Post by metalhead on Sept 24, 2009 7:10:39 GMT 8
Mayhem is a beautiful mare. Her eyes are an enchanting green, staring right through your very soul. Her long banner drags along the emerald grass as she walks with careful and graceful. She stands at a prodigious height. Seventeen point three hands high. Her vermilion canvas illuminates in the amarillo glow of the sun when it glares down at her from its high perch in the sapphire sky. Even when the alabaster clouds hide the sun's brilliant facade, she still shines. The razor sharp scythes she uses to kill with are a dark slate gray, stained with crimson fluids most call blood. Her long mane reaches past her perfectly sloping shoulders, slightly darker than her pelt. Her curves are enough to bewitch any stallion into her spell.Markings:
Mayhem wears a porcelain star upon her visage, nothing more, nothing less.Height: 17.3
Mayhem was born in a dark herd to the dark king and queen. Her ancestors was a long line of royals, assassins, mass murderes and satanists. Her life wasn't one of those crybaby histories of horses who felt bad for themselves. But once she grew into a beautiful mare, princess of darks, dark brutes came from all around to try and win the lovely lady's heart. None were successful. One stag, however was obsessed with her. He stalked her at night. He thought about nothing but her. She was like the newest fashion trend in his mind. His name was Strife. And he was determined to get her to fall in love with him. He went insane and came to rape her once. He thought that she wanted it because his mind was oblivious to her cries for help. He killed her parents and siblings. Mayhem didn't really care. The fact that she was raped didn't really bother her after a while. But she became obsessed with self-mutilation. She ran herself into a barn with nails sticking out of it. She now has hundreds of nails sticking out of her body. She found an arrow and forced it into her shoulder. The nails and the arrow is gone now, though. She runs herself into thorn bushes and gets some below her eyes to make it look like shes crying tears of blood. But if you decide to meet her, be careful if you value your life in the least.Personality:
To put it simply, I'm not the type of deviless you want to fuck with. I am hostile to all who cast blank stares toward me. I am a lot like my sister, Norma Jean. However, the words "sadistic", "insane", "violent", "murderous" and "hateful" don't even begin to describe me. You will never find anyone who hates the world as vehemently as I do. Blood fascinates me. Its a borderline obsession. Well, no, scratch that. It is an obsession that is more than insignificant little "obsessions" many a 'quine share such as sex, food, power or anything of the sort. I am not like those cliche pussies that call themselves darks. I don't call myself insane. I call myself a surrealist. I tend to see things that no stable mind can dream of. They are things that cannot be described. I am no paranoid schizophrenic, I am no sociopath, I have no personality disorders. That might be surprising to some. No, its not, really. I'm just a blood-thirsty bitch. That's all. There's no insanity to it. Voices don't urge me to commit gruesome acts such as torture kills and mutilation. It is sheer will power and the love of doing it that drives me on. And baby, that will power has driven me to take the lives of over 900 equines and counting. Maybe its more than 900. I've lost count. I usually tend to carve the numbers into the corpses and put them in a special place. Sorted alphabetically by name. Impressive? No. Not really. I don't like a lot of attention which makes me unfit to run a herd by myself. But that's only what others say. I think I would do just fine.Picture - Optional:
When it comes to mares, we don't get along. I hate each one of the whiny sluts. All they want is babies. Babies, babies, babies. Repulsive whores. They are all so fucking self centered and snobby. I hate every last one of them. I am usually only nice to them when I'm trying to learn their names so I can sort them out in alphabetical order when they are put in my body pile. It is not possible for me to have a mare friend. I have always been "one of the boys" so to speak. And I don't even like brutes. Any mare I see, I will stomp their hideous little faces in until their heads are nothing but a mushy pile of brain matter, vermilion liquids and skin.
I find comfort in harming myself. I enjoy rolling in thorn bushes, running into old barns with nails sticking out of them. I can deal with a lot of pain. If you hurt me, the only thing it will do to effect me is make me laugh.
I find joy in being cruel. My signature torture is taking a vine with thorns on it. I sew the thorns through the mouth of my victim so he or she cannot scream. It causes extreme pain. When I kill, I slice off the eyelids so they are forced to see every cut I make. And I break their neck so they can't look away. One they're cut moments from death, I will sew their eyes shut with thorns. I usually don't kill them. However, the pain is so excruciating that they are forced to commit suicide. And I have heard that if you kill yourself, you'll be damned to the pits below. So all of my victims are sure to go to hell. I am no where near those petty words used to describe darks. Words like "mean'', "rude", "arrogant" or "insane". To describe me, you need a brain in your head and a sharp tongue in your mouth.