Ilyich Cenin

[ink]

(THE SMALLER FEATURES);

Character name: Ilyich Cenin
Age:2 years
Gender: female
Animal: Feline
Breed/s: short haired domestic X Ocicat
Pack: Iris pride

(I THINK I NEED A THERAPIST);

Personality: Ilyich is about as messed up an individual you will ever meet. Her mental workings could send a child running. Her outer workings are shockingly different. A blank mask pulled tightly around emotionless eyes.

To others she appears bland. Emotionless and cold. She is fearless as she huffs in her broken voice. She is a solitary being, wanting and yet hating company. She thinks of others as bleak amusement. Only meant to entertain her, or else pull her away from her passion..

In her own mind Ilyich is disturbed beyond words. She is a masochist, beating her own body and relishing in the pain. She bitterly despises the world. She try's to pretend she is loving when all she sees are the spider web cracks splitting her facade. All she is left with is pain. Some sick part of her thirsts for that agony. Something to beat back the numbness that normally controls her.

She has severe control issues, and because of this tends to any others when she freaks over a loss of power. It is the reasoning behind her blank mask. She finds that if others don't know how she truly feels they can not control her. She is the manipulator, not the manipulated. She is very paranoid, her fiery gaze wrenching around the landscape in a constant fearful sweep.

In pride life she becomes the emotionless speaker. She is a strategist who favors ambush above straight attack. She lives on orders. Orders orders orders. Anything to distract her. She clings to those of higher rank, thinking to herself that she will do as she's told with her body. Her mind is hers and hers alone, but as far as she's concerned her body is nothing but another tool. Useless if all she can do is fight others over worthless arguments. And so she does as she's told, she acts and there for she lives. Unafraid to die the felidae is fearless in battle and sneaky as any snake in the hunt.

She is a voodoo woman, hidden away in christian lands.
Three strengths:
• fast
• intelligent
• follows orders down to the last dot.
Three weaknesses:
• Masochistic
• Creepy
• inability to deal with people
(LOOKIN' AT MY REFLECTION);

Height: medium height
Weight: 7.8 pounds
Appearance:
A pelt of tawny brown flows over her bony shoulders. Ilyich is a fine animal, her body thin and lithe her pelt well groomed and shinning. Her fur radiates away from her body in a clinging mass of tawny fluff, the furious black Bengal markings standing out in stark contrast. The limber she-cat could be considered beautiful- if not for the disturbing way she carried herself.

With silent swift movements the girl moves more like a ferret than a feline. She controls her body in a stiff yet easily moved manor. Ears erect, tail slightly raised. She is a power to be reckoned with. The wiry muscles under her fine fur are something to be envied, for they allow her the silent endurance she needs to power herself forward.

Her body is regal in its proportions, long legs a fine sharp muzzle. But it lacks a certain dainty edge you would think to rise from her. Ilyich's body is sharp, angled. Shark like in its silent ferocity. Streamlined. Ilyich's fur lays flat against her powerful muscles, though it at times lifts in rippling waves to warn off some foolish child. All of this, the lethal combination of beauty an agility is lost totally behind her vacant eyes.

Narrowed orbs of some socking flame coloration stare out from her sharp face. Their edges lined in such a way that the green gleams against the black. If she where a different cat then this vortex to those eyes could be considered alluring, but she is not a different cat. She is Blackstorm, and Ilyich is not a thing any could respectfully call beautiful. Those eyes are vacant, void of any and all emotion. They show nothing to any viewer, you are better of gleaning information from a robin.

(REMINISCING LIKE HELL);

History:
Darkness. Desire. That horrid fealing of reaching towards the light and never finding it.

That was my child hood. Watching my father die by blood, seeing that flowing tide reach from his jaws. Black masses. Neverending masses. Their claws cut deep, their fangs drove hard.

So much blood. Too much blood.

And yet so facinating. Its crimson glow caught silently in the moonlight as the masses shudder away. Thier cackaling voices do nothing to supress my teror. The blood, the blood.

Its as if it sings to me. Mother shudders over father's body. Tawny pelt lifted and rippling in her grief. But she falls too.

They all fall. Thay all fall.

The gripping madness sends me into a furry. Spittle hangs from my open jaws, I can feel it flying off my bared fangs. Madness. Insanity. It raors from my gapping jaws.

I am young, I forget, and my voice carries more and more power untill the bodies laying around me dissapeare. Their is nothing. Nothing but the glowing crimson flying before my eyes. Blood. Blood is a healer.

My legs are shuddering, and I limp towards the ragged forms of beasts I have forgotton. Their names are lost in my ravaged mind. Young, I am young, and so my mind is nothing but ravaged.

Their blood is sticky agaisnt my fur, the russet ink clings to me. My eyes are glowing, echoing back at me from a puddle of water that so swiftly ingulfed itself with the blood flowing into it.

Blood. Blood. I want to see it closly. I dip my snout into it, fealings dying slowly in my bieng as it clings to me. Its washing it all away. Washing it all away. The emotions the broken. Its washing it all away. Nothing, there is nothing. Blood is a healer.

I drop my limbs so I can roll in it, it washes it all away. Nothing, there is nothing but blood. Blood and the maniacal laughter lifting from my slightly parted jaws. I roll in amongst the broken bodies I can no longer care about. I once knew their names, but now even the notion that they may have names fell from me.

Nothing. Nothing. There's nothing but red. Its inky tendrils drip from me as I rise once again. My legs are shaky no more. There is nothing to fear, nothing to care of. What is care? What is fear? I have forgotten. Maniacal laughter, its echoing into my ears, reverberating through my bones.

Nothing. Nothing. There is nothing but nothing.

I stride forward, legs long and pads thick. I stride over a tawny form forgetting why the wolf looks far too much like me. Dead dead everything's dead. I stride forward and away. Leaving behind the bloody clearing. Leaving behind what I can no longer remember, leaving behind a stone grotto of death. A raven cried above me circling as it scents the healing liquid dripping from me. I shriek back for some unknown reason, my spirit flies out with the yell and it never returns.

Nothing Nothing.

There is nothing but nothing.
Major turning points in life:
• born
• Mysterious death of family (doesn't remember)
• joins Iris

(ALL ABOUT YOU, YOU, YOU);

Roleplaying Sample: (is a coyote on another site and a cat on another so... xD)
Silence leaked from the place, it dripped in a black tide of ink form every pore of this world. Oblivion curled into eternity in the shadows. Nothing moved nothing stirred. As if the breath of life had freed itself of this rotten structure. Pieces of the ceiling fell in its random cascade, dust and dirt falling with it. Decay was this place, it was a name for the broken. Demons haunted these old halls, and their cries echoed through the airless rooms. Breath was nonexistent here, only exhalation. Only the means to death. Skeleton fingers lifted the world high in this place, for that's what lay its claim here. Skeletons, the bones hanging in every closet. The bones that hung themselves in that closet. Broken spines had their heads a tilt side ways, their bonny smiles bleak in the night light. Not that even the moon could pierce the mist. The gloom that surrounded her fogged mind.

Planks of wood creaked under tawny paws, their splinter long worn away by other treading feet. Lean golden body set a drift in this world of silence the animal slunk its way farther into the pitch silence. Always moving into the dark, always hiding her beautiful frame in the midst of the devils. With the loss of god they had moved in. This church had become their hunting grounds, and they swooped at every new comer. But she was not one to be frightened, and her lean coyote snout held its sway over the dark floor. She was not one to be terrorized into disjointed fleeing. It would not claim itself in her mind. For oblivion was her mind. Little held its sanity in oblivion. Swallowed and dissipated. Life and emotion vanished, sucked into the nothingness. It is said that energy can not be destroyed- but what if it never existed in the first place?

Dead ginger eyes stared out at the world. She saw nothing but darkness. Darkness and the inky swell of yet another mass collapse. The roof seemed more of a floor now a days. Not that she came here very often. Her coyote coated body revealing once and for all what clan she claimed to belong to. Or at least what pack she cared enough to go back to. Embalm. And yet here she stood wandering aimlessly once again. Whispered air currents curled around her lowered head, her sharp ears swayed with them.
Dead eyes watched silently as she paced farther into the old church, awaiting the demon to fly forth from the shadows. But no, they taunted her their sickly voices screaming from other places. Not that any sound actually came. No it was silent, but her hackles rippled with the temptation to snap at her sides. As if something lay tormenting her, and she wanted simply to be left alone.

The mutt shifted her pace slightly, altering her motions. Moving slowly. Darkness slipped, welcoming her with its cold embrace as she slunk farther back. Soon she would find herself facing a wall, or some other obstruction. A pile of rubble perhaps. Then she would climb, or else turn about. Keep moving, isn't that why she came here? To slip soundlessly through the shadows and think for a time that she could always be like this. Calm. Not lost to her dark suspicion. A place where she was quiet, and the want for blood did not eat at her soul. That only came when she felt dead, and for some reason wished to feel otherwise.

Your name/nickname: Ink
Age: 17
How long you've been roleplaying for: 4 years
A few interesting facts about you:
• Artist (digital and traditional) going into an animation major
• I have a thing for disturbing characters (no....) And most of my posts seem to end up dark and disturbing
• my characters are my babies and I love to develop them! I LOVE mini plots! <33

[♥Picasso]