03-24-2018, 09:08 PM
[align=center][div style="border:0px;width:450px;text-align:justify;line-height:1.1;font-size:8.5pt;"][ TLDR: Deimos was left behind when the clans moved and has been living in radiation, so he's deathly ill. His werewolf body CAN purge the radiation, so he'll start recovering after the nearest full moon. He's currently lying on the beach on the mainland, NOT on the island itselfâ€â€he can't move at this point. He's really thin and hardly recognizable, but his scent tells who he is. ]
Deimos will likely stubbornly refuse to admit it to anyone except his relatives, but he had severely underestimated the helplessness he would feel when separated from his pack. He's always thought himself to be a loner in his own rightâ€â€he's always been experienced in hunting small meals alone, experienced in training himself to fight alone, and he's always slept further from the other wolves because he's never quite felt as if he fits in entirely. He's a loose puzzle piece in his family's puzzle, that's for sure. However, he'd also not realized how hard it would be to survive without his father and siblings to stand beside him, despite his feeling of not belonging. Now he realizes. He'd been abandoned ages ago, and Deimos had been tasked to live on his own, but it's been incredibly difficult. The biggest issue he thought he'd found is the act of hunting his food; he'd been a large wolf when this all had started, and small meals hadn't been able to feed him as well as large animals could. He hadn't been able to hunt large game without his family, though, and he'd lost a good amount of weight because of that, which had in turn caused him to tire more quickly and fall ill quite oftenâ€â€supposedly. Of course, that had been what he thought it was; he had known nothing of the radiation he'd been living in. He'd been sick of eating small, sinewy squirrels and rabbits and whatnot, but little had he known, all the animals had begun to look that wayâ€â€even the large prey that he had longed for so desperately. Prey was scarce and unappetizing, and Deimos had gone hungry for longer than he could count, but it wasn't the fault of a missing packâ€â€it was the fault of a decaying world.
As he'd not been aware of the radiation, though, Deimos had of course blamed his starvation and pathetic meals on his lack of a pack. Truth is, the idea that he was useless on his own had stemmed from longing. He misses the rush of racing through trees alongside other wolves, circling around weak prey and taking it down through a coordinated attack, then sharing the delicious meal and bonding during dinnertime. He misses grooming his brothers and chatting after finishing their dinner, despite the fact that he's not close to many of them. He misses howling together, sleeping in a group, roughhousing, teaching his younger siblings, and generally enjoying the feeling of having a family he can trust and lean on. He misses his father, his brothers... And yet he hasn't been able to find them, no matter how hard he'd tried. At the time the groups had disbanded, Deimos had been far away, training himself alone as he does when he has nothing else to do, and when he'd come back days later, he'd found that Windclan was suddenly nowhere to be found. The scent trails were dull, and though he'd tried to follow them a little ways, the scent had eventually faded and disappeared. It was as if everyone had suddenly vanished out of thin air. He remembers his initial reactionâ€â€he'd paced about, sticking his nose in every den and searching every crack and crevice possible to find someone or something. Throughout the whole territory, however, there had been no one. His family had vanished, and Deimos had been left behind. While stricken with sudden grief, he had stood in the center of the camp, thrown his head back and howled his heart out for hours, hoping someone would somehow hear his song and come back to find him. His strangely vulnerable voice had carried for miles, but unfortunately, it had been cut short of the mountains the groups had chosen to reside in, leaving him to howl uselessly to no audience. Deimos found that he had truly been alone, and it had been devastating.
Somehow he's survived living all on his own, though. It's been incredibly lonely, and he's not at all in good shape anymore, but he's somewhat alive. After the initial disappearance, he'd began to travel until he'd found refuge in the mountains, and he'd lived there for a long whileâ€â€he'd been getting sick often during his days of traveling, though, and he'd hardly known why. It had been torture. One day after the other, Deimos had felt incredibly ill, and he'd hardly been able to keep a meal down. Eventually he'd thought to link the illness with the prey in his area, so he'd finally descended the mountains after months of lingering sickness that had only ever seemed to get a better after the full moons, but had never failed to come back. He's currently traveling to find some place that isn't affected by this sickness, and he's been walking a long way, but unfortunately his symptoms have only worsened over the few days he's been out of the mountains. He currently is resting on an unmarked beach, tired grey eyes focused blearily on the shape of an island hidden away far in the distance. His jaws hang open in a heavy pant, head slumping to the ground as he relaxes his quivering muscles. The island looks promisingâ€â€it's likely a place untouched by sickness, but he can't muster up the energy to stand, never mind swim there. He's exhausted, and therefore he's merely collapsed into the sand to rest, his chest heaving with the difficulty of breathing. He's so tired, and yet he's hardly gone anywhere today. He finds that his paws are tiring much more quickly as of late, he frequently finds himself out of breath, and a dry feeling lingers in his throatâ€â€he still knows nothing of the radiation he's been walking through, though. Days have stretched into weeks, weeks into months, and he's been getting sicker and sicker by the day. It's obvious, at this pointâ€â€he looks horrible.
His months in the mountains, despite the fact that he had been living in weak radiation, have affected his body in very obvious ways. Deimos is nearly skin and bones at this point, his once shiny grey pelt now hanging dull and heavy on his body, dirty and matted and barely taken care of. His pawsteps are weak and hesitant, his eyes tired. Patches of his once well-kept fur have fallen out from either endless scratching or simply on their own, leaving him looking ratty and small and pathetic. Formerly the largest and most intimidating of all his brothers, Deimos is now nearly the smallest, and it's nearly heartbreaking. His paws and his head look strangely large compared to his incredibly thin body, and those features point to his original size and how much weight he's actually lost over his months of living in radiation with hardly any food to eat. If he's to come across anyone he knows, he's at the point where he's hardly recognizable. Despite his drastic changes in appearance, his scent hasn't changed, though; it still clings to his ragged fur despite everything, strong and musky and vaguely tinted with the familiar sharpness of pine. It's all he has at this point, and it's like a nametag of sorts. "I am Deimos Marrowtooth, eldest son of the Marrowtooth werewolf pack," his scent cries valiantly to anyone who's to come across him, while its owner rests lamely on his side, hardly able to pick up his own head or open his own jaws. He closes his eyes, a long whine stirring in his throat as he realizes he's struggling to move at this point. He's dying, probably, and though his scent tells of a proud werewolf, the broken and beaten down figure of Deimos says something entirely different: "Please, someone, help me."
Deimos will likely stubbornly refuse to admit it to anyone except his relatives, but he had severely underestimated the helplessness he would feel when separated from his pack. He's always thought himself to be a loner in his own rightâ€â€he's always been experienced in hunting small meals alone, experienced in training himself to fight alone, and he's always slept further from the other wolves because he's never quite felt as if he fits in entirely. He's a loose puzzle piece in his family's puzzle, that's for sure. However, he'd also not realized how hard it would be to survive without his father and siblings to stand beside him, despite his feeling of not belonging. Now he realizes. He'd been abandoned ages ago, and Deimos had been tasked to live on his own, but it's been incredibly difficult. The biggest issue he thought he'd found is the act of hunting his food; he'd been a large wolf when this all had started, and small meals hadn't been able to feed him as well as large animals could. He hadn't been able to hunt large game without his family, though, and he'd lost a good amount of weight because of that, which had in turn caused him to tire more quickly and fall ill quite oftenâ€â€supposedly. Of course, that had been what he thought it was; he had known nothing of the radiation he'd been living in. He'd been sick of eating small, sinewy squirrels and rabbits and whatnot, but little had he known, all the animals had begun to look that wayâ€â€even the large prey that he had longed for so desperately. Prey was scarce and unappetizing, and Deimos had gone hungry for longer than he could count, but it wasn't the fault of a missing packâ€â€it was the fault of a decaying world.
As he'd not been aware of the radiation, though, Deimos had of course blamed his starvation and pathetic meals on his lack of a pack. Truth is, the idea that he was useless on his own had stemmed from longing. He misses the rush of racing through trees alongside other wolves, circling around weak prey and taking it down through a coordinated attack, then sharing the delicious meal and bonding during dinnertime. He misses grooming his brothers and chatting after finishing their dinner, despite the fact that he's not close to many of them. He misses howling together, sleeping in a group, roughhousing, teaching his younger siblings, and generally enjoying the feeling of having a family he can trust and lean on. He misses his father, his brothers... And yet he hasn't been able to find them, no matter how hard he'd tried. At the time the groups had disbanded, Deimos had been far away, training himself alone as he does when he has nothing else to do, and when he'd come back days later, he'd found that Windclan was suddenly nowhere to be found. The scent trails were dull, and though he'd tried to follow them a little ways, the scent had eventually faded and disappeared. It was as if everyone had suddenly vanished out of thin air. He remembers his initial reactionâ€â€he'd paced about, sticking his nose in every den and searching every crack and crevice possible to find someone or something. Throughout the whole territory, however, there had been no one. His family had vanished, and Deimos had been left behind. While stricken with sudden grief, he had stood in the center of the camp, thrown his head back and howled his heart out for hours, hoping someone would somehow hear his song and come back to find him. His strangely vulnerable voice had carried for miles, but unfortunately, it had been cut short of the mountains the groups had chosen to reside in, leaving him to howl uselessly to no audience. Deimos found that he had truly been alone, and it had been devastating.
Somehow he's survived living all on his own, though. It's been incredibly lonely, and he's not at all in good shape anymore, but he's somewhat alive. After the initial disappearance, he'd began to travel until he'd found refuge in the mountains, and he'd lived there for a long whileâ€â€he'd been getting sick often during his days of traveling, though, and he'd hardly known why. It had been torture. One day after the other, Deimos had felt incredibly ill, and he'd hardly been able to keep a meal down. Eventually he'd thought to link the illness with the prey in his area, so he'd finally descended the mountains after months of lingering sickness that had only ever seemed to get a better after the full moons, but had never failed to come back. He's currently traveling to find some place that isn't affected by this sickness, and he's been walking a long way, but unfortunately his symptoms have only worsened over the few days he's been out of the mountains. He currently is resting on an unmarked beach, tired grey eyes focused blearily on the shape of an island hidden away far in the distance. His jaws hang open in a heavy pant, head slumping to the ground as he relaxes his quivering muscles. The island looks promisingâ€â€it's likely a place untouched by sickness, but he can't muster up the energy to stand, never mind swim there. He's exhausted, and therefore he's merely collapsed into the sand to rest, his chest heaving with the difficulty of breathing. He's so tired, and yet he's hardly gone anywhere today. He finds that his paws are tiring much more quickly as of late, he frequently finds himself out of breath, and a dry feeling lingers in his throatâ€â€he still knows nothing of the radiation he's been walking through, though. Days have stretched into weeks, weeks into months, and he's been getting sicker and sicker by the day. It's obvious, at this pointâ€â€he looks horrible.
His months in the mountains, despite the fact that he had been living in weak radiation, have affected his body in very obvious ways. Deimos is nearly skin and bones at this point, his once shiny grey pelt now hanging dull and heavy on his body, dirty and matted and barely taken care of. His pawsteps are weak and hesitant, his eyes tired. Patches of his once well-kept fur have fallen out from either endless scratching or simply on their own, leaving him looking ratty and small and pathetic. Formerly the largest and most intimidating of all his brothers, Deimos is now nearly the smallest, and it's nearly heartbreaking. His paws and his head look strangely large compared to his incredibly thin body, and those features point to his original size and how much weight he's actually lost over his months of living in radiation with hardly any food to eat. If he's to come across anyone he knows, he's at the point where he's hardly recognizable. Despite his drastic changes in appearance, his scent hasn't changed, though; it still clings to his ragged fur despite everything, strong and musky and vaguely tinted with the familiar sharpness of pine. It's all he has at this point, and it's like a nametag of sorts. "I am Deimos Marrowtooth, eldest son of the Marrowtooth werewolf pack," his scent cries valiantly to anyone who's to come across him, while its owner rests lamely on his side, hardly able to pick up his own head or open his own jaws. He closes his eyes, a long whine stirring in his throat as he realizes he's struggling to move at this point. He's dying, probably, and though his scent tells of a proud werewolf, the broken and beaten down figure of Deimos says something entirely different: "Please, someone, help me."
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[b]DAMN YOUR KISS AND THE AWFUL THINGS YOU DO
[align=center]DEIMOS MARROWTOOTH ⋆ GRIM WEREWOLF OF THE MARROWTOOTH PACK ⋆ CLICK FOR DETAILED BIOGRAPHY