Post by rip on Oct 25, 2009 20:11:59 GMT -5
"do unto others before they do unto you"
Name: Fever (note, he used to be called Novocaine, hence the word on some of his art)
Meaning: A condition of heightened activity or excitement: a fever of anticipation
Nicknames: None affectionate, uses the alias Silvereye sometimes.
Age: Young adult, teenager
Gender: Male
Species: Dog
Breed: Rottweiler x German Shepherd x Bernese Mountain Dog
Height: 25" at the shoulder
Weight: 120-65 (fluctuates with health)
Pedigree: Lilly (mother) x unknown father
Siblings: Many. Litter mates were all unnamed.
Mate: None
Children: None
Close friends: None
Enemies: None
Home: No home.
Rank: n/a
Theme song: I am the Highway by audioslave
Appearance
A shaggy animal, really, with the lanky gait of an unhealthy teenager. He looks like a kid straight out of a growth spurt- bones too long for his skin and teeth too sharp for his gums. With a lack-of-pedigree, he’s a mishmash of different breeds, ranging from the wooly mountain dog to the gruff shepherd then back around to the rottie. A dirty, unruly mongrel with eyes colored like growing cateracts. But, there’s some spark in those eyes, a spark that says, ‘I see very well. I see better than most’. And he does.
He can see when people are monsters, assholes, whores, cheats. He can see when people are mongrels.
Personality
Fever is quiet, and fever is angry. Polite when the situation calls for it, which is most of the time, he doesn’t go looking for trouble. He doesn’t dig his nose into the shit of the world and bray for the rats to creep from their holes in the garbage. Trouble finds him. It tracks him through the world, slinking through his footprints in snow, in mud, in puddles. He knows this. He knows that, even if he doesn’t look for problems, the problems will come to him. He knows that other people will cause problems. Other folk. He knows that you don’t need to be a dog to be a mongrel. Humans and birds and even the damn mosquitoes. Anyone can be a mongrel.
He’s a loner, though he’s never been lonely. He takes company where he can get it, but he has no intention on throwing himself into fire just for the sake of a conversation. Usually. Fever is angry. Anger makes a person do weird things.
He’s capable, give him that, and he can defend himself when he needs to. He can give hell to anyone stupid enough to back him into a corner. There are, indeed, people stupid enough.
History
Born in a small space filled with many bodies, Fever came into the world with no name and no space. Every place on the walls squirmed, every patch of the floor wiggled. Laying on top of other dogs, stacked on cages piled high against the rafters. A crack in the door showed a sliver of light, white and stark against the muddy black of the shed. His mother said she was Lilly, and that they were bastards.
Things changed. Taken away during a raid on the mill, some puppies snarled, some pissed, some licked the covered hands picking them into boxes. Fever did none of this. He only pawed at his steaming eyes as the sun tore at them.
Later, he tried to tell the humans he was a bastard, but they never seemed to hear him.
He learned that the smell of alcohol meant pain. They stroked him to distract him, but still there it would be, a sting, a pull, a rip. Always with that order, pungent and sharp, painful.
Then he knew another cage, more bodies, less than the shed. No mother.
A man took him from the cage, drove him to another place, called him something he couldn’t understand. Later the man took scissors to his ears, more of the alcohol smell. He did a bad job. His ears only stood up half way. They flopped awkwardly. The man put a chain around him, then the man drank the smelly stuff. Fever realized he hated the smell.
They went to the first fight. Fever fought. The dog tore at his itchy, sore, scabbed ears. Fever tore his nose off. It was a decided draw. Later during the night, he slipped into the darkness, leaving the man and the smell of alcohol behind.
There was starvation, more fights, loose friends, angry humans, kind humans, cats, mongrels. Many mongrels.
Later, there was a ship, and the rocking motion of the waves, the thump of boots against the planks of wood. Alcohol. He hid and buried his nose when the stank drifted from the cracks. He ate rats, and loose apples falling from their sacks. Never heard the men complaining about the unexpected smell of wet dog.
Then, dry land. Fever snuck past the men, onto a place. A quiet place. Less cars. Less lights. Less people. Less everything. But not less mongrels.
Art
by me
By others
Commissions, trades, requests and super amazing gift art. Note that some names may not correspond to ko users.
By Luckeh
By Luckeh
By Rain
By Alex
By By ¢αℓℓιÅ¡to
By Merel
By ??
By Sevena
By Sablekit
By ??
By Kaylii
By Tahki
