Mosca Waleran

[Mosca Waleran]

Full Name: Mosca Waleran

Prefers To Be Called: Mosca

Gender: Male

Age: Twenty Two

Class: Mage

Creature: Well, we'll see, won't we?

Physical Appearance: About the equivalent of a scarecrow. Or, more realistically, a black flamingo. He doesn't stand at a particularly lofty height (however, he is tall), but he gives the impression of being extremely tall despite that. His skin is pallid, almost an almond shade, as if he's spent most of his life out of the sun. He has an aqueous nose, curved like a hawk's beak, that hovers over a perpetually white, tight lip. His eyes are of a color that could be either dark gray or dark brown or black, depending on the way they are seen, and set well in toward his nose, slightly beady. He seems constantly haunted by a bluish tint of beard around his chin and cheeks, always shaved but never too closely. His hair is lank and jet-black, slightly long and hovering just above his thick brows. He seems to wear a habitual, worried frown, as if something is bothering him. He is as gangly as he is pallid, tall and lined with only the most sinewy of muscles. He doesn't look as if he'd be of any particular use in a fight - but looks, of course, can be deceptive.

He appears to be hell-bent on covering every available piece of flesh, which doesn't help his pallid appearance much. He habitually wears a long, faded black cloak that not only covers up to the foot of his boots, but also covers his neck, just stopping before his cheeks. Gloves tend to cover his hands, although more often than not they are stuck haphazardly into a pocket of the commoner's garb he wears under his cloak. He tends to vary very little in appearance at any given time, and is extremely hard to read. He has learned to keep his facial expressions to a minimum, and only very small, subconscious movements betray his mood. He doesn't have a particularly obtrusive air, carrying his head low and rarely looking up enough to cause offense. He has a peculiar, slinking, quiet gait, which covers ground almost deceptively, and extremely long legs.

Personality: Guarded, but extremely cunning and something of a trickster. He has learned how to survive, and does so with a vigor. Mosca possesses a good bit more magic than most, and through various trials has learned how to use it in an adept manner. He cannot handle a sword, and seems to never have done so in his life, but is adept with a knife when its needed. He cares more about his own survival than anything else, and is, in times of prosperity, somewhat egotistical. He's no genius - but is relatively wise in the ways of the world. On the other hand, he seems to repel life in general, a friendless man with little reason to try and gain any. He's no hypocrite - he will not rely on others when he knows that they cannot rely on him. Perhaps a tad bit petty, Mosca will, quite literally, do most anything required for his survival. Stealing, dark magic, such are not above him and shouldn't be put there. Generally unreliable, and somewhat petty, he's not exactly the picture of innocence, but nor is he a deliberate delinquent.

When he judges you worthwhile to speak to, Mosca is an extremely clever diplomat and has a way with words that would probably make him a winner in the sales business. He seems to make even the stupidest things seem brilliant, but rarely does. He's somewhat fatalistic, and a pessimist as a result, but he has a craving for power that leads him to occasionally lift his spirits and make him try to reach out in some vague way. Actually, his craving for power is more of a craving for a secure place in this world, something that he is constantly without. He wishes for constancy and security above all things, and strives toward them with barely any knowledge that he is doing so. This, coupled with the fact that he is not above cheating and lying to get it, is a potential hazard. He is of a generally mercurial temperament, constantly swinging, as if he can hardly help his own fate. But, in the end, he tries desperately to be a good person while maintaining a lifestyle that will, in fact, sustain him, which is a delicate line to walk and a hard one to follow.

Extras: His constant companion is a small, twisted kris dagger, hidden within his cloak.

Short Sample Post: Light flooded in through the entrance to the abandoned badger den, permeating every semblance of sleep that the inhabitant held onto. A gentle, canine whine filled the immediate area as the creature shifted, folding a long muzzle under a paw and a scrawny tail over the top of its head. Long ears flickered back, shutting out the insistent morning birdsong that beckoned the canid to wake. Finally, as he realized that he could never get back to sleep now, the coyote's head raised. A ruddy red muzzle poked out into the sky above, and a black nose twitched as the air was scented thoroughly. Then, from the depths of the abandoned home, came the head, a handsome face followed by lanky shoulders and long limbs that betrayed the puppish youth that still clung to the coyote's frame. With a yawn and a stretch, he plopped down in a patch of grass, gazing around sleepily with yellow orbs.

After a moment, Kipee shook himself awake and stood up, stretching once more before carefully pressing his pads to the Earth outside of his home. his scent was left on the ground, warning any wandering rodents or other coyotes that there was already a new inhabitant of the den. Then, with another sniff of the air, Kipee took off at a jog that hadn't seemed to even be in his tired frame. All trace of sleepiness was abandoned as he took foot on the daily pilgrimage to the river and back. Soon, he paused, skidding down an embankment and landing on a rock in the midst of the babbling water. He seared around hopefully for a glimpse of some bear-chased fish or a cesspool that entrapped the myriad smaller river species, but there were none and so he simply let his head down and began to drink, long tongue lapping ripples upon the water's surface.

Thirst quenched, Kipee sat on the rock, long ears pricked and nose twitching as he tried to locate his breakfast. Food was plentiful in the summer months, and so the coyote trusted that there would be some fresh kill for him to steal somewhere around here. That, or he would have to hunt for himself, a chore which he generally left to the devices of others. In a lithe moment, he lumped across the rocks and through the water, coming up the other bank and standing wary in a field of tall grasses that brushed along his ears and nose as he moved his head from side to side, ears twirling like antennae and catching even the smallest of sounds. Overlaying the prey scent was that of his own kind, something that seemed to cling to these plains, and also partially the reason for his caution. Kipee was not old or strong enough to win a territory fight against an older male, and he was avoiding it as fervently as possible.

((...Coyote. Yeaaah. Obviously, I am too lazy to write a new sample))

[Val Waralic]

Aw. *pats Coyote* Very nice post. Very detailed. Once again, I feel out-done. XD But, aside from me feeling slighted(I'll get over it) welcome to Aurion!!

Feel free to post around the site until the Mysterious Figure pays you a visit.