be like to jump off in order make a dramatic exit. Likely he would get tangled in all his complex strings of lies on his way down too. Fueled by this you’ll find threads of humor, giddiness, delight and playfulness in the boy, tainted with pride, greed, possessiveness, and a twisted sense of justice. He sees these as cherishable qualities, pulling him through life.

That’s not to say it's all laughs and innocence. Though not as tragic as other he has known darker days. Times of his past left him hollow and abused. For a while...the youth who knew thought he knew it all, knew nothing. Felt nothing. There he learned of his anger, dark, cold, and calculated. So strong was it that it twisted his gut and drug him from the darks murky depths with clawing determination. Justice was a word that could be used as a weapon for the most hateful things. Locke learned to play the long game, and slip past the bounds of decency. Cold as his anger is, it blazes in every fiber of his being, pulling the strings of his body during the day, and singing lullabies of revenge in his dreams at night. Of course, those were also the days where he learned their were lines he could not bring himself to cross, yet. Remains of a moral good, and fragments of a heart instilled him from others which he could not so easily toss out.

Locke doesn’t like to acknowledge those decent attributes though. He’d prefer to melt the mantle of golden goodness down and sell it to the highest bidder...Or shift and mold it to compliment the carefree, talented, (prideful), spirited youth- who also just happens to be a damn good liar.

..Trinkets For Sale..

--Street Urchin: A bastard son of a royal and his mistress, Locke has memories of sweet lullabies, and fairytale bedtime stories told on soft beds and warm nooks of love and comfort. Course, your mother getting called out for her rather slutty behavior does tend to ruin that. Dumped from the wealth and luxury to the depths of the lower circles to be shunned, Locke learned the streets with his fairytales still in his head. Oh he knew it was stealing to take that chain of gold, but it was so much like the wondrous excitement those heroes must have felt that guilt never seemed to touch his heart. (Plus fencing it off as 24k instead of the actual 1k helped whatever whispers of conscience did try to surface in his soul.) Sentiments of youth were not stripped but gradually painted over with tainted stains until they became wholly another color.

--Trio of Trouble: Locke learned, as all thieves inevitably do, that people actually get made at you stealing their stuff. Caught, and dragged to the upper circles he stands in front of his father. The reality of genealogy came crashing through the house of justice by way of a young courtesan, to Locke’s satisfaction. A wonder now to his younger half brother and the delightfully beautiful courtesan, Locke finds himself in a small gang of mischief makers in the upper circle. Friends in high places right?

--It Goes to Hell: It ended quickly as all good things do. It was the usual, beautifully complicated and tragic love triangle between brothers and a girl. Framed for the death of his father (who’s gruesome murder the youth still to this day struggles to tell himself he did not do), Locke was due to be sentenced by his brother to exile. Yet advisers had the open their big mouths, and the soldiers received orders for slavery in exile (though Locke only saw the hand of his brother). It's good his innocence was lost long ago. All he cares to remember is his dreams at night of vengeance.

--Reality is a Bitch: Locke’s escape is a fun tale, and changes every time he tells it- but the reality was he got lucky. Slipping the keeper he slid like a deadly frost in winter back to his homeland. It worked. He got all the way to holding a blade against his brother’s neck before that courtesan...that damned mare revealed it had been by her selfish hand. Her own lesson with intentions being nothing but false facing pacification you tell yourself during guilt. Facing her guilt, his brother’s innocence. Torn. Hurt. Unsure. He let the dagger drop, and ran.

--Like It Never Happened: He won’t talk about the days after. Likes to ignore them. But it took many weeks, and many miles before even a talented liar like himself could believe none of it really mattered anyway.

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--Small Pouch: Leather made, hard weathered. Older curling engravings on it, roughly down (by his own work). 3 inches wide, 5 inches long. [[ENCHANTED:: Anything the wearer wills into the satchel will shrink to fit inside.]]

--Leg straps: Leather made, hard weathered. More recent engravings, same curling fashion, smooth (by his own work). Used for front right leg above the knee.

--Gold chain: White gold, woven links. Pierced through is ear at each end, one at the top, one at the bottom. Holes show efforts of being torn, but ineffectively.

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