Post by kaz on Mar 29, 2022 23:23:29 GMT
Khashayar
the chosen one
the chosen one
PERSONALITY
soft-spoken • gentle • self-serving • charismatic
And the followers looked upon their speaker,
And they knew he was Good,
And they knew he was Kind,
And they knew he was All-knowing,
For his words were the words of the Gods.
His voice is soft and quiet, but when he speaks one cannot help but listen. He always wears a kind and compassionate smile, his lips just slightly upturned, giving the impression that he would not judge you, would not turn you away, would give the fur off his back if you needed. It would be an impressive facade if he did not fully believe himself to be this person. But beneath his amiable exterior lies a certain darkness, an unrelenting sense of self preservation. After all, one must preserve the voice of the Gods. But more than that, as his word spreads, so too does Khashayar’s ego. Why shouldn’t the One True Prophet receive special treatment? Why shouldn’t He be revered and feared as are the Gods He speaks for? It is a dangerous path he walks, but he does not walk it alone.
APPEARANCE
95lbs • 30in • small frame
He looks more fox than wolf, his features narrow and unassuming, and he steps precariously, as if uncomfortable just by his own existence. Long, lithe legs hint at athleticism — or, would, were he not missing one; his front right forearm ends suddenly beneath the elbow and this leads him to have a strange, bobbing step which he does his best to subdue with little success.
His pelt is the color of ash and soot, but his face is a silvery white “as if he had stepped from the fires of hell and seen the light of the gods.” When possible, he anoints himself with blood or grime upon his forehead to mark himself as the Prophet. His eyes are a bright gold and as large and wide as an innocent child’s, but more than that, they look at you queerly, look through you like glass.
HISTORY
repentence for those who have sinned
As a young boy, he was fond of stories. His mother, having grown up with similar fascinations, would regal him with every story she knew, often religious in their leanings. Many wolves grow up with some religion in their lives, so it couldn’t be helped that much of her storytelling had theological roots. After all, those oft made the most exciting stories, and Khashayar was eager to lap them all up.
It might have turned out alright for the boy if not for a vicious war that broke out between his familial pack and another. The others, the Shifting Stone pack, were secular and brutish, always warring amongst themselves and occasionally tearing away to bring their violence upon the outside world. The battle was brief and fairly bloodless, but his mother had become older and pregnant with her third litter and the fight had proved too much for her. She died quickly after suffering an infected wound. Additionally, Khashayar received an injury that would later result in his losing much of his front right leg. This served only to reinforce young Khashayar’s beliefs; in a sick way the child blamed himself for his mother’s death. After all, the old gods from her stories were constantly smiting down those who did not believe the way they should; why should he be immune to their fury?
It wasn’t until one unseasonably cold spring day, when he had ventured out to the lake as a young adult wolf, that Khashayar had realized his destiny. He’d looked down into the frozen water, sending a silent prayer to the gods that he be forgiven, when a crack had appeared right where his foggy reflection had been. No where else had the ice cracked but directly beneath him without his influence, right across his face. He froze in place for a long time. Then, very slowly, the young wolf ventured out onto the ice, his legs shaking, his breath ragged and cold. The frozen water stung his paw pads, sending sharp pangs up his legs. Still he continued on until he was in the middle of the lake. Normally at this time of year, the water would have begun to thaw and would never have supported his weight. But somehow it held. He stood there, eyeing the land around him — his land, no more — and with the cold winds penetrating through his coat and to his very core, he heard the voice of the gods speak to him and he knew then what he must do, what his purpose had been from the very start; how all events had culminated in his being here, his being the One, the true Prophet. It was the will of the gods that he spread their word, and prevent the senseless violence of the nonbelievers.
