Name: Bismarck

Age: 1.3 years old

Gender: Male

Rank: Dispersal Wolf

Desired Rank:

He’s chill with one of the normal rankings, but wouldn’t mind if he got promoted to something higher.

Pack Reputation:

In his old pack, he was known as the fun-loving guy who just wanted to be around people. Sometimes a bit clueless, but overall not a bad guy to be around with.

Thoughts On The Trials:

“Whoa, what bro? We have to do that?! Are you sure these guys are worth being a part of? They're a bit intense….”

These guys are at a whole new level for Bismarck. His old pack was a bit hectic when it came to order and actually fell apart because of a weak hierarchy. He’s willing to do it, but the idea of it isn’t his cup of tea like it is for some others.

Appearance:

90 pounds| 29 inches tall| 5.8 feet long

Gray, gray as the haze that falls on a sleepy morning day. Cream, cream as a dying white rose’s last petal. Clay, clay an orange that stains even the purest of coats. These are the qualities that make up Bismarck. His pelt is a dark, sooty gray mingled in with char black with snow combed through his thick back fur. Along his shoulders are dark lines painted evenly along both sides. Like arrows, they swoop down and point towards his fluffy cream chest. The roots of these off-white hairs are not like waterlilies at all, rather instead, a gentle stain of orange. It was as if someone had rubbed red clay on them ever the slightest just to get this coloration, this strange fading. Yes, for his neck fur is a mottled mixture of the previously mentioned winter-stricken remanences of a past fire. This stain of clay eases the harsh violence of a choked fire to the softness of the cream river of foam that patches his throat and chest. However, it runs dry by the time it touches the stomach.

The stomach is an empty land, but not a dry, despairing desert. No patches or mottling interrupt this portion of the wolf. It is a light golden field of hay, ready to be harvest. It is the brushy head of meadow grass that tickles ones legs. Speaking of which, the legs of the creature are neglected such beauty and magnificence of a farmer’s crop at sundown. Instead, they are blemished by clay-water as if someone dipped a sponge in the filthy, putrid, muddy soup and wiped it down the front of his legs—leaving some streaks of gray asphalt to drip down each fore, fading occasionally only to be brought up again. Like a snake in the grass, it passes. However, the inside of his legs are clean. As if in a secret cavern, four foamy waterfalls flow and bubble at the bottom. They are not ivory, but off-white, but they seem pure comparing to the outside limbs of the wolf. Fortunately, even ugly clay-stains can be overcome by clean water, as the paws take after the underside—cream. This cream, of course, isn’t as white as the original river’s but it is enough to name a victor. The back leads down to the brushy tail. On the outside it echoes the back's dead, snowy campfire with the tip being a charred log. However, on the inside it is not so lovely. The clay mars the wagger and there is no stream to wash it out.

Behind his ears are bits of gravel mixed with the same, ever-haunting clay-water. This time, the sponging is done more fiercely and one can see it on the edges of the animal’s ears. Luckily, there is smoke rising from within the drums. Aye, the ear-fur inside is a fluffy light gray that matches the soot in the wolf’s coat. On the beast’s noble brow are grizzled arrangements of river pebbles, each gray. However, they are spread thin and one could peer closely and sight the clay earth beneath. These stones pour down around and just under the eyes. Ah, yes, the eyes are murky as if God decided to swirl all the animal’s colors together on his palette to paint the eyes. Between the two spotters, and just before the snout’s bridge, are two extremely lightly dabbed bits of white. The Artist must’ve dipped his brush into a cloudy mixture of alabaster-white water to create such a vague—but still standing—detail. Now, on the bridge of the snout, rolled down almost evenly like a royal’s carpet, is more red-clay. On the center of it is a slight graying like the very hair-tips were painted ash. Now, for the very bottom of the wolf’s face are two ranges of uneven mountains of cream that peak up every once-and-a-while on his cheeks and muzzle. They would connect if it weren’t for his coal nose and the warm gray that surrounds his mouth. But from these alps fall glaciers and from these glaciers is the river that pours down his chest where it reappears on the backside of all four legs to finally splash down into the paws.

Personality:

He isn’t scared to laugh at his own mistakes. Scared of death.

Crush: Open

Relationship Status: Single

Familial Relationships:

Mother — Brimstone (deceased)

Father — unknown

Open for siblings, cousins, etc.

Offspring: None

Pack Affiliations: Open (especially with the other dispersals)

Backstory:

(Only needed for the Dispersal Wolves )

Other:

I found six thunderbirds yesterday evening along with eight dozen roosters because let's be fun.