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Canine OC Template

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Brief Introduction

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Name:

Dagrun

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Pronunciation:

dae-grahn

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Age:

7 years old

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Gender:

Brute

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Orientation:

Heterosexual/aromantic

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Pack:

Kingdom of Ceva

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Rank:

Lead Warrior

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Appearance

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@sugarpoultry-archive on DA

Vigorous bodice - stalwart in other terms. 62kg / 6.52ft in length. Stomach-churning, fathomless obsolete scars. Kempt, wiry fur. Glowering, spine-chilling visage with honed ivories. Nicely structured stout paws. Bitten limp ear. Bear-like posture/walk.

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Voice:

Low-pitched. Throaty. Sonorous and seems a bit dry.

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Odor:

Thick pungent brute odor mixed with wet tree trunks and damp moss.

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Personality

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Antagonistic · Proprietorial · Crass · Vain · Callous · Inattentive

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Likes:

Serenity.

Dewy dawns.

Taste of blood.

Choleric/Arrogant attitudes/personalities.

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Dislikes:

Canines that test his patience.

Flowers, especially tulips.

The sun.

His brother, Nilas.

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Relationships

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Selmor - father; deceased.

Maevel - mother; deceased.

Nilas - brother; alive.

Taryn - sister; alive.

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Extras

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Theme song:

HENSON - SAHARA

—

the grisly war abated.

and the distant screams altered into mere nothingness. the fresh, viridescent hillside, that was budded, embellished with astounding flowerets once - seemed sinister. the unfurling scenery, instead of a breathtaking landscape, appeared like a graveyard. though, the demised, barren bodies weren't buried; they were out and about.

and the one who observed seemed unbothered of the brutal occurrence. even he, the warrior of the kingdom, would've chortled if the king itself, was breathing. utter a word or two of how he knew; none of them, not even the resilient empire would've conquered. we all were too desperate to acknowledge. our kingdom dwelled in a viper pit. in an exiguous forest. orbited by the nemesis of different kingdoms. our souls abided on a precipitous ledge up until this war upsurged. but finally, the lugubrious souls will reside in serenity and solitude, far..far..from this hellhole.

his strides were leisure, sort of limp. and the brute didn't seem so tantalizing he once was. his wiry fur was gnarled, mottled with little shreds of flesh, imbrued with his opponents' blood. but, not that the aspect of the lupine currently mattered. he was pleased that he still walked, breathed.

like a grim reaper; hunting the cemetery for forsaken souls, dagrun seemed apathetic to lend a paw to his breathing companions. they were all too feeble to stand, their wits were mangled, gnawed apart. his destination was to flee. desert this nether, farewell the abhorrent reminiscences.

Darkness had taken over Imber's vision hours ago now. The gruff growls and the feeble cries were the only tellings that her soul and body were still akin. The sounds that poisoned the air as each of the warriors as they took on their opponents, with the only one thought - to rive each other to shreds.

And for what?

Power?

Prey?

One could simply wonder.

The 'warriors' were simply mindless drones, raised by the prerogative and prestige to just fight a battle that was never theirs. There were only two choices in the matter: War? Or death? It didn't occur to a soul that it wasn't a choice. No matter what a warrior would choose - the outcome would always be baleful.

It would always be termination.

Still, the end for many warriors would take place on this once prodigal, yet sporadic pitch. They would be forgotten, the last images of their empires matted and inferior. Their last memories of a wasted life would be gruesome ones, left to haunt their afterlife, wherever they wind up.

This warrior would end up just the same. It had quietened down, after hours of ear-wrenching yelps and cries, it was silent. The brutish battle must... had to be over. But in the placement of the dreadful sound, came revolting tinnitus in her ears and the dizzy feeling of blood draining from her body. They want to stand, to move just to open her eyes and see was immense. There was movement, she could hear it quietly, but she didn't have the energy to make a sound.

(sorry, a little rushed lol)

this brute, arch-shouldered, loomed in - its filmy, ominous shadow bestowed sudden apathy upon this delicate creature. but permitted him to scrutinize, analyze this exquisite carnivore; savor every inadequate detail of this damsel. it was moribund, impotent to oppose him - a character quality he depleted. enfeebled canines were lovely, much more compliant. though, not thinking erroneously, he needed this carnivore for more profound information. he needed to know more about this decisive empire the fae dwelled in.

and so, like a rucksack, he tautened his grasp upon the lupines collar, positioned it beneath his sculpture, and yanked. a companion that shall not perish but instead keep the brute occupied until its injuries mend. but for it to convalesce, it needed upkeep, medicine especially. begrudgingly, the brute was inclined. after all, he nabbed this opponent, for information? and so, he needed it alive.

for him to find an area to rest wasn't challenging.

the blurred, barren hillside behind, was omitted and rest assured, stranded. that region belonged to whoever was interested to overtake it. dagrun was too occupied to take this wounded wimp to an adequate dugout.

this damsel was his currently. take it or leave it. he took it under his wing.

The kineticism put her in pristine agony but she was disposed to be out of the muddy pool of her own blood. As she leveled, the fae's vision gradually commenced to unhinder, making the view of the pitch more and more clear every time she blinked. It made her sick, though it was a perception she had seen time and time again, she couldn't avail but feel woefulness - seeing the deformed and mauled bodies of her imperium sprawled out across a field of murder. She closed her eyes and tucked her head to the other side of the pitch - where there was nothing but fresh growing woodlands, in an attempt to clear all unpleasant thoughts.

A grotto in a hillside what it was.

A notch to cram through, though it didn't seem so inadequate. The sweltering and musty odor defined the caves inside faultlessly. It wasn't an enormous one, it was an upright, average size for both vagabonds. The luminous lichen gave a ghostly ray, burnished on his disfigured facade as he rubbernecked at the half-conscious damsel. His silvery eye twinkled, fluttered a bit, but as he loomed in, his searing, stenchy breath swept a gust of foul words.

"Shouldn't have inundated us. We would've perished off in amiability anyway, but no, you wretched fool's had to strike nonetheless." — Dagrun pulled away with a mere throaty chortle.

Of this canine's current condition, he didn't care if his remarks were heard - she was too delicate, too numbed regardless. "You're such a wimp. But don't fear, doze away the despair, darling, I will mend your wounds, get you back on your foolish feet," — Dragun recoiled his strides and his callous aura. But so did his monotonous voice that resounded in the frigid cave. He was on a mission, on a quest. And dawdling around further would make this wounded wolf perish. Dagrun didn't want that, he wanted the absolute opposite even if he didn't seem so pleased about it.

Withdrawing further from the noiseless cave, Dagrun submerged into the rampant forestry, and so, haunted the entirety of it. He was frantic...maybe tenacious? It was challenging to poke on it, but his thunderous, speedy strides will make this quest much more instantaneous.

And by nightfall, he will be around.

The frigid, glacial, untenanted cold of the mouth of the hill, seemed minacious. Like it could at any moment make her ichor freeze. It is more likely than not already had. The blood that had matted onto her coat was seemingly the only insulation she had, for her substantial coat seemed not to be doing its job. The chill in the pads of her paws was surely most unsetting. The cold never had any reverence. It felt as though her paws were simply diminished. It didn't matter what the brute had said, there was no reason for anger, it would simply cause more pain to her. Though, every word of it was undeniably true.

She had only managed to catch a glimpse of the brutely male, while he was engrossed with insulting her strength. He was covered head to toe in gruesome scars, supposedly ones he had acquired in years of war. Imber herself had a few; though none quite as ghastly as what this fiend had.

As the fae waited, she found herself collecting movement in her legs - still with great tenderness, but she managed to roll herself so that she was laying on her stomach, taking pressure off most of her freshly torn wounds. She closed her eyes as she did so, directing all of her discomforts to her jaw, keeping it tightly clamped. Still, she dare not call for her empire to get her out, out of fear the stocky brute will rush back - and for fear, they wouldn't care enough to seek her out.

And so the nightfall arose.

Dagrun, who vowed to return, loomed at the cavern's threshold, with the resources clenched in his jaw. He gave a dubious glare, though did not utter a remark, just settled inside, with his back facing the cavern's entrance. He seemed, a little gauche, dazed, uncertain of where to commence. He disputed if this preference was right at all.

"You will owe me your life after this," — He uttered callously.

And the thrown resources, Dagrun untangled with his unsheathed nail, smoothed them out with his hefty mass. Nonchalant as one could be, the brute leaned in, lolled out his slashed tongue, and licked the blood swelling wounds. He was skeptical of the response, this wolf might give, but no matter of the despair it'd discern, he persisted, up until he, himself felt pleased enough, that the herbs he obtained would operate flawlessly when the swelling wounds were sterile. But he couldn't deny that the blood that accumulated on his tongue tasted saccharine, ambrosial. He couldn't deceit - her blood endowed satisfaction.

Although, when the breeze stirred in the frigid grotto, the ripple of chilliness patted the brute to return back to his senses.

Breathing in and out, with a mere hitch in his throat - Dagrun coated the gouges, bites, and slashes with the greenish shrub, pushing ever so slightly for it to adhere with the oozing beads of blood.

He successfully executed his chore.