Mitsuo

[Mitsuo]

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Name; Mitsuo ("Mitt-SUU-oh")
Age; 2 years
Gender; Male
Breed; Arctic Wolf

Desired Pack; Ebire

Appearance: Very girlish in appearance with a high, soft voice to match. There isn't much muscle to be found on his lean, furry form, and at a first glance one would be forgiven for mistaking him as a female. Though if one blatantly stated such an impression, Mitsuo would probably take grate offence. He holds much self-centred, vanity-induced pride in his appearance and takes great care of it, never leaving a speck of dirt or blood on the thick gloss of his rusty-coloured fur. Another feature Mitsuo is delighted to call his own are his eyes which are a pale but nicely-suited olive green, as the shade compliments his fur well.

Never to be seen without poise to his posture, Mitsuo is a male that moves with nothing less than elegance. It would be a nightmare for him to appear anything less than comely, and it always seems to be on the back of his mind – how to seem proper. From his distinct lack of masculine features, the young male predictably excels in speed, and has a fair amount of endurance to boast. He uses these qualities to their best when hunting.

Personality: He has been described as queer-natured. There is no lie that Mitsuo is something of an oddity, but only in the sense that he was spoiled terribly as a pup and that has left its mark. He is selfish, stubborn and bizarrely joyful. Something of a sadist, he can get no better laugh when it is from hearing about another's pain – injury and death are, of course, such hilarious subjects. Quietly vain and full of pompous arrogance, the young male spends most of his time preening and cleaning, insisting to himself that appearance matters.

There is one thing that perhaps redeems Mitsuo's flaws, and that is he knows his place. Always. Never one to meet eyes with another wolf, unless they invite it.

Although two years of age, Mitsuo is still very much a child – albeit a rather giggly, prissy one. He isn't inclined towards learning from mistakes, and will often get into the same mishap over and over, sometimes even 'for fun'. It leaves the matter of his intelligence up to question, and whether he even has any.

History: Raised as a little princess, in effect, because his parents always wanted to have a girl. But when they had a boy, they made the most of it... and it shows. He had the best upbringing one could ask for - maybe too good a one.

RP example;

As Lucifer at Secret of the Wolves...

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So fly the butterfly, its spread wings aglisten with silent cheer. But it was not alone in the world that day, for a dark presence was on linger nearby, vicious intent stretched from idle slumber. How the ice did melt beneath warm, opaque rays of sunlight that shone that bright afternoon, and thus the approach was stilled. The beast quelled himself, his rage falling into a sheet of clouded ash, frosted eyes preening over furls of Arctic fur. Not quite the level of purity one so vain might desire, but it was a beautiful mess, rugged and torn but also combed and smooth. The children's plaything, a treasure so loved that it was carelessly sought and wildly handled. Only in heaven was he made, but hell did he wander, the fallen angel Lucifer. Supreme quality. Oh yes, he was the best. The subzero, the inferno. Scorching and suffering, blazing and raw. Distant and withered, frozen and bare. Everything left to question from which a stranger's lips skewed. Oh sublime snow on darkest winter night. The picture of kings, his movement carried like the fluid of spring rivers, so supply powerful, subtly alluring. An alley cat on his territory patrol, yet nothing here could be called his own. Except the ground upon which I walk. He thought with a queer smile, lips flashing fangs as unblemished as his skin – undead, ghoulish, angelic, alive. The white cast of organ could be described as both sinful and virtuous, yet he was known to have dabbled in the former most. There was no place for smiles or kindness here, unless they came with them a notorious intention. Oh he loved the guilty sniggers from cracked, rotting mouths, decaying teeth and eel tongues – he would have them all. To lay down before the prince and wail their suffering like the sky itself was falling down.

Spare me butterfly, spare me your sin. Caught – just like that in the blanch palm, wings crushed and muddied with death as they gave one last lifeless flutter. Shame me. Give me your last. The regal hand raised and brought the remains to closer vision, shining blue very much alive as it studied the moment death arrived. As quick did it leave, making him feel quite alone in the world. Alone... solitude, a precious thing when spent by wise men and not kings, for he was neither. A wanderer. And now... The squished life was flicked away, himself not wanting to be permanently dirtied with such an unquestionably simple waste. The insect, although nothing amazing, had been asking for its demise by continuing to flit about his head, almost once daring itself by landing upon a long, thick strand of his jet hair. Only then had he seized its life and destroyed it, and only then did he discard it so, a sweep of his piercing gaze in the opposite direction a signal of satisfaction. Job done, the butterfly now a crushed humiliation on the floor. It was what happened to everything that annoyed Lucifer so – no one or nothing was spared. He would mark them or scathe them till they bled oceans, and he would take the vitae into a cup and pass it into his throat and beyond. Only if it were not of the filthy kind, for then it would be left. Yet now that the innocent creature had been disposed of what did he have to do? It wouldn't do to simply wander upon his two legs, an aimless phenomenon. Let me seize the next passer-by into my web of desires. He meant exactly what he thought, piercing eyes suddenly wild with motion as they sought out another prize to take, or to toy with.