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El Rey
Night Court Soldier
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Age:

8 [Year 496 Summer]

Gender:

Male

Pronouns:

He/Him/His

Orientation:

???

Breed:

Marwari Iberian X

Height:

17.3 hh

Health:

8

Attack:

12

Experience:

10
Offline

Last Visit:

09-03-2019, 09:18 PM

Joined:

02-23-2019
Signos: 0 (Donate)
Total Posts: 21 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 2 (Find All Threads)



in short: black as pitch with curling ears and a demon's crown of horns, towering into heaven while his feet stand firm in hell
scent graveyard roses and ancient dusty manuscripts

Do not think of him as an animal as a beast as a soulless black shadow at your side, behind you, above you. Do not think of him as the blackness that moved; the darkness that shifted when you told yourself there was nothing in there. Do not think of him as the thing you see in the corner of your eye that really would overtake you this time, that did, so mercilessly and so gently, so childlike. So unlike an animal.

El Rey is nearly darkness personified, black as midnight over a mausoleum and 17.3 hands at the shoulder - a giant, to most. He is built for war, a light baroque body formed of sand and chivalry. He has a single bull-like tail. Under the brightest sunlight, one may notice that his skin shimmers gold, but this is seldom visible, as it is a dark, dark metal. El Rey has a convex, not-quite-Roman profile and large, round eyes that pinch at the end, pure black, as his coat, with no visible whites. His ears curl inward and are tipped with gold. El Rey is crowned with two sets of horns - a small, slightly curved set just below his ears and only a few inches high, and a pair of black horns curved upward as a fighting bull's, with golden wide stripes toward the base, thinner stripes in the middle, and golden tips.

How do you make something so gentle, so fierce? How could it be so easily fooled?

(You simply tell it, “Good job.”

(“You make me proud.”

(“I love you.”)

Well, maybe not the last one, but, you know. Sometimes. Sparingly. Someone has to give the warmth around here.

So he is that - gentle and fierce. Naive. So, so naive. Because of ignorance, mostly, because for all the words in a history book, it cannot tell you how not to be

f o o l e d.

He does not know good from bad because good is winning and bad is losing. If you asked, he knows. But so many more things fall under each.

Good.

Gentle,

&

Curious,

&

Willing,

&

Impassioned.

Bad.

Deadly (it comes so easily to kill—),

&

Empty,

&

Lost.

He loves reading everything and writing stories and poetry (he will have so much more to write about now). He loves the smell of sweet and strange things (but all is strange to him) and the feeling of flesh around his horns and blood rolling down his forehead (so long as it is not his own). He loves praise and hugs and staying alive.

He wants to be loved and to win every battle and to protect whoever is there for him to love next, because he cannot imagine loving anyone except those two he has lost.

He knows little and wants to know more, but does not know what is better left unknown.
(That’s always the problem, isn’t it?)

Mares are the warm embrace of the wet-nurse and a plate of freshly-made sweets and a lullaby before bed.

Stallions are horns and blood and victory and death, shuffling through dark alleyways and dark cellars and the praise you were working for.

He is a near-blank slate of values because all that ever mattered was (is) learning and winning and staying alive (hidden). He wouldn’t know right from wrong (good from bad), because it has never mattered.

He knows what hurts (death loss).
He knows what feels good (smiles victory).

He knows he is the king.
(A king made to win).

Something dark was borne of the sands that night. It was big and black and stood too slow for liking. It was a king.
Not unloved.

Some may say there is a death for every birth. This may be true, but not always, for that night there was a second birth, somewhere far but within reach: the birth of something big and white that ran in moments but was still too slow for liking. It was a bull.
Not unloved.

The fates of the white bull and black king sound to be intertwined, as are their origins, but they know not of each other, and so, such fabled drama has yet to occur. Rest assured, however, that when the time comes, they will feel it in their bones.

x

The little king was born on the sands of Solterra, with scorpions for playmates and the dark for a home. His mother was a noblewoman, married by heavy with a child she knew to be a bastard. The maids would tell her husband the birth went poorly, and that the child was dead. His true father was a warrior from a foreign land, far but within reach, a proud Iberian with rage wound tight beneath his muscles. That rage would never be for his son, nor his lover, but it would be taught to the boy, a tool the colt would hide away for the day he had something to truly be angry about.

The boy was given a wet-nurse and a cellar for a home. Never seen. Never heard, not by any but the nurse and his father. His sire taught him to read in two languages - that of both his birthplace and his ancestral home. He became proficient in both. In private, the king wrote stories and thoughts and what might generously be called poetry. These were the loves of his mother, and so, they were never silenced.

As El Rey grew, his sire began training him to fight. They sparred often, and vigorously, but never as viciously as his sire hoped. He brought urchins, and criminals, and those who would fight a child and keep their mouths shut for a bit of coin. El Rey learned to fight viciously. He loved his father far too much to make it hurt, but these strangers were subjects on which he could test his sire’s teachings.
Some of them died.
El Rey never knew.
Only suspected.
But what would death look like to a boy raised in a cellar?
He could not say.

El Rey’s wet-nurse became his nursemaid, loved him like a mother and offered him the warmth his father could not. El Rey’s father loved his son intensely, but he worked through the day, and on coming home he worked to make his son strong. Stronger. The best.

“Real battles won’t be like this, little king,” but the little king had no comparison for what he knew. His father knew this, so he brought El Rey to some real battles.

Rey began fighting in the Solterran underground, winning largely under threat of death, his horns made for goring the brave and unwise in equal parts. He knew death, then, but no one ever told him it was a bad thing. His father praised him for it. His nursemaid gave him special snacks. He maintained a childish naivety, knowing nothing beyond the cellar and the fight rings and the space between. But he also knew his mother’s name, and perhaps that was too much.

They found the cellar. The came for El Rey. A Sevetta, they said. They’d gotten El Rey’s father alone, at work, and now they wanted Rey. They killed his nursemaid, he thinks, but perhaps They had other uses for her (which he could not imagine himself). He could only gore his way out, and there was too much blood in his eyes and screaming in his ears for Rey to know who lived and who died. He had to live. That was the only rule he’d ever been given. That, and don’t leave the cellar alone.

One rule must be broken so the other can stand.
He left the cellar alone.
And he lived.
El Rey ran and ran until the world looked different and then he kept running until it looked like somewhere to collapse. He found himself in Denocte and, not long after, entered its ranks as a soldier. For now, he works, and watches, and hopes for a purpose.

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Miscellaneous

mutations ; metallic gold horn stripes, ear tips, & gold shimmering skin
postbit from Unsplash



hi I'm Mui and I play 2 cows and a unicorn

Played by:

Muirgen (PM Player)

DeviantArt:

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Discord:

Muirgen#3205

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