Post by Shasta on Feb 13, 2020 4:24:38 GMT -6
Years RPing: Forever now
Slot Used: Slot on main
How You Found Us: beep
Birthday: February 14th, 2018
Species: Kenai Peninsula
Height: 44 inches
Weight: 200 lbs.
Coat Color: Brown and white, with subtle black markings
Eye Color: Emerald green
Purchased Items: Specialty modifier, large marking [NOTE: to be redeemed from contest]
Inherited Items: N/A
Health Issues: N/A
Other Information: Additional information you feel pertains
Mental Stability: Sane/Unstable [severe sociopathic tendencies)
Shasta was born on a cold spring morning, the last of a litter of four. Two of his siblings did not enter the world with breath in their lungs, and so it was that only Shasta and his sister remained. Some pups are able to fondly recount a period of warmth and youthful ignorance, nestled in their dens with their siblings each night, playing and exploring the world underneath the hospitable sun in the day. For Shasta, these are not memories that he holds. Instead he recounts coolness, born to a mother who had not wanted life to fill her womb when she’d engaged in a single night of passion with a rogue brute who’d had a mate that was not she waiting for him elsewhere. He had vehemently denied that the two pups were his during the mother’s pregnancy, but once the litter was born, there was little arguing to be done. Shasta was practically the spitting image of his father, and so his mother was left to bitterly raise her unwanted children, neither of whom looked anything at all like her.
As Shasta and his sister grew, it became apparent that they were like night and day. She was a bubbly, energetic creature who took great delight in babbling about every thought and question that crossed her mind. He in turn was quiet and serious even at a young age, preferring to keep his own burning questions born of a naturally intelligent mind to himself. He was fascinated by stranger things that she, such as life cycles, the body's natural reaction to physical and mental pain, how much a being could withstand before they broke, and various other things. Whenever they were allowed outside of the confines of the den, usually with their mother doing a very poor job of keeping an eye on the wandering pups, he preferred to study the surrounding plant-life rather than frolic in the sun like his sister. But more often than not, the two of them were forced to remain in the dens by their mother, who had little patience for either of her children.
Eventually, however, the pups were too old to be kept sequestered away. Shasta took his opportunity at newfound freedom to explore further, and to pick the brains of any wolves who he happened to stumble across in his days spent away from the dens. His mother had never entertained the questions that he had, nor did she seem to like to converse with her children much at all; for Shasta to find others that would willingly speak with him was his greatest pleasure in those initial months. Still, however, he returned to the den that his family shared each night, for though he found his sister's endless optimism more than a little annoying, he could not bring himself to leave her on her own with only a callous mother to care for her.
It seemed as with each passing month that marked the siblings as older, their mother grew more and more resentful of their presence. Why she did not simply leave them once they were able to hunt for themselves, Shasta never knew. Perhaps she could not stand to be alone or abandoned again after the brute who'd impregnated her had left her on her own. Perhaps she felt some twisted form of love or obligation to the pups deep down. It was not clear, but she stayed, all the same. And for reasons that Shasta could not comprehend, his sister loved their mother unquestioningly. He felt nothing but cold detachment from the she-wolf, who had offered them little more than milk and the barest hint of attention when required. And so he took to avoiding her when he could, spending as long as possible away from the den.
Perhaps if he had been able to put aside his growing dislike for his mother, he would have not departed the dens so early on the day that a group of wandering wolves came across the two females slumbering within. Perhaps he could have fought them off, could have prevented them from raping and ripping the she-wolves limb from limb. But he hadn't been, and so when he returned late that night, it was to a scene of total carnage. The scent of blood had been so strong, stinging his nostrils and turning his stomach, and for a time he had not realized that his mother was somehow still alive. He'd been too intent on silently mourning the pieces of his sister, brought only to the realization when the older she-wolf gave a rattling gasp for help. But there had been nothing that he could do for her, and so he'd sat among the remains of his family and watched in part horror, part fascination as she had slowly died.
He spent several days there in the cave with their bodies, unsure of what to do, how to live. In her apathy, his mother had never taught him to hunt, instead preferring to drop half-eaten carcasses at the den for her pups to consume. He contemplated finding his father, but did not know how - and it was a good thing, then, that he had not, for unbeknownst to him, his father had been among those that had cruelly snuffed out the life of his sister and mother. So instead Shasta remained there, dried blood clinging to his fur, his body weakening and begging for something, anything, to fill his stomach. It was on the third day when, delirious from hunger and exhaustion, dehydrated, his mind not quite itself, that he'd succumbed to a dark thought that intruded upon him. He bent, and from the corpse of his mother at his paws, he ate. The first few bites turned his stomach, made him vomit meat and bile, and his second attempt was much the same. But then his ravenous hunger won out, and Shasta pushed aside his reservations, eating until his stomach was full.
His sister, once all of the meat had been stripped from his mother's bones, was more difficult for him to consume. But he did as he had to, and that was how they found him on the fateful morning that the wolves of Irkalla came: blood-stained, sitting admist what remained of his kin, with wolf-flesh in his mouth and his vivid green eyes resigned but clear. They gathered him up and led him away from the den, away from the only place that he had ever known as home. He had expected them to be disgusted, to perhaps be leading him to his death for daring to commit what he knew was taboo. But to his astonishment, they lead him instead to a she-wolf so heartbreakingly lovely in her grace and acceptance that he immediately knew he had found his true home. She did not begrudge him for what he had done, and Shasta learned that he had unknowingly committed an act that they deemed to be highly regarded and even normal within their ranks.
Shasta flourished in Irkalla as the months passed, bleeding into a year, and then nearly two. He had found a place where his curiosity and desire to learn was encouraged, where he could expand upon his knowledge of bodily limitations. His knowledge was helpful even, and he was all too glad to utilize it during the frequent rituals of cannibalism that the pack partook in. He did not need to be ashamed of his darker desires there; he did not need to be ashamed of what he had done to survive all those months ago. He began to partake in the rituals regularly, eagerly, and it was during one of them - of which was of great importance to the queen and the she-wolf she'd taken in some months ago, Aravis - that his life was irrevocably changed again.
One moment, Shasta had been softly offering encouraging cheers along with the rest of his pack for Aravis, who had succumbed and taken her first bite of the she-wolf that was the subject of the ritual, and the next, everything shifted. Aravis pitched forward into unconsciousness, a strange sharp object between her shoulders, and the pack dissolved around him into chaos, attempting to flee from the unknown. Shasta did not make it more than a few steps before a dart fired by humans pierced his own flank, and then only a few more before he stumbled and the world went black. When he awoke, it was upon a strange island, with his head and stomach reeling and no one familiar anywhere that his eyes could see. The broken remains of the crate he'd been nestled in before the ship carrying it had capsized lay shattered around him, seemingly dashed against a cluster of rocks by the waves.
So it was that Shasta had come to Anikira, where he vowed to scour the earth in search of any others from Irkalla who had perhaps met the same fate as he.
When one who is not distinctly familiar with Shasta first stumbles upon him, they will find themselves presented with a creature who does not incur feelings of alarm or fear. He is all polite and natural grace, his mannerisms and speech patterns cordial, eloquent, and comforting. The extent of the complaints that a stranger might have about him is that he is perhaps a tad too confident, too effortless in his knowledge that he is lovely, and not at all unintelligent. He appears soft-spoken at first, and yet when he speaks, it is with a firm air of self-assuredness and unruffled surety that compels others to listen. He is, in his own words, “comfortably unobjectionable”.
This is, however, exactly what Shasta does. He draws you in, makes you trust him, makes you divulge things that you might not have otherwise. And all the while he is studying you, listening, learning. Because far beneath the facade that he displays, Shasta is a different beast entirely. For as long as he can remember, he has been captivated by the limits that the body can be pushed to, the methods that one can utilize to achieve an end to their means, and the act of “playing god” as a mere mortal, so to speak. He has a natural love of expanding his knowledge, especially when it comes to medicine and the mortal body.
It is extremely difficult to ruffle him or bring him to anger, for he sees no point in indulging in quarrels or squabbles when his talent is better used elsewhere. Coldly clinical, he sees things from a practical standpoint rather than an emotional. He does not believe in lowering himself to the standards of others, but rather raising himself above and beyond his own standards at every possible opportunity. Whoever has his loyalty has it unquestionably, and if his means are cruel or unethical, then he certainly does not lose an ounce of sleep over it.
He is two faces of the same coin: heads is an understanding male who does not seem interested in the games and power-struggles that other wolves seem to revel in. Tails is a brute who will do whatever it is that he must to achieve his goals; pain and suffering, to him, is a necessity that he is not above utilizing for the greater good.