I’d like to walk there again. It was so lonely— a nice kind of loneliness, and all grass and clover and soft sea air

Sculpted from weathered stone and spit from angry oceans, the stallion defines anything but soft. There is a cold, gray moon in his eyes and the way of which he assesses the world is nothing short of unfeeling. Joy is but a distant memory, and the scars that litter his body tell of a far different story than one found in the innocence of purely happiness. It might be no secret to say that he’s had his fair share of tragedy, yet that is a closely guarded history he prefers not to share. The stallion would rather be seen as the hulk of a mindless titan than something that might offer him any kind of softness or sympathy. It’s easier that way, he might tell himself, and so he weathers whatever life has left to give him in with a bored, aloof outlook on it.
There is nothing particularly telling or drawing to the stallion, either - his colors are dulled and the only markings appear to be the silverine barring on his stomach, hocks and knees. A dark mane curls from his crest and a long tail mirrors it, windswept and knotted, unkempt and wild. Upon his brow stands a crown of jagged, twirling horns; although it’s not easily seen among his mane and is more like a hidden dagger, a use in times of desperation, but left alone otherwise.






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Can the torn and bloody victim “love” the blood-splashed jaws that rend him limb from limb?

Cold. Aloof. Severe. Silent. Guarded.
Resolute. Stalwart. Reasonable. Harsh.
Savage. Open-minded. Confident. Unassuming.

Wolfram has never been one to hold his feelings on his sleeve. For all his life he’d been a silent, unassuming soul - one bound to the shadows with an exceptional knack for being observant to the world. And for a long time, actually experiencing it firsthand came only later, when gangly, thick limbs finally molded into the large, rounded draft he is today. With it came scars; there was a dangerous rebellious streak he fell into in his teenage years, and even still he has a tendency to solve most problems with physical retaliation than anything else. He is a rough and worn through-and-through, though for all his torn edges he is not above appreciation for other, more well-off tactics. For this he can be reasonable and open-minded, but is stubborn to acquiesce into different ways if he does not truly believe them to be helpful in any sense.
Care is not easily given out and it will take quite a bit in order for him to even think about letting his walls down for another. He is so used to being the single most thing to rely on that he can hardly imagine another listen to the weight of his mind, nor help carry the burden. It is selfish as much as it is a selfless feat; though in the end knowing that he is the only one who he can trust in the end of all things, and he will always only have himself at the end of the day.





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Tones sound, and roar and storm about me until I have set them down in notes

The past that belongs to Wolfram is closely guarded and rarer still that he speaks about it at all. In fact there is not all that much to speak of in the beginning; he had a fairly plain, usual upbringing that was only stuttered in Wolfram’s penchant knack for getting into fights. One could say that he was born with an innate passion for it - a sword that could be used and honed into a strong, resolute soldier. On the cusp of adulthood was when he began this new stage of his life. All bloody battles and harrowing defeats and bitter victories. For his land he fought, and when he met a wild sort of woman, he wagered he’d fight for her, too.

Within the coming years and delving even further, he’d sire two children with this dam - although he was never as closely knit into their lives as he’d prefer, he loved them no less and perhaps even more because of the way his work would keep him away from them. He’d try when he could to offer them his care and attention, although in some ways he had become stunted in ways. He didn’t know what he was without the battlefield; didn’t know how to hold something so pure and soft and nurture it.

For a time the standing within his life was solid and reliable despite this. But when war took him away a final time, he would return home to the destruction he had always feared each time he left the safety of their sanctuary. The space in his armor realized, his primary and only weakness, hit sure and true. Their home in ruins, the bodies of his family laid in ash and swept evidently away by the wind.

Peace was never forever. Closure was never an option. With this finality came a lack of purpose and a desire to run. Run away from the death and the impossibility of moving on; to leave somewhere, anywhere, and to hide the pain of the wound that struck his heart. To this day, it refuses to stop bleeding, and he has given up trying to lick it clean.

He would wake in Novus years later. Washed in on the shores of terrible, stormy waves after collapsing, he tries to make his life as an ever-wandering vagabond, a vigilante sworn to the endless roads and mindless trails. He has decided to be nothing more than what one sees, and once more is delving into the roots of his own self; to fight, to survive, and to allow himself the numbing release in the way of work, wherever he may find it.

Ripped then away from Novus' world he finds himself in an oddly peaceful meadow; with a sickening feeling and a soreness as though he'd been dragged here, back to some familiar place. He doesn't want it to be familiar, but he has no other way out or in to another world - as though he was meant to be here all along, or by happenstance was stolen to this new world.





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